‘So many unemployed,’ she sighed, as she sat down. ‘What is the world coming to? I despair. And did you know that there are over half a million out of work and on benefits and so many single parents? They get pregnant just to get a council house and the money, you know, no other reason. And they spend all their child benefit on drugs.’
I waited for the kettle to boil. She went on. ‘Honestly, they have such short attention spans these days, it’s hopeless. I don’t think anyone’s going to read a book after we’re dead. It’s all this Facebook and Twitter – God knows what they are – no wonder they riot in the streets, they’ve got nothing to do and all they’re interested in is material things …’
‘Let’s count the signatures,’ I said firmly. ‘And let’s thank our lucky stars that three of them promised to collect signatures from their tower blocks …’
‘It’s so sad no one wants to get involved these days, isn’t it?’ said Marian. ‘In the old days we were always marching and petitioning and trying to save the world, and now no one can be bothered even to put their signature to something right under their noses. Fear I suppose. When I think of how we were in the seventies, so full of optimism, hoping to change the world with peace and love, and now look …’ She shook her head dolefully.
‘Oh, well, we’ll all be dead soon,’ I said reassuringly. I’m never comfortable with anyone, even sweet old Marion, droning on about the good old days. ‘Or we’ll all be wiped out in a plague. Or a nuclear bomb will blow us all up. Or the internet will collapse and it’ll be the end of civilisation as we know it … that would fix everything wouldn’t it? We could start again from scratch. Look at the Ancient Egyptians. Not a trace of them now.’
‘Oh, don’t say that!’ said Marion.
She was so distressed at the idea of Armageddon that she shut up, clutching on to the table. Felt a bit mean, so I thanked her profusely, let her out of the door and watched her as she pottered down the street with her stick and clipboard, and then I crawled upstairs to have a rest.
6 July
Though I still look pretty peculiar, I decided to go with Sylvie to look at a nursing home she thinks might be suitable for Archie. Mrs Evans said she’d spend the day with him, so Sylvie is free, and Harry, her husband, is away on business. So I was really touched that she wanted me to go and help her.
Even though I’d warned her I’d be covered in scarves and dark glasses to cover up my bruises, Sylvie still looked a bit shocked when she opened the door to me. But she politely said she was sure I would look wonderful in a few weeks. Then she showed me some brochures and said all the homes she’d visited so far were hopeless. There were only two more to see, one of which we were going to visit now. It was called Eventide – part of an American chain – and set in the kind of Devon countryside that’s always described as ‘rolling’.
It turned out that Eventide was frightfully posh and impressive. There was a lake and a wood, and a very large car park for all the visitors’ cars (mostly urban jeeps), and even a cafe and playroom in the reception area for families who visited with children. It looked like one of those country house spas that were so popular in the seventies – I once won a week in one in a raffle and Penny had jokingly said, ‘First prize, one week in luxury spa. Second prize, two weeks.’ Anyway, Eventide consisted of three buildings. One was called Afternoon where there were lots of people pottering about in proper clothes. You felt you could even strike up a worthwhile conversation with them. At least I think you could. I have to say that neither Sylvie nor I tried, feeling too ashamed, nervous and generally appalled by the whole setup to dare to speak to anyone.
Next was Evening, a long two-storey building overlooking the lake. And finally, Sunset – which was more like palliative care. This was a gloomy building with very few windows and surrounded by pines, all on one floor just in case any of the inhabitants had the sudden urge to leap from their windows. Not that many were, of course, capable of leaping.
Once inside, what struck us was how suffocatingly hot it was in all the rooms.
‘Why do you keep it at tropical temperatures?’ we asked a nurse.
‘Our guests often lose their temperature thermostat,’ said the nurse. ‘Hypothermia.’
Sylvie and I looked at each other. There was nowhere colder, as I’ve said, than Archie’s house.
