No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses!

by Virginia Ironside

  ‘A bit like Batman,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly like Batman,’ he said. ‘With a touch of Superman thrown in. You are, at the moment, sitting next to a living fusion of the two mightiest superheroes in the world.’

  I liked him. He was fun.

  ‘And what do you read, in the way of newspapers?’ he asked, noticing the copy of the Rant that I’d picked up free at the airport and stuffed into the pocket in front of me.

  ‘Daily Rant,’ I admitted. ‘I’m ashamed to say.’

  ‘The paper that wakes you up and brings you down all at the same time!’ he exclaimed. ‘Don’t apologise. It’s got a fantastic circulation and it’s a fantastic newspaper. Not my politics, mind you, but still, you have to admire it.’

  He started flicking through the movie list on the plane, and we talked about films we liked – Sweet Smell of Success, All About Eve – and didn’t like – The King’s Speech, anything by Almodovar or Mike Leigh – and, of course, agreeing on absolutely everything in that way you do when you meet a kindred spirit, and then he stopped and clicked a button. ‘Here – what about this one – what’s your opinion on this? Bitter Quinces, Poisoned Souls.’ He put up a finger before he’d let me speak. ‘This is the big test, Marie. Give it to me straight. Or haven’t you seen it yet?’

  Although I’d never met anyone except Penny who thought it was crap, I thought honesty was the only policy. ‘Well, you probably won’t like this,’ I said, nervously, ‘but I walked out after the first half-hour. I know everyone says it’s a masterpiece, but I just didn’t get it.’

  ‘Let me buy you a glass of champagne!’ said Louis, grinning broadly and clapping his hands. ‘I have been searching the globe to find someone who thought it was balderdash, as you’d say in England, and you’re the first person I’ve come across who’s seen through the emperor’s new clothes! Let’s celebrate!’ He caught the eye of a passing hostess and soon we were knocking back the bubbly.

  ‘I still can’t get that horrible opening sequence out of my mind,’ I said. ‘That dismal woman in the car park. Those fingers …’

  ‘You didn’t see the piano-playing bit? Oh God, excruciating! I was reviewing it. It was the only piece of mine they refused to print. They said, “You just can’t say that about a foreign movie. We’ll look like idiots!” And they sent someone else to review it who raved about it. Jesus!’ He paused. ‘You didn’t get to the little boy, then?’ he said, animatedly. ‘Oh, my God, the little boy! He was the very pits!’

  Before he moved to the front, and as he was getting his bags down from the overhead locker, he put his hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a card.

  ‘Give me a call if you’re at a loose end in New York,’ he said. ‘It’s been great talking to you. I sure hope we’ll meet again.’

  ‘Unlikely, as I’m only going to be here for a three weeks,’ I said, regretfully.

  ‘Oh, you never know,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Remember I am a journalist. No door is ever closed to a good journalist!’ And off he strode down the aisle, swinging his jacket on one finger over his shoulder, something I have never seen done except in films.

  As I stared at his retreating back I had that awful kind of sinking feeling that I’d last had when Archie started making it clear he fancied me all those years ago. A kind of thrilling yet dreadful inevitability. In a way, I hoped nothing would come of it, because I’m about a hundred years older than him – or to be precise, because I did some quick mental arithmetic on the basis of a few dates he’d thrown into the conversation, a bit less than twenty years.

  But then with a pang I was reminded of Archie, and I couldn’t help being struck by guilt, and wondering how he was. Suddenly I felt really bad about having had such a good time with Louis that I’d hardly given him a thought.

  But back to Louis … well! This facelift! I didn’t have it done with the intention of picking up blokes, but as a side-effect it’s not half bad!

  27 September

  Well, here at last! I am quite giddy with excitement and happiness, writing this in my lovely new bedroom in Jack and Chrissie’s apartment.

  After I’d got through customs I got my baggage trolley, or ‘cart’ as they call it here, and pushed it through to Arrivals, looking frantically for Jack and Gene. Nothing. I couldn’t see anything familiar except dozens of people – Indians, Russians, Chinese – rushing about … and screaming children on piles of suitcases … and rows of cab drivers standing with handwritten notices, waiting for clients. There was no notice for me, and for an awful moment I thought they’d forgotten to come to meet me. All I could hear was the drone of flight announcements and the beeping of vehicles covered with luggage and the general hubbub.

