No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses!

by Virginia Ironside

  Felt extremely touched and flattered by this request. And delighted of course, to have Alice over. No substitute for Gene, of course – little girls are so different from little boys – but any tiny person in a storm.

  And today was made even more wonderful by the arrival, finally, of an email from Louis. He told me all what he’d been up to – investigating some Mafia story in the IT industry – and some party he’d been to – ‘but none of the women were up to your standard’ – and ended with the news that next month he’s got to come over to see his mother again in Oxford, because she has some grim hospital appointment, and he says he can’t wait to meet up again. He ended, simply, ‘xL’, but that was good enough for me. I spent the rest of the day dancing on air.

  Alice arrived on my doorstep with a rather white face, long fair hair held in place with a diamanté hairband, clutching not only an enormous stuffed rabbit but also a very pretty sparkly bag in which ‘I keep my jewels,’ she explained as she came in. She was wearing white tights, a very pretty green-and-yellow dress and pink ballet shoes, which she immediately took off in the hall. Naturally I said nothing about it being a shoes-on house. I’m not a monster.

  She clung to her mother and didn’t want her to leave, but I knelt down to her level, feeling the scabs on my knees cracking as I did so, and said, ‘Now, you and I are going to do something very special for Mummy when she’s gone … it’ll be a surprise for her when she gets back … it’s our little secret,’ and then I whispered in her ear that we were going to dress her up as a princess and she started to smile.

  Sharmie played along. ‘What are you two plotting?’ she said, pretending to try to overhear our conversation. Alice smiled and said, ‘Go away, Mommy, it’s a special secret!’

  I hadn’t prepared for this but soon we were up in my bedroom, going through the drawers, and finding an Indian shawl which turned into a long skirt, a sequined scarf that we tied into a top, another bright red stole to tie into a belt, and, having laden her with every brooch, bangle, bracelet, necklace, and earring we could scrape up from my jewellery box, and put her hair up with pins, we managed to transform her into the prettiest little princess I’d ever seen. Something I could never do with Gene.

  Alice looked in the mirror, completely delighted by what she saw. Then she took my hand and said in a very serious voice. ‘You have any make-up?’

  ‘Of course!’ I said, and let her loose on lipstick, blusher, eyeliner, and we even managed to pull off a winning stroke, a special Indian red dot between her eyebrows. With a spray of extremely expensive scent, she was finished.

  After ten, when the bell rang, I’d just taken a couple of photographs of her (at her insistence) while she was admiring herself in my bedroom mirror upstairs, so I went down and let Sharmie in.

  ‘Pretend not to recognise her,’ I whispered. Then ‘Alice!’ I called. ‘It’s your mum!’

  Alice came downstairs very slowly, and Sharmie played along.

  ‘My, oh, my!’ she said, putting her hands into the air. ‘What a beautiful little princess! But where,’ she said, turning to me, with a worried expression, ‘is my Alice? You haven’t lost her have you? I did tell you to be very careful of her.’

  ‘It’s me, Mom,’ shouted the Alice Princess, shrieking with laughter and running down the stairs towards her. ‘It’s me!’

  ‘No!’ said Sharmie. ‘It can’t be! You’re the little princess?’

  ‘Can I show Daddy?’ pleaded Alice. ‘Can I show Dad? Huh? Huh?’

  They all went off with promises to return everything once Daddy had seen the vision of loveliness and I was left with that wondrous, wonderful feeling that I remember so well with Gene … the feeling of fulfilment. Sometimes I think that being a granny allows you to be a child yourself, but without any of the unpleasant feelings of powerlessness. Creating something with a child, letting your imagination roam, whether making a prison with a six-year-old boy, or turning a little girl into a princess – it’s the most glorious, inventive and stimulating feeling in the world.

  Well, I think so, anyway.

  25 October

  Finally got the all-clear to visit Archie and was, curiously, rather dreading seeing him again. It’s odd, but I’d been so keyed up to expect his death that in a funny way – and I wouldn’t admit this to anyone except my diary, not even to Penny – I rather resented the fact that he was still alive. I wonder if anyone else ever has that feeling? I mean I’d prepared myself for the grief, the funeral, the memories, and now here we were stuck in the same old pattern. I also felt, like Sylvie, very sad that he’d been so much forced to survive. I think it was that, selfishly, I was longing to grieve for what I’d lost. But, in the circumstances, I couldn’t.