We looked at the sort of room that Archie might be in, and I suppose it could have been worse. It was light. There was a very high bed with lots of levers on it, presumably for the day when he becomes bedridden and needs to be able to tip it up and down himself to make it more comfortable. There was a very nice-looking armchair for him to sit in and an upright chair for visitors. A television. And even double doors leading out onto a small walled garden full of alternately red and cream plants that looked as if a gardener had only just stuck them in that morning. Obviously not Calibans from the banks-of-foaming-colours nursery.
‘What do you think, Marie?’ said Sylvie, as we left. ‘I know it’s grim, but at least it’s in the country. And it’s very luxurious. And the staff seem nice.’
‘It is grim,’ I said, ‘but it’s a whole lot better than most old people’s homes I’ve been in.’ I remembered when I’d been to visit my aunt. The whole place had smelt of pee and it was full of tragic old gentlemen strapped to their chairs and screaming for their mothers. ‘If you can afford it, I don’t think you could do much better. At least there are lovely views.’
‘I don’t think we need look at the other one. It’s far nicer than anything I’ve seen. And I’ve seen some grisly places, I can tell you!’ she said.
I agreed. The truth was that I suddenly felt so absolutely knackered – as one does after an operation – that the idea of going to visit anywhere else was quite beyond me. I thought I was going to faint.
‘I’ll book him in. Oh Marie, isn’t it sad!’
It is sad, but I’m afraid that, since Archie won’t really know where he is, it won’t matter so much to him where he is.
8 July
Spent most of the day in bed, having driven back last night after an emotional day.
I was hoping James had forgotten about the installation, but unfortunately when he rang asking if he could bring me an early supper – always nice, even though by now I can make supper perfectly well myself – he asked if he could also bring over a collection of ‘found objects’. He wanted me to sit in the garden, while he assembled these bits and decided how to put them together to make an ‘impression’ of me. It was one of those rather depressingly grey, humid summer days and I didn’t really feel like going out, particularly as yesterday I’d done so much weeding I thought my back would break.
But he is such a sweetie. The first thing he did as he came in was to take a long look at me and say, ‘Well, my darling! Shaping up nicely! The swelling is really going down isn’t it? You’re still a bit puffy round the eyes, but that’ll soon go. Hasn’t it all been a huge success? Aren’t you thrilled?’
Now James has put the seal of approval on the facelift I think I can turn the camera back on Skype without Jack or Chrissie knowing anything’s been done. Particularly if I sit a bit further away from the camera than usual. On Skype everyone looks as if they’ve just had a facelift anyway, all distorted, so I doubt anyone will notice I’ve actually had one.
‘And how’s Ned?’ I asked.
‘He’s fine!’ said James enthusiastically. ‘And do you know what? I actually managed to persuade him to eat some butter yesterday! Isn’t that brilliant! I think I might be turning him into a vegetarian rather than a vegan. And after that, who knows … lamb chops, steaks …’
‘Boiled babies … lightly grilled!’ I said.
James unloaded all his stuff into the garden, and looked a bit nervous when I showed such shock and horror when he unrolled a lumpy old bedspread and laid out a few clothes pegs, some rusty razor blades, half a bicycle, the skull of a fox and a rusty old walking frame.
‘I hope you don’t think any of that
looks like me!’ I said.
‘No, no, it’ll be quite different,’ said James hastily. ‘I just brought these round for inspiration.’
‘Well, I was expecting you’d bring round a jug of sparkling water, a bunch of flowers, a piece of moss and a bird’s nest, or something romantic, not this old crap,’ I said tartly.
‘Oh, no, there’ll be plenty of moss and charm,’ said James anxiously, as he fiddled around. ‘It’s all just to give me ideas about the basic structure. This walking frame isn’t there to “say” anything. I just thought it would help prop the whole thing up.’
I sat – staring suspiciously at the pile of old junk – in a rickety garden chair, with Pouncer jumping on flies around me, listening to the tinkle tinkle tinkle of the neighbour’s chimes.
