As we left, I said to the young waiter, ‘I absolutely adore your get-up!’
He looked very pleased. ‘I try to make an impression,’ he said.
‘You’ve certainly succeeded!’ we said. And we left. But then I wondered. It must be rather awful if you’re very young, as he was, to have ancient people telling you