We chatted a bit about his family and mine, and then he drew a clean sheet of paper towards him and said: ‘Well … let’s get started …’ and off we went.
He kept saying things like, ‘But let’s say the unthinkable happens and Jack dies before you …’ or ‘Let’s say the unthinkable happens and Jack has a nervous breakdown and his character changes completely and he develops a wild gambling habit …’ or ‘Let’s say the unthinkable happens and Chrissie develops multiple sclerosis and starts having an affair with someone …’ He outlined so many unthinkable disastrous scenarios, all of which he assured me had happened to clients of his over the years, that I couldn’t help laughing.
‘Can we safeguard perhaps against my having a nervous breakdown, going bonkers and throwing all my money away in the street, or giving it to a young African gigolo I picked up in the Gambia?’
‘Interesting point,’ he said. ‘Exactly the same thing happened to a client of mine some years ago. It’s always useful, in such an eventuality, to have someone up one’s sleeve to whom one is prepared to give power of attorney.’
I was laughing so much at this stage that he started giggling too, and try as he might he couldn’t stop. I suppose it’s the subject of death that is, at its heart, so frightening that one either blanks it from one’s mind or finds it all, as I do, absolutely hilarious.
‘Have you made any plans for your funeral?’ he said eventually, after we’d made what’s called an Advance Directive which gives Jack the power to tell the doctors to switch me off when I’m ready to go – I do seem to be obsessed by this.
I said I’d had quite enough of all this death, and I’d think about it over the weekend. Funerals. I’m torn between wanting burial in a recycled cardboard box in a quiet glade with no fuss, and a majestic show of pomp, circumstance and plumed horses at Westminster Abbey. So I’m leaving it all to Jack to do exactly what he wants.
That’s probably the best.
After all, one can’t control the world from beyond the grave. (And nor should one try to.)
3 September
Penny is very worried because we haven’t heard anything from the council about the petition, and there’s been no more news about the plans. We don’t know whether they’ve been approved or not. They should have looked at them by now. James has asked Ned if he can find out anything, and according to his spies the developer now knows about the signatures and has submitted a slightly different plan. Not so different, however, that it needs further consultation with the residents. We are really worried about this. We feel that the council’s in league with the developer and they’ve got him to make minor changes so our petition will be rendered worthless. I bet someone in the council is in his pay. Or perhaps he’s promised to give the new parking spaces to the councillors. I wouldn’t put it past him. Slimy old thing.
I’ve booked to go to New York next week, and today James came over to look at the house because he’s going to take care of it and Pouncer while I’m away. Michelle has gone to Poland to see Maciej for a couple of weeks. I suppose partly to see him and partly to try to keep him in line. But I fear the worst.
I am of course terrified that in the three weeks I’m away gangs of drug-dealers will break in and steal my computer, Pouncer will perish after being attacked by a herd of oriental cockroaches, pipes will burst and the few remaining plants in the garden will die from drought. It took ages to explain everything to James, but he took notes and I made him go in and out of the house switching the burglar alarm on and off to make sure he understood it all.
‘I’ve got a big surprise for you when you get back,’ he said, mysteriously.
‘Oh, is it the artwork?’ I said, as enthusiastically as I could.
‘I’m not telling,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘Are you and Ned getting married?’ I suggested.
‘That seems to be less and less likely,’ he said, rather sadly. ‘The problem is that the more I wean him off his vegan diet, the more he seems to change. He ate a bit of haddock the other day, and then I caught him eyeing up a woman in the Uxbridge Road.’
‘A woman? I thought he was gay as a Christmas tree,’ I said.
‘Hmm … I’m not totally certain. Apparently he was married when he was young … I’m not sure he isn’t bisexual, which does make things difficult. Now you’re not to go stealing him off me,’ he said, half-jokingly. ‘Anyway, he doesn’t look like a Christmas tree, does he?’
‘No, he looks like a silver birch,’ I said. ‘At least that’s what Penny and I think.’
James laughed. ‘What tree would you call Penny?’ he asked.
‘She’s a cherry tree,’ I said. ‘Not a very good shape but liable to burst into surprisingly lovely blossom now and again. You’re definitely a pine of some kind.’
‘Tall and boring, darling, don’t rub it in,’ said James, ruefully.
‘Not at all. Constant, smelling lovely, always green …’ Not much else you can say about pines.
‘Well I think you’re a plane tree,’ he said. ‘You’re shady – in a good way – strong, reliable, and a real boon to the urban environment – particularly with all this work you’re doing on the hotel.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ I said.
And funnily enough I was rather pleased. I love plane trees and always have. The other day I was walking down the road with my paints and easel, having just completed the September Season of the Doomed Trees, and there was some mad – and I mean mad – Indian woman in a bright red and yellow sari with very long, curved fingernails, standing by a plane tree systematically picking off its bark.
‘Stop that!’ I said. ‘You’ll kill it.’
‘No, it is good …’ she said, turning her obsessed plane-bark-picking eyes on me. ‘It likes it.’
‘It doesn’t like it!’ I said tersely. ‘If you go on like that I’ll report you to environmental health!’
