No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses!

by Virginia Ironside

  After we’d got out and were going up in the lift, Gene said, ‘You were right about arcon, Granny. It’s not arcon. It’s air conditioning. But,’ he added decisively, ‘I call it arcon.’

  I made him an early supper and left him watching old Popeye cartoons while I emailed Sylvie for news of Archie.

  Couldn’t help thinking of Louis, though. Oh, dear. Hate to admit it but I haven’t thrown his card away yet. Since I have absolutely no intention of getting in touch – it would be asking for trouble – why on earth am I keeping it? I suppose I’ve fallen for a younger man, like Penny did a while back. Always ends in tears.

  OCTOBER

  3 October

  There is no bath in this splendiferous apartment. I don’t know about other people of my age, but I can’t bear showers. First of all, you have to stand in either freezing or scalding water while you adjust the temperature, then you get your hair sopping wet unless you wear some ridiculous shower cap, the floor is always slippery and I’m afraid I’ll fall and, without taking the shower head off its perch and using it to spray inside all the cracks like under your arms and between your legs, you never get washed there at all. It is frightfully uncomfortable. But the worst thing of all is that not only do I have to read the Daily Rant to enrage me into life of a morning but also must have a bath to unseize my morning stiffness. A shower just won’t do the trick.

  Another disadvantage of showers is that it’s impossible to play games with Gene in them. At home we had great bath times, with plastic duck and fish fights, and underwater diving adventures. Sometimes he’d crawl under my special non-slip bathmat, turn it upside down, and pretend to be a squid, with the suckers as part of its skin. Or, I’d be the hairdresser when we washed his hair, and say, ‘And would you like a bit of mousse, sir?’ at the end, with all kinds of pranks with the towels and sponges. The whole procedure took about an hour from beginning to end. Poor American kids. They know nothing of the hilarious, splashy and noisy pleasures of bath-time.

  At least we still have laughs with the towel. After he’s all clean, I love seeing his little glossy red face, beaming out of the fluffy towel, and him racing along the passage with me chasing after him (there being no stairs in this flat, the chase isn’t quite as good, but still) and then doing him up as a Roman emperor in the towel or making him an enormous turban out of it so he’s an Indian rajah …

  Before he went to bed tonight, we measured the bit of the jersey on him, the bit I’ve restarted, and it seems to be fine. If anything, it’s on the big side. Then, as he snuggled down, we had a chat.

  ‘You should have watched Popeye,’ he said. ‘You see, Popeye wanted to go to this circus, and Bluto came with this big man, and there was this oven and Olive Oyl was in it and then it went bang, and this man, no not Bluto the other one, he got caught by this dragon, and Popeye rode on his bicycle …’

  One thing no one is good at, not even children, is retelling the plots of films.

  ‘Oh really?’ I said. ‘That sounds exciting.’

  ‘It wasn’t exciting, Granny,’ said Gene crossly. ‘It was funny. You weren’t listening. Now listen properly. When Bluto came back there was this big explosion, and …’

  I’m afraid to say that just at that moment and for no reason I could fathom, an image of Louis crossed my mind. I’ve finally thrown away the card. I couldn’t possibly ring him up. But still, I couldn’t help wondering whether, as he said, we would meet again. I did rather hope so, I had to admit.

  4 October

  Last night Jack asked an American couple over for dinner. He thought that the husband might be useful as he’s a retired psychologist doing some research and Jack might be able to do some work for him. They arrived at 6.30 – what strange times Americans eat – and refused anything to drink but sparkling water. Luckily Jack had got some white wine in for me and Chrissie.

  The man, Lennie, was one of those lovely old-school American types – all grey hair, Brooks Brothers shirts and excellent manners, highly educated, interested in everything and absolutely unknowable. But although he was perfectly easy to talk to, and he appeared to be flattered by the interest I took in him, I just couldn’t really imagine him as a human being. He was so wooden. As he is seventy-eight, we touched on the subject of illness and death, but suddenly he said, with a smile on his face, ‘Oh, I don’t think this is a very happy subject to discuss over cocktails!’ and I said ‘Why not? Isn’t death one of the most interesting subjects there is now we’re old?’ But he continued with his bland smile and asked, ‘Tell me, where do you live in London?’ or some utterly banal question and I realised it would be rude to persist.