  And then suddenly I spotted Gene at the barrier, being held up by Jack and waving a big sign which read ‘WelCOmE TO nEW YoRk GrANY!’ It was covered with stars. Scrambling out of Jack’s arms, he ran under the barrier and rushed to meet me. Then he stopped, and hung back slightly, obviously a bit shy of his emotional outburst. But as we walked out he took my hand and briefly pressed his cheek against it.

  And when we’d gone a few yards, Jack joined us and gave me an enormous kiss and a hug, and said, ‘Come on, Mum, we’ll get a cab,’ and before I knew it we were out of the airport doors, met by a huge wave of hot air – it was 24 degrees apparently as they’re having a freak heatwave – into a cab and eventually we parked outside a huge old mansion block on, as Jack informed me with some pride, the Upper West Side. We then went up in a lift – ‘elevator’ said Gene, firmly, ‘we call them elevators, Granny’ – into their splendiferous flat. Or apartment.

  I must say it looked a lot nicer than when I’d seen it on Skype, which gives a consistently unflattering view not only of people but of objects and apartments as well. It reminded me of those old mansion flats you get in London: it was all on one floor, corridors with vast rooms off each side, and a wonderful view of the Hudson out of the living-room window.

  ‘Wow! Her company must think a lot of Chrissie,’ I said.

  Jack grimaced and nodded. ‘They certainly do,’ he said. ‘They’ll do anything to keep her. We only have to hint that we’re thinking of going back home, and they up her salary or throw in an extra car or longer holidays. It’s ridiculous.’

  He showed me to my room, which looked extremely comfortable, and I was moved to see some of the bits and pieces were stuff I’d last seen in Brixton. The bedside lamp that had once belonged to my mother. The scarlet-and-green quilt that they used to have on their bed at home.

  ‘Chrissie will be back for supper,’ said Jack, after I’d unpacked. I joined him in the living room and sank into a comfortable armchair. ‘We thought we’d all go out early tonight to a diner. Would you like that? We can have real American hamburgers.’

  ‘And fries,’ said Gene, as Jack left to make a cup of tea.

  ‘Don’t you call them chips any more?’ I asked.

  ‘No, only sometimes,’ said Gene. ‘Where’s my jersey?’

  ‘Next door, on a chair,’ I said, as Jack handed me a large glass of wine. I was still a bit woozy from Louis’ champagne, but never say no to a drink, I say. ‘And you can get the presents as well. They’re all on my bed, wrapped up. But be careful with the jersey, darling,’ I shouted. ‘Don’t let it unravel! They pinched my needles at customs!’

  He dashed to get everything and started unwrapping the presents. He was enchanted with the origami and the metal puzzles, and the various kits I’d bought, and disappointed only, I could see, with the kite. But there’s always one present that doesn’t go down as well as the rest. I’d brought Jack a vintage shirt from the seventies which I knew he’d like and then we tackled the jersey. This was the moment I was waiting for. I’d worked so hard to get it right.

  But, unbelievably, I discovered, as I held the front part against Gene’s chest, it was a terrible disappointment. It was far, far too small. My heart sank as I realised what I’d done.

  ‘You can’t have grown th
at much, darling!’ I said, trying in vain to pull the jersey into shape.

  Gene looked very disappointed. ‘Wouldn’t it stretch?’ he said, tugging at it himself.

  But there was absolutely nothing I could do.

  ‘I’ll start again,’ I said, bravely. ‘I haven’t quite finished it. I haven’t done the arms. What a silly I am. I didn’t realise how big you were, and how much you’ve grown in the last few months! We can unpick it together.’

  And together we unravelled everything I’d already done, Gene holding it while I pulled at the thread and made it into a ball. All that work. Oh well, I’d enjoyed it. And this time I could get the ribbing right at the bottom – I’d made a mistake beforehand but couldn’t be bothered to go back and correct it. And I knew there was something wrong with the elephants and had only got the hang of them with the last one. The ones which didn’t look as if they had trunks growing out of their bottoms looked like grey wolves smoking cigars.