‘Aren’t they frightful?’ I said.
‘What?’ said James.
‘The chimes!’ I said, and felt like adding, ‘Are you deaf?’
He cocked his head, coyly. Then he said, ‘Funny – I didn’t hear them till you drew my attention to them. Now you point them out, aren’t they lovely – so soothing!’
‘Soothing! I can’t get them out of my head,’ I said. ‘Honestly, these new neighbours! They’re so nice, but that racket’s not very neighbourly of them, is it? Sometimes I swear I can even hear them tinkling away in the middle of the night when there’s not a breath of wind. I may have to move house.’
James said nothing as he fiddled with bits of wire, then broke a few small twigs from a nearby bush, and stuck them at odd angles around the fox’s skull.
‘You wouldn’t pop over the wall and take them down, would you, angel?’ I said. ‘And that’s not meant to be my hair, is it?’
James looked shocked. ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ he said. ‘Not even for you, my heart of hearts. I’d be had up for trespassing. You take them down yourself if you don’t like them!’
Which gave me an idea.
Later
At about midnight, having fortified myself with three large glasses of Pinot Grigio and played The Best of Aretha Franklin at full volume on my CD player to give me Dutch courage, and done a bit of dancing round the room to get up my courage even more, rather like those Maori rugby players, I went out into the garden with a pair of scissors and the rickety garden chair. I took the chair to the end of the garden, stood on it, clambered up on to the wall, dragged the chair up after me, placed it in my neighbour’s garden, tiptoed down on to it, and then crept, my heart in my mouth, to the tree where the chimes were hanging, and cut them down. Of course I should have brought wads of cotton wool to muffle the sound, but as the whole escapade had been a spur-of-the-moment thing and I’d had one glass too many, I’d forgotten, so I had to place the chimes carefully in my skirt to prevent any sound, put my foot on the chair and promptly stepped on Pouncer who had followed me, keen to be in on the act. I screamed, Pouncer let out an almighty ‘Miaaow! and my foot went through the seat of the chair with a great crash.
I can tell you, I’d never make a burglar. It’s only because Shepherd’s Bush is full of such shrieks and yells at night that no one came rushing out to discover what was going on.
Somehow I managed to pick up all the incriminating pieces of the smashed chair, throw them over my wall, scramble up myself, make it back inside, and found myself, slightly drunk and sweating with horror, wondering what on earth to do with the chimes. Eventually, convinced that I’d be found out if I kept them in the house or put them in my bin, I sellotaped the chimes together to prevent them making any noise, wrapped them in newspaper, crept out of the house and over the road, and put them in the wheelie bin of Father Emmanuel’s garage-cum-church.
I went to bed shaking with guilt, imagining a knock on the door and the police standing there with handcuffs. I could visualise the headline in the Rant, with a dreadful blurred CCTV picture of me in my nightdress, furtively dropping the wind-chimes into a bin. I could just imagine the story: ‘SHAME OF PENSIONER CHIME-STEALER! 65-year-old Marie Sharp, described by her neighbours as a pillar of the community, leads a Jekyll-and-Hyde life. By day, a peace-loving retired art teacher, by night she turns, hell-bent on devastating her local area by stealing garden features. ‘She has just had a facelift,’ revealed a neighbour who did not wish to be named. ‘Perhaps this drove her to this crazy behaviour.’ Police are also questioning her about a garden gnome missing from a local hospice …’
Now I’m up and it’s two in the morning (the Worrying Hour) and I SO wish I hadn’t done it. I’m sure they’ll know it was me. But of course it’s too late. I can’t go over the road, collect the chimes from the wheelie bin, unsellotape them, hop over the wall again and put them back. Besides, my trusty chair is now well and truly out of action.
Isn’t it awful when you do wrong like that and there’s no putting it right? The guilt! At this moment, feeling as I do, I’d be quite happy to die in my sleep.