She slunk away.
Most odd.
5 September
Spent the entire day packing. I know – it’s ridiculous because I’m not going for a couple of weeks. But the older I get the earlier and earlier I start packing. I used to throw something into a suitcase the night before and that was that, but now I get my bag out from the elephant cupboard ages before I’m due to go. I’ve been to a toy shop and bought Gene the most enormous selection of dinosaur-making kits, books of origami, metal puzzles … all things we can do in the flat, or apartment as they call it. I also bought a kite, in the vain hope that it might be a windy day in Central Park. Then there’s the virtual chemist’s shop I have to take with me every time I leave home these days. There’s practically no room for my clothes.
Looked at my passport photograph and I have to say I do look different after the facelift. I suppose I should have got a new one taken. Hope they don’t refuse me entry because I look too young. Wouldn’t that be awful? Awful and immensely satisfying at the same time.
7 September
David rang and asked if he could drop off some remotecontrol helicopter he’s bought for Gene for me to take over. When I opened the door to him, he did a double-take as he entered, staring at me.
‘Golly, you’re looking well!’ he said. ‘What’s happened? You look absolutely marvellous!’
I told him about the facelift and he kept sneaking little looks at me. ‘You look just like you did when we first met!’ he said, sentimentally. ‘Takes me right back … we did have some fun, didn’t we? Sometimes?’
‘We certainly did!’ I said. But then I asked him how he thought they were getting on in New York, and he said, ‘Hmm. I thought they’d be back before now, I must say. But there’s still time. Though I’m afraid to say whenever I’ve spoken to Jack he seems to be having a great time, and he’s working really hard and Gene’s loving his school now.’
It was the last thing I wanted to hear.
20 September
Feel really bad that I haven’t been down to see Archie recently. Sylvie
says I mustn’t worry at all, and as he hardly knows who anyone is it won’t make a lot of difference. I know it won’t, but I still feel I ought to go and see him, for my own sake, really. Anyway, I’ll go the minute I get back.
Been so busy packing and changing my mind about what to take, I haven’t had a moment to write my diary. Off tomorrow. I’ve had to pay a fortune for my travel insurance. After a certain age no insurer wants to touch you with a barge pole. They imagine that the moment you’re sixty-five you start getting ill and falling off ladders and costing them a fortune, and of course they’re absolutely right.
On my way to the hairdresser to get a good cut for the trip, I went to the newsagent to tell them when I wanted the papers cancelled while I’m away. Afterwards, blow me, I couldn’t find where I’d parked the car. I walked down the street I thought I’d parked it in, and then back down the other side, and it was getting later and later and I was sure the hairdresser would have given up on me, and I kept pressing the button on my keys hoping that one of the cars would start blinking encouragingly at me, as if it were saying hi to a friend, but nothing. All the cars turned their backs on me. It was like being sent to Coventry. I tried my mobile to let the hairdresser know I’d be late, but the battery had run out, and I was forced to walk home so I could ring her from there. As I got to my front gate I spotted my car on the other side of the road. I’d completely forgotten that I’d walked to the newsagent. Honestly! What’s so weird about getting older is that you can remember the tiniest detail about the party dress you wore when you were three – or I can anyway – but can’t remember where you parked your own car a quarter of an hour ago.
21 September
Last day of the Rant before I go. ‘PAMPERED LIFE OF SERIAL KILLER!’ read the headline. ‘28-year-old Barry Bastard, serving life for torturing eight youngsters last year, lives Life of Riley. He has four widescreen televisions, one in each room of his spacious “penal quarters”, which also feature a spa and internet access. IS THIS JUSTICE??’
I’ll miss my daily dose of Rant.
Later
Now just sitting in the airport before I go through the departure gates. That’s the good thing about a laptop. You can whip it out and write anywhere. I’ve got another horrible thriller from Penny to read on the journey, but with any luck I’ll use the time knitting. I’ve nearly finished the front of Gene’s jersey.
Had a very jolly farewell drink with James and Penny last night. Penny says that I must watch out for evangelists. It’s an urban myth that they spend a lot of time evangelising on long-haul flights, imprinting on their neighbours the fact that if the plane were to crash, they wouldn’t have made their peace with whichever particular god they’re pushing. By the end of six hours you’re so scared and bored, that before you land you find you’ve signed up to Mormonism, Scientology or some equally loony cult.
Half an hour later
Oh God, what a nightmare! Just got to the departure lounge, and security wouldn’t let me keep my knitting needles! I begged and pleaded but they just removed them from the wool, with a look of contempt, and dropped them into some see-through box full of nail scissors, small tubes of hair conditioner, and all the other things that are so essential for hijacking. I could have killed them, but had to keep my temper or they wouldn’t have let me on the plane. Surely they’ll have knitting needles in New York! Or will they? I still think of New York as being so completely trendy that if you mentioned knitting needles they’d just laugh and send you to one of those weird towns they have in the South where all the inhabitants are forced to wear eighteenth-century dress.
Then, later, I thought I’d cheer myself up by checking my emails at one of those internet places and, to my horror, found an email from Penny with EMERGENCY!!! in the subject line.