  ‘You’re looking very well, Mum,’ said Jack, smiling as he topped up my glass. ‘I was worried you’d look wan and haggard with missing us.’

  ‘Well, I have a confession to make,’ I said, nervously. And I told him about the facelift.

  Jack leaned forward to examine me, looking absolutely astonished.

  ‘A facelift!’ He looked a bit put out. ‘Honestly, Mum, you shouldn’t have had a major operation before telling us. Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because you’d have been worried,’ I said, ‘and I knew you’d have said don’t decide to do it till you’ve come over to see us, and Chrissie would have given me all these products it would have taken me years to try, and I just thought, well, it was a treat to myself. I hope you don’t think I’m a dreadful self-indulgent old thing.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Jack. ‘Good for you! You look marvellous! But you must promise me never to have anything like that again without letting us know. Of course we wouldn’t disapprove. It’s your life and your face. But you look great! You don’t look young, exactly, but you just look – well, well! Doesn’t she Gene?’

  ‘What?’ said Gene, who was busy playing on the floor.

  ‘Doesn’t Granny look well.’

  ‘Granny looks just like Granny. I don’t know what you mean.’ Gene was trying to build some kind of structure with Lego. ‘Will you help me, Dad? Please, please, please help me.’

  ‘In a minute. Well, I never! A facelift! My old mum! Chrissie will be amazed!’

  Chrissie was amazed. But not quite so amazed as I was to see her, when she returned from work. She has always looked beautiful, but this time she looked like a film star. She kicked off her high heels before embracing me warmly.

  ‘How can you work in those heels?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s agony,’ she said. ‘The one thing I can’t stand about this job is that I have to look like this all the time. It’s so unnatural. But they say because I’m representing the company in my work, I’ve got to look absolutely marvellous all the time. I don’t mind dressing up for special occasions, but every day …’

  ‘She has to get up an hour earlier than us to tart herself up just to go to work!’ said Jack, shaking his head. ‘It’s mad.’

  ‘And I’m hardly ever here, it’s so sad,’ she said in a muffled voice. Gene was clambering all over her, kissing her. ‘And how do you find Gene?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘And I bet Gene hasn’t said Gee whizz once, have you?’ she said to Gene, ruffling his hair affectionately.

  ‘Gee whizz,’ said Gene. ‘Gee whizz, gee whizz, gee whizz.’

  ‘Oh, God, what have I started?’ said Chrissie. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  28 September

  Today Chrissie was having to rush off to buy a cake for Gene to take into school on Monday because it was someone’s birthday and everyone had to bring something in.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that,’ I said. ‘Gene and I can make some cakes here and ice them. That would be much more fun, wouldn’t it, darling?’

  Chrissie sighed. ‘I know it would be nicer, but we did that once and everyone was horrified. It’s because he’s at a private school. Everyone’s groaning with dosh, and making our own cakes – well, we were practically ostracised. No, here it’s absolutely compulsory that we buy the cakes, and do you know how much we have to spend on a birthday present for someone in his class? About twenty quid! Back home we’d just buy something silly at the market. But here it’s dreadfully frowned on. It’s all about status.’

  She rushed off and Jack asked if I’d mind if he went too because he had some work to catch up on and he was sure we’d have a good time, and so I was left with Gene.

  I can’t quite work out whether they’re both enjoying it here or not. I noted the fact that Jack had said that whenever they talk of going home, the company responds with increased salaries and so on. So obviously they have thought of coming back. And it’s pretty clear they haven’t made many real friends, and the work is knackering. It’s obviously very expensive living here, too, and I’m not sure that they’re totally happy. But I can’t bring the subject up or it looks as if I’m angling for them to come back which, of course, I am.

  29 September

  Spent yesterday afternoon sightseeing (still faint with jetlag), Gene mad keen to show me the Empire State and take the ferry to Staten Island. Both jaunts excellent fun. But today, Sunday, I was left with him while Jack and Chrissie went off to more work. Breakfast was a slice of flabby toast. (‘Unless you go to delis, you just can’t get nice bread here,’ said Chrissie. ‘There’s no Waitrose!’) And as for the tea – well, it was called tea but it was made with some strange sort of American bag which tasted of dust. However, a small price to pay for being in this fab – and here fab is the right word – city, with Gene.