4 a.m.
While I was writing, I heard the distant sound of soul music. Surely not! No one could be playing music at this time of the morning! This was beyond a joke. I tried to block it out, but couldn’t. I took a pill, but that didn’t work, and at 3 a.m. I crept downstairs to go out into the garden to see who was making such a frightful racket at this hour.
The sound got louder and louder as I neared the kitchen – and then I realised that I’d left the CD player on and it was just playing and replaying Aretha Franklin. I burst out laughing, turned it off and stumbled back to bed.
9 July
Nothing from the neighbours about the chimes, but as I was going out of my front door, Sharmie came out of hers and it was too late to duck down. I gave her a sickly smile, going bright red as I did so. She returned my smile with a twinkling, knowing look. I’ve been rumbled, I thought. She was only smiling because she’d tipped off the police and knew they were due any minute. Her lawyer husband was at this very minute constructing a watertight case against me. I could see the pitying way she looked at me as she contemplated my last days of freedom. For a moment perhaps she was regretting what she had done … But no.
‘Some party you had last night, huh?’ she boomed, in a ‘gee whizz’ sort of voice.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I burbled. ‘It was the lodger. I’ve ticked her off. I do hope it didn’t disturb you!’
‘Hell no, we all sleep like logs,’ she said. ‘You’re looking great after your op! I must get the name of your medic. By the way, what’s all this about the trees at the top of the road? They’re not going to build a hotel, are they?’
And thankfully I was able to turn the conversation round to a diatribe about how frightful the council was and dragoon her and Brad onto the Residents’ Association Committee. Saved by the bell. Or, in this case, bells.
12 July
New vacuum cleaner arrived today, in one of those vast cardboard boxes big enough to fit a body in. At last. I tore it open – it was like wrestling with one of those endangered rhinos – and was infuriated to find one of the parts was missing. The engine bit was there, where all the fluff and dust is collected, the brushy bit at the end which picks up the dirt, and different attachments and the flexible hose, but where there should have been two straight tubes of plastic to slot into each other to give the length, there was only one.
After going mad looking up the number of the manufacturer on the internet, and waiting for hours to get on to the right person, I finally got through to someone called Nairit who asked how he could help.
‘I’ll tell you how!’ I shouted furiously, after having crawled on the floor to get the new cleaner’s model number, and rifled through the torn packaging to find my order number which had been concealed in a plastic envelope on the box, and spelled my name a hundred times and given him my postcode. ‘I’ve waited weeks for your wretched machine to arrive, and now it’s come without one of its parts!’
He asked me patiently which bit was missing and I explained. ‘It’s utterly hopeless! In the old days, you’d go into a shop and a nice man
would give you what you wanted and explain it all to you …’ I exploded. I was into full Rant mode now. ‘And now it’s all online there’s no personal service, I don’t even know what you look like, you might as well be speaking from Mars … You pay your money, you expect excellent service from a firm like yours, you wait in for days to take delivery of the thing you ordered and when it arrives it’s missing a crucial bit! I’m furious!’
There was a pause.
‘Have you looked at the instructions, madam?’ asked Nairit calmly.
‘That’s another thing!’ I shouted. ‘There are no instructions! There are just meaningless pictures with crosses and ticks on them which are completely baffling to any normal person!’
‘You have one of the plastic tubes?’ said Nairit.
‘I have. But what’s the use of one without two? If I were nine inches high, the size of a goblin, yours would be the ideal vacuum cleaner for me, but curiously I am a normalsized human being and I don’t wish to have to crouch down to clean my house …’
‘I think you’ll find,’ said Nairit, politely, ‘that there is a little button on the outside of the plastic tube you already have. If you press it, you will find that an inner tube is released which extends the tube to the correct length.’
Well, of course, I was dumbfounded. I spluttered, and faffed around, tried to get out of it by grumbling that the instructions weren’t clear, and ended up feeling like such a loony.
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 14