  His wife, Martha, was what we used to call a blue-stocking. She was a graduate of Vassar and clearly a major feminist. She was tiny, feisty and spoke very loudly in a deep, Lauren Bacall voice. She wore wide silk trousers, had masses of frizzy grey hair and wore a minimum of make-up. Her face was covered with wrinkles and she was bubbling with energy.

  During dinner she suddenly said, ‘Well, as a feminist … and I’m sure I’m speaking for all us guys …’ and I’m ashamed to say I butted in abruptly with, ‘Oh, count me out, Martha. I’m not a feminist. I simply believe in equal rights.’ That was a bit of a dampener, so when she turned to the subject of Jane Fonda, and how she’d let the side down by having a facelift, I kept absolutely mum.

  ‘I would never have a facelift,’ she said, ‘and I guess you all feel the same. After all, my face is a palimpsest on which all my past is etched – my journey – the laughter, the pain. The joy! I’m a human being, for Chrissake. I don’t want all my history air-brushed out of me! And you can always tell,’ she added, looking slyly round the table. ‘I always know when someone’s had work done, don’t you?’ she added, patting me on the knee. ‘They just look so stretched and expressionless.’

  ‘Surely the only ones you can spot are the bad ones,’ I said, cautiously. ‘Isn’t it like undiscovered murders?’

  At this she looked a bit baffled. ‘I don’t know what you mean about murder,’ she said, chuckling, ‘but don’t you agree these old people, they either have facelifts and try to be young, or they just give up. Some people my own age – they’ve lost all their sense of wonder. They can never be astonished by anything. It’s so sad.’

  ‘I’ve lost all sense of wonder,’ I said, rather sharply. ‘And very pleased to have lost it too. My sense of wonder has been replaced by wisdom and experience. Nothing surprises or astonishes me these days, and it’s a very nice change, I can tell you! Darling,’ I added, sweetly, to make it sound less cruel.

  Poor old Martha was a bit dumbfounded by this and seemed to lose some of her fizz, but I made up for it later on by telling her how wonderful she looked, and discussing various books we’d both read and feigning astonishment (if not wonder) at some of her rather clichéd revelations, so I think I repaired the damage. Oh dear, a terrible fault of being older is an inability to keep one’s mouth shut. Americans are so keen to see the bright side of everything. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you strong,’ said Martha, several times in the conversation, while I was thinking, ‘What doesn’t kill you wounds you and leaves terrible scars.’ When she said, ‘When one door shuts another opens,’ I felt like saying ‘When one door closes another door slams in your face.’ But I don’t think my take on her sincerely held platitudes would have gone down too well.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said all that about wonder and undiscovered murders,’ I said to Chrissie, as I helped her clear the table after they’d gone.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Chrissie. ‘Someone’s got to tell them. That’s the problem with Americans. You know, Marie, being here I sometimes feel so incredibly European. I can’t describe it – I never felt European when I was in England – but here I feel like some old Italian olive-grower or an ancient Austrian philosopher. The mentality is completely different. It’s all “Happy! Happy! Happy!” It does get a bit lonely sometimes, I can tell you. It does them good to have someone l
ike you come along and tell them what’s what. Good for you. And wasn’t it funny when she started talking about facelifts! I could hardly keep a straight face!’

  I was grateful to her, because I thought I’d been rude. And also rather pleased, in a way, to learn that the family didn’t fit into US society as well as perhaps they seemed to want me to imagine.

  Went to bed and, as usual, put on the electric blanket they’d kindly provided. Although outside it’s like a sauna, inside, the arcon, even though they’ve fixed it, makes it so cold you need an electric blanket to stop yourself from freezing to death.

  5 October

  Gene was at school today so I walked around the neighbourhood feeling rather at a loose end. Absolutely filleted, as Archie used to say, by the heat as well. I can’t believe the contrasts between extreme heat outside and extreme cold inside are good for me.