  When I arrived at Eventide at lunchtime, I was told to sit in the corridor because the nurse was fussing about him in his room – taking his pulse, checking his blood pressure, draining away what little hope of a peaceful death was left inside him, leaving a hollow shell. I stared bleakly ahead of me. On Archie’s door there was a small window set in, presumably so people can spy on him during the night to see he isn’t doing anything naughty like dying peacefully on their watch. On the wall opposite me, there was a reproduction of Monet’s Water Lilies, which I was trying to look at properly despite being constantly interrupted by the passage of old ducks in wheelchairs being steered along the corridor, no doubt on their way to a collage class or some other distraction from the business of dying.

  ‘Coming with us, dear?’ said one nurse to me, as she sailed by. ‘You’ll have some fun. Armchair Aerobics. Everyone’s welcome.’

  The look of horror that crossed my face as I realised she’d mistaken me for a resident – or ‘guest’ as she was probably trained to call me – must have struck her because she immediately corrected herself. ‘Oh, sorry, love,’ she said. ‘But do come, anyway, if you’d like.’

  Armchair Aerobics? She must be joking. Did I really look like an Eventide resident? I got up to look at myself in a mirror, but couldn’t find one. No doubt they keep mirrors away from the oldies in case they all drop dead the moment they see the ghastly shrivelled sights that stare back at them from the glass. However, as I got up, I did notice something odd. The hem of the skirt of my dress. I frowned. Surely it didn’t have a border, this dress? I looked again. And then, to my horror and mortification, I realised I’d put the dress on inside-out. No wonder the nurse thought I lived there! Fumbling at the back of my neck, I could feel the label on the outside. Rushing into the nearest loo, I finally found a mirror. Briefly, I panicked that the facelift might suddenly have dropped and a kind of plastic surgeon’s midnight bell might have been struck, like in Cinderella, and all my features had suddenly slumped back to how they used to be. But no. My new face was still intact. Applying a great deal more make-up and giving my hair a good comb, I made sure I looked emphatically like a visitor before I emerged into the corridor again. Whew! One moment later and they might have injected me with some kind of sedative and before I knew it I’d be slumped on a commode in a Sunset room, gawping at daytime television.

  I took my place again opposite Archie’s room and finally the nurse came out, bearing a chart.

  ‘You can go in now, Mrs Ship,’ she said. Thank God, everything was back to normal.

  I tiptoed in. Archie was lying in bed, absolutely white-faced, haggard, just skin and bones, with eyes like dark hollow saucers. There were drips attached to his fragile arms. He was staring at the ceiling. Through the claustrophobic heat wafted the stifling smell of Dettol. I tried to open a window to let in some fresh air, but found it was completely sealed. In the end I opened the door to the garden, and for a moment the sharp air cut in, giving the room a breath of life. I left it slightly ajar and turned.

  ‘Hello darling,’ I said, gently.

  He turned to me and gave a kind of throttled gasp. I could see him shifting himself, as if he wanted to get up.

  ‘Hello.’ he said, through a dry mouth. ‘Lovely.’

&
nbsp; I gave him some water and plumped the pillows up behind him. Then I sat beside him and stroked his hand, not knowing quite what to say. Occasionally he groaned and shifted or tried to form a word. In the end I just drivelled on. I told him about New York and about the family, the flight, the fall, James’s dotty installation … with no idea how much of this he understood.

  Then I thought: this is ridiculous. I’m being just like those stupid nurses who pulled him through when he was ill, trying to pretend everything’s all right. So I plucked up my courage. I remembered what had happened the last time I’d been with Hughie, and I knew this was no time to be polite or cheerful. Outside it was already starting to get darker.