Apparently the council has passed the plans! I feel utterly distraught. Here I am, just off to New York for three weeks, at the very moment we should be marshalling our forces. I rang Penny at once.
‘What’s all this?’ I said. ‘Can’t we appeal? This is frightful! Have you been on to the local paper?’
Penny was almost in tears of rage. ‘God, it’s so maddening you’re going!’ she said. ‘Shall I call another meeting? What can we do?’
‘Yes, have another meeting and write to the MP,’ I said. ‘That would help. Invite all our local councillors along, and get hold of someone on the local rag. And organise a public rally. We ought to try a bit of direct action.’
‘Oh God! I can’t do it all on my own,’ wailed Penny.
‘Get James to help you,’ I said. ‘And Marion and Tim are brilliant and Sharmie and Brad will be great. It’ll be fine. They can’t build it before I get back and if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll shin up the tree and stay there for a few days with a banner with YOUR COUNCIL WANTS TO KILL THIS TREE! written on it in bright red letters. That’d make them think.’
There was a slight pause. Then: ‘Would you really?’ said Penny. ‘That would be a great idea.’
Of course I hadn’t really meant it, but as I was sure it wouldn’t come to that I said, ‘Of course! If I can’t do my bit now, I promise I’ll do more than my bit when I get back! And, oh,’ I added, remembering it must be some time soon, ‘Happy birthday for when I’m gone!’
Later
I’d booked an aisle seat, but they’d made some muddle so luckily the very kind and rather dishy young American man sitting next to me agreed to swap. (Well, I say young – I thought he was probably in his late forties). On those long flights I’m always up and down going to the loo and I don’t want to disturb the poor person next to me, particularly if they’re asleep.
He’d got a laptop, like me, which he was waiting to turn on when we got airborne, so I thought there wouldn’t be much conversation during the flight, but as we were taking off he suddenly said, ‘Oh, God!’ as if he’d forgotten something. Then about ten minutes later, after rummaging around in a bag by his feet, he said, ‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ and for some reason I couldn’t stop laughing, because it fitted in so well with what Penny had told me last night. I got terribly embarrassed, giggling on my own, but couldn’t help it. Finally he looked up, turned to me with an amused expression on his face and said, ‘Good joke? Care to share?’
He seemed so sympathetic that I explained as well as I could, and he laughed and said, ‘So because of my cussing you thought I was going to inveigle you into my cult!’ He gave me an admiring, even flirtatious glance. It was a look directly into my eyes, and with that I knew with absolute certainty that he fancied me. Ridiculous, I know, because there must be over ten years between us at least, if not twenty, but there was no mistaking it.
The reason I can type now, is because soon we’ll be starting to land, and he’s gone to a seat nearer the exit because he has to make a quick getaway for an urgent meeting, but oh, he was terribly attractive, with black hair and a really sweet smile and deep-blue eyes. He reminds me of a particular boyfriend I had in the sixties, and as soon as I remembered that he slotted into an entirely different groove. I felt I’d known him all my life. You could never do that when you were young, of course. But now I find that the people I meet for the first time often always remind me of someone I’ve known a long time before, so I just pop them into that category and behave towards them as I would towards the person I’ve known for years.
After we’d talked about evangelical Christians, he asked, ‘What’s bringing you over the pond?’
‘I’m visiting my son and his wife,’ I said. ‘And my grandson.’ I felt I had to get this fact in right away before he started asking for my phone number. (Fat chance.)
‘You have a grandson? No way!’ he exclaimed, apparently amazed, turning right round in his seat and assessing me. ‘You must have started young! And so must your son, by the look of it. My name’s Louis, Louis Bravon, by the way. I’m just returning to New York from visiting my mom. She still lives in England. My father was a Prof at Oxford – and my mom loved England so much, she stayed on
after he died.’
And he held out his hand so I shook it.
‘Marie,’ I said.
‘Marie …?’
‘Marie Sharp.’
‘And do you work, Marie?’
‘I’m ret … a teacher.’
Funny. I never used to know what to say when asked what I did when I was young. Sometimes I’d say ‘I teach’ but to actually be ‘a teacher’ – it didn’t sound right. I think it was because when I was teaching and I looked at my life I was too much in the middle of it all really to know what I was. It’s only since I’ve retired that I can see the whole picture. And, yes, now I look back, it’s true. I was a teacher.
‘And you?’ I said.
‘Guess,’ he replied.
‘Doctor?’ I suggested, tentatively.
‘Doctor!’ said Louis, horrified. ‘Jesus, no! Well, maybe not where you live, but in the States they’re a whole bunch of crooks waiting to open you up, steal all your money, and then stitch you up again. No, I’m a freelance journalist. What you call a hack.’
‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘I thought journalists were meant to be the evil ones, tapping people’s phones, stealing photographs of victims from bereaved parents …’
‘No, I’m a good journalist,’ he said. His eyes were twinkling attractively as he spoke. ‘I put the world to rights, uncover wicked financial and political scams, and am generally the scourge of conmen and criminals everywhere.’
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 18