  I started off walking down Broadway all the way to Carnegie Hall. Continuing on, I passed the Russian Tea Room, still a wonderful emporium of mirrors, chandeliers and madness. I preferred it as it used to be, still glamorous though run-down and seedy. But life must go on, as Martha would probably have said. At least it’s still there. Finally I walked to MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art – one of those buildings in which the architecture is so much more interesting than the art – and was so knackered after staggering around the place, I headed home, back up Broadway.

  But on my way I couldn’t resist nipping into a fabulous New York deli on Broadway, one that Martha had mentioned as being totally yummy and ‘so New York’, absolutely bursting with bagels and cheesecake, pickled cucumbers, smoked salmon and gefilte fish. I went in and ordered a cup of coffee, only to realise, after half an hour of people-watching, that I was rather bored. How was it possible, I wondered, to be bored in New York? Well, I’ve done all the usual touristy things. And I’m now at an age when another exhibition is just another exhibition.

  Where I really want to be is with Gene or Jack or Chrissie, talking and doing things, or at home in Shepherds Bush and getting on with things there. As I sat staring out at the honking yellow cabs and the traffic I rather wished that I did still have a sense of wonder, like Martha. Perhaps I’d been rather hard on her, I thought. So when, from across the tables, a tiny grey-haired woman started waving at me, I was extremely pleased to see that it was the feisty old palimpsest in person.

  ‘Sit down!’ she shouted, beaming. ‘The only woman in New York who isn’t a feminist! You’re looking great!’ It’s always rather maddening when the other person gets that remark in first. Replying, ‘And so do you,’ however enthusiastically, doesn’t carry the same impact, I find. ‘Have a sandwich. The pastrami here is to die for.’ ‘Well … I’m a bit squeamish about all that yellow fat,’ I said, as I went over. ‘But if you insist …’ I discovered that even though it was only midday, I was suddenly rather hungry.

  ‘Forget about it! Life’s too short for yellow fat!’ she said with a raucous laugh, and she signalled over a waiter and ordered a couple of pastrami sandwiches.

  ‘I’m waiting for my godson,’ she said. ‘He’s doing an interview with one of those old beat poets who’s still alive in the Village. We’re going to go to MOMA together.’

  I was just about to tell her about my morning’s visit to MOMA, when I heard myself exclaiming, ‘But I can’t eat all that!’ My meal – you couldn’t call it a sandwich – had arrived amazingly quickly on an enormous platter. It consisted of two giant slices of bread full of enough seeds to fill a plantation, crammed with a hundredweight of salt beef, and surrounded by mountains of coleslaw and gherkins. The waiter plonked down a collection of small bathtubs brimming with sauces, relishes and salsas. And he’d provided enough napkins to paper a ballroom.

  ‘Enjoy!’ he trilled, and that was that.

  It turned out that Martha has three grandchildren so it was quite easy to chat about how besotted we were. I recounted the fiasco at Heathrow security, and she howled with laughter and said she knew the perfect place for knitting needles. I was just wondering what was going to happen to the bill and whether it would be politer for me to insist on paying or politer to let her take me out, when a tall, nice-looking man threaded his way through the tables and I realised, to my amazement, it was Louis. Not only that, but he was coming our way.

  ‘That’s not your godson, is it?’ I said to Martha, who was waving frantically at him. ‘Louis?’

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, getting up and kissing him warmly on both cheeks. ‘Meet my new best friend from England … Marie Sharp.’

  Suddenly I felt as if I were in some kind of fifties American film, full of coincidences. I started to wonder why I wasn’t clutching a brown paper bag brimming with groceries, a stick of celery jutting out of the top, and why we didn’t all push aside our tables and burst into song.

  ‘Wee … ll!’ said Louis, smiling broadly, as he pulled out a chair. ‘You see … I’m always right … and I didn’t even have to call in any favours from the DA’s office!’

  ‘You two met already?’ asked Martha, catching the glance between us.