  ‘Darling,’ I said, ‘I want you to know everything’s going to be fine this time. Sylvie and I are going to make sure you’ll be able to go to sleep soon and there’ll be oblivion. We know what you want, darling. It’s too much for you, all this, I know. It’s painful and hard work, and soon everything will be peace, endless peace. I promise …’

  I put my hand on his dry, cold forehead and through my palm I could sense his whole body relaxing. The tension just drained out of it. His cheeks, so drawn, when I came in, softened, and he slowly drew my hand up to his lips and tried to give it a kiss. Then I said, ‘You know, darling, I do love you. We had the happiest time ever. I don’t think I was ever so happy with anyone as I was with you. In fact I know I wasn’t. I do hope you know that.’

  And for a moment our eyes locked, and I felt there was some strange connection. Even though he could hardly speak, he had got the drift of what I was saying, and he squeezed my hand for the first time.

  ‘Marie,’ he said. ‘Are you Marie?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Marie,’ I said. ‘And I love you.’

  He gave a faint smile, closed his eyes and then appeared to drift off to sleep. I waited a while and eventually tiptoed out of the room.

  I sat down on the chair in the corridor. For some reason I felt desperate for a cigarette. I’d stopped smoking years ago, but felt so drained and exhausted. I put my head in my hands. But my reverie was interrupted.

  ‘Visiting Mr Archie?’ said a nurse, bustling up. ‘That’s nice for him! And for you, too. You know he was very ill recently, don’t you? But he pulled through. Oh yes, he pulled through! We’re not going to let him go so easily! He’s a fighter Mr Archie, make no mistake!’

  I looked her straight in the eye, a cold fury stealing over my body. I could feel my heart starting to race with anger. ‘To be quite frank,’ I said, trying to control my voice, ‘I think it would have been kinder if you’d allowed the poor man to die. What you did last month was little short of criminal. And I speak as one who loves him very much.’

  She looked shocked and hurried on her way. For my part, I stood up and strode out of the overheated nursing home into the cool air outside. I walked around the grounds in the dusk, my mind in a whirl. I couldn’t get my thoughts in order. I could feel the sharp air, hear the roar of cars in the distance, smell the supper cooking from Eventide’s kitchens. But all I could see was Archie’s hollow face, staring at me from the pillow. I couldn’t cry. I felt too overcome with emotion for that. I so longed … longed for what? Longed for him to be reassured. Longed for him to be at peace. Longed, so longed, for him to die and be free from all this suffering. My heart felt full of longing and love.

  As I blundered back to the car park, I bumped into Mrs Evans, who’d come all the way by two buses to visit.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Marie … oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, isn’t it sad?’ she said. ‘I keep thinking about that poem Mr Archie wrote.’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘You’re staying with Mrs Sylvie tonight are you? You’ll be very comfortable there. I go over now and help her out on Tuesdays. I like to stay in the family.’

  And she bustled off down the path to the house.

  What a trooper. Even though she’d been accused time and time again of being a thief, she’s still loyal. (It says something not just for her, but for the great love that Archie inspired, and still inspires, in everyone.)

  Briefly, an image of Louis came into my mind. But no. However I feel about him, nothing comes near to my feelings about dear old Archie.

  30 October

  Email from Louis saying ‘Only another week and I’ll be in London. It’ll be great to see you again. xxL’

  Hmm. I’d gone up an ‘x’.

  Skyped the family tonight. Gene looked rather cross. Apparently the Dutch girl thinks he’s stupid to have a cuddly and calls him a baby.

  ‘You’re not a baby!’ I said, angrily. ‘You’re a big boy! You’re almost a man, like Dad. Dad,’ I added, ‘had a cuddly, a stuffed dog called Arno, until he was ten years old, and I used to suck my thumb till I was twelve and your granddad David still bites his nails sometimes, so don’t let anyone tell you you’re a baby because you’ve got a cuddly.’

  ‘Did Dad really have a cuddly till he was ten?’ said Gene, barely supressing a slightly contemptuous smile. ‘That’s very old to have a cuddly!’

  I didn’t like to go into all the props that everyone leans on when they get older – cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, the ones that adults need to replace their innocent cuddlies – but I was outraged that this dreadful girl was jeering at Gene’s old Ted.

  ‘But she’s going tomorrow,’ said Gene, looking at me in rather a cheeky, victorious way. ‘Mum’s told her to go away.’

  Well, that was something.

  Oh, how I wished I were there or they were here!