  I’m delighted they seem to be using me as a babysitter while I’m here, which is of course great for them, because they can catch up on all kinds of chores, and great for me. And, I hope, great for Gene, too. As it was raining we stayed in.

  Gene started off by making me a necklace out of paperclips which I wore for a bit but found it soon got too painfully scratchy to bear. As I put them back a rather unnerving thing happened. I simply couldn’t think of the word for paperclip. Crikey, I really am going the way of Archie. I stared and stared at them, and finally had to ask Gene. ‘Do you know what these are called?’

  ‘Paperclips,’ said Gene.

  ‘Well done,’ I replied, in order to conceal my ignorance.

  ‘Had you forgotten?’ asked Gene, with an amused smile on his face.

  ‘No, no …’ I brushed it aside, embarrassedly. We tried the origami and made a pelican and a butterfly – once we’d made one he wanted to make ten more and we stuck them up all over the flat. Then we tried the metal puzzles and managed to do all of them except one – two rings looped together which we had to unloop. Totally baffling.

  He suddenly asked about Archie, and I said he wasn’t very well, and had moved somewhere where people could look after him, and then, bless him, he suggested he make him a get-well card.

  ‘Let’s do one with elephants on it,’ he said. ‘That will make him laugh! Do you remember, Granny, that time … it was so funny!’

  When the rain stopped I suggested we go out and get a lot of boxes from local shops and bring them home and make a mad robot of some kind, and paint it. Gene decided, rather unsettlingly, that he wanted to make a prison.

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to make a house?’ I said. ‘We could make your place in Brixton … or we could make a palace … a gym or, um, an art gallery. Or a hospital.’

  ‘No, I want to make a prison,’ said Gene, determinedly. So out we went into the now boiling streets of New York, and after posting Archie’s card I started to feel rather like my old Polish neighbour, going into shops and asking if they’d mind us taking their empty boxes away. However, they’re used to this kind of behaviour. When we got back Gene spent hours drawing all the windows of the prisoner’s cells on
the sides of the boxes, glueing on toothpicks for the bars, and then we made a small garden for the prisoners to exercise in (my idea of course) and a large cardboard fence all around it so they couldn’t get out. We made some prisoners out of Play-Doh, and I got quite into the whole project.

  ‘Let’s have a governor,’ I said.

  ‘No, there isn’t a governor,’ said Gene.

  ‘But there has to be a governor,’ I said, feeling quite upset. ‘Otherwise the prisoners would all fight and everyone would get out of control.’

  ‘There’s no governor in this prison,’ said Gene firmly. Whereupon he pushed all the prisoners together and, muttering, ‘Punch! Punch! Take that! Ouch!’, he managed to squidge all the prisoners into a single ball of multicoloured Play-Doh … ‘Then there was this huge rocket which came down on the prison,’ he said, ‘It exploded … and bang! It was all squashed …’

  And he jumped on it, crushing all the walls, and little flowers I’d made, reducing the whole thing to a flat piece of cardboard and Play-Doh.

  ‘Oh, darling!’ I said, rather disappointed. I’d been longing to show it off to Jack and Chrissie. But clearly he found the whole exercise – building it up and then destroying it – immensely satisfying.

  After lunch it looked so enticingly sunny outside our rather chilly air-conditioned flat that we went out to Central Park and Gene took his bike. I was naturally expecting Central Park to be full of muggers and criminals, but actually it was peaceful and full of incredibly opulent-looking people with dogs on leads. I couldn’t believe, when I asked the owners what their strange-looking dogs were, the astounding variety of deliberate cross-breeds like Yorkipoos, Maltipugs, Cockerpoodles, Labraterriers, etc. It was teeming, too, with professional dog-walkers, all roaming the park holding up to six pooches on leads at a time.

  Weird – and very nice – how talkative they all are, too. Not at all like in London parks.

  I had a rather desultory game of football with Gene – not a game that grannies specialise in, I find – and when it started to rain again, we hailed a cab to get home. To my astonishment there was a television in the back of the cab playing loads of ads. And even more to my surprise, Gene seemed to know every word of them. ‘Smith and Wollensky,’ he recited in a pure New York accent. ‘If steak were a religion, this would be its temple.’