  ‘We flew over together,’ said Louis, sitting down. ‘And I was certain we’d meet again. And hoping, too …’ he gave me a knowing smile. ‘And here we are. Hey, this is just wonderful! And how are you two lovely ladies connected?’

  I found that because I’d been thinking about him so much, this time I could hardly think of anything to say. Speech wouldn’t come at all. Indeed I’d become so dumb, I thought perhaps now I had had one of those mini-strokes and would never be able to speak again. However, perhaps by catching the waiter’s eye and mouthing the word ‘bill’ I could re-enter the contest, as it were. Of course the American word is ‘check’ and the waiter looked at me blankly until I mimed the writing of a bill, or check, and he promptly came over. After that, the words started to flow. Martha suggested we all go to MOMA together.

  ‘Great idea!’ said Louis.

  ‘But I …’ I was going to say I’d been there already, but the words wouldn’t come out. ‘Come on, we won’t take no for an answer,’ he said, reaching out to take my hand to haul me up. And as he touched me I felt that awful familiar spark that bodes so badly for any woman, whatever her age.

  I could hardly bear to catch Martha’s eye. Could she tell?

  7 October

  We had a wonderful time at MOMA – I just hoped that none of the museum attendants would recognise me and say, American style, ‘Well, hi again – second time in one day, you must just love this place!’ There was only one blip and that was when Martha insisted on dragging us off to a knitting-needle shop on the way, and I felt utterly humiliated. The last thing I wanted Louis to know was that I actually knitted. Were I some groovy young knitter who was knitting in a kind of retro way, fine, but the older knitting woman is not a very rejuvenating sight. But Louis took it all in his stride, and by the time I had to leave to pick up Gene from school, I’d taken back everything I’d said about poor Martha. Honestly, I can be such a crosspatch sometimes. When it comes to her ludicrously optimistic outlook on life, she may be ‘full of shit’ (as no doubt she’d charmingly put it herself) but there’s no question she’s a warm and life-enhancing woman.

  That’s the problem with Americans. They first of all make you feel like wise old olive-growers, like Chrissie said, but before you know it their good humour and kindness makes you feel like some uptight, stony-faced repressed caricature of an English person. ‘New best friend!’ Well, I was quite bowled over.

  Louis was funny, charming and flattering. Of course the age difference wouldn’t be too bad if I were a twenty-year-old girl and he were forty, but then there’s no getting away from it. It’s different for men. If women are older than men in a relationship, then there’s always something creepy about it. I know there is. I remember how I felt when Penny went out with Gavin, the man she met on the internet who was so much younger than her. It was quite pathetic to see her so besotted. But the awful thing is that I can feel it happen
ing to me. I know Louis fancies me, too, because when one gets to my age (not a phrase I’d ever say in front of Louis, of course) one has had so much experience of relationships that one knows instantly. He catches my eye, puts his arm round my shoulder to steer me towards a picture he wants to show me, whenever a movie’s mentioned (you see even I’m getting into the swing of New York lingo, now) he murmurs to me ‘We must go see that’ – it’s clear as day. No doubt if we were ever together on a starlit night, he’d start showing me where the Great Bear was – always a sign of someone, in my experience, who fancies you rotten. He charmingly managed to get my mobile number by saying we both needed to swap them in case we lost each other among the Jackson Pollocks, and now I’m certain he’ll be in touch.

  So it was with a spring in my step that I left him to go to pick Gene up from school. I was standing there, surrounded by Puerto Rican nannies and New York mothers double-parked on the street in big jeeps, waiting for the kids, when my mobile beeped. I had two texts.

  One was from Louis, whom I’d left only half an hour before, which read, When can I c u again?

  The other was from Sylvie: Daddy dying. Asking for you.

  For one awful disloyal moment I toyed with the idea of pretending to Sylvie that I’d left my mobile at home and had never got the message, but then I knew there was nothing for it.

  I have to go back.

  8 October

  ‘But you’ve only just arrived!’ said Jack, when I told him the news. ‘You can’t go back now! As you said, Archie barely recognises you … do you have to?’