  NOVEMBER

  1 November

  Just back from Sylvie’s. She lives in this very sumptuous converted farmhouse, not far from Archie’s place. Every room looks as if she’s had an interior decorator in to do it over, and there’s not a cushion unplumped nor a curtain not held back by an embroidered tie. Even the National Trust tea towels in her kitchen have been ironed, and every cupboard is spotless, inside and out, crammed with sparkling arrays of glass and china. In the bathrooms she even has separate little hand-towels you dry your hands on and then throw into a bin in the corner, swank hotel-style.

  That Saturday we spent a lot of time in her cosy kitchen as she prepared supper. Sylvie, thank goodness, does not take after her father. She believes in keeping warm, with a huge state-of-the-art Aga in one corner and central heating roaring away even in the corridors. We talked a lot, mainly wringing our hands about the Archie situation.

  ‘Do feel free to have a bath before dinner,’ she said, rather pointedly, I thought, as she wiped her hands on a piece of kitchen-roll. ‘We’re not changing, though.’

  Changing? Baths before dinner? I realised that Sylvie lived in the same social circles as her father. I immediately went upstairs and had a bath, and, naturally changed, knowing that the translation of ‘we’re not changing’ means ‘we are changing, but not very much’.

  Checking I hadn’t got any clothes on back to front or inside out this time, and spraying myself extravagantly with Chanel No. 5 just in case any of the funny antiseptic smell of the nursing home still clung to me even after a bath, I made my way gingerly down the back stairs. (I‘m still a bit shaky after the fall.) In the sitting room, I found Harry, Sylvie’s husband, standing in front of the fire drinking sherry. Hardy lay on the hearthrug, having made himself completely at home in his new surroundings. I bet he appreciates being in the warm, after a lifetime of bracing temperatures.

  Over supper I told them about the problems with the council over the common, and mentioned the appalling prospect of my going up the tree as a last resort, and at this point Harry suddenly became very enthusiastic. He’s got quite a bit of land which involves forestry, so apparently he’s got masses of tree-shinning-up equipment and he said if we needed something to help in this escapade he’d be happy to lend it to us. I said I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but it was very nice of him. Then, refusing coffee, I staggered up to bed. They were so kind and understanding. I think we are all quite exhausted by the situation.

  5 No
vember

  Bonfire night! For the last few days fireworks have been going off everywhere, exploding into the cold, dark nights. I’ve been trying to keep Pouncer in because he’s scared stiff of explosions. Who isn’t? (Once, a few years ago, Pouncer actually rushed off when he heard a banger and didn’t return for three weeks.)

  Again, I couldn’t help but reminisce over the old days. When Jack was small we’d let off a box of fireworks in the garden, little treats in coloured tubes with lovely names like Golden Fountain, Roman Candle or Erupting Vesuvius. There were bangers and rockets and squibs, and Catherine wheels that never managed to go round but remained motionless, shooting their sparks into the ground … and potatoes put in the fire to bake … and there was a wonderful smell of cordite afterwards and all the children had sparklers. The whole intense atmosphere of it came roaring back. And then, the morning after, there was that eerie moment when I had to go and clear the grass of all those damp, blackened shells and dirty, gritty, spent sparkler sticks.

  Later

  I haven’t heard from Louis. Surely he’ll be over any day now? I feel like emailing but have to resist. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. However, I do keep checking my mobile for messages. He’s never far from my mind. Oh dear.

  Yesterday I had supper with James and Ned. It was James’s birthday and Ned and I treated him. I’d told the restaurant – one of those jolly gastropubs – in advance that there was a birthday at our table, and one of the waiters brought in a tiny cake covered in candles, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and the whole dining room joined in while James grinned, went bright scarlet, pointed his finger at me and mouthed, ‘You naughty girl!’

  Though most eyes were on the cake, I noticed James’s look was directed at the waiter, a young chap who was so cool it was ridiculous. He was wearing daringly short trousers – the fashionable Oliver Twist look – a wonderful spiky haircut, a shirt that looked as if it was from Paul Smith, and great purple socks. He looked the last word in camp. (Though James was fixated on him, I noticed Ned was eyeing up one of the waitresses. I wonder if all’s going well with that pair? There’s certainly no slobbering over each other these days, that’s for sure. Thank God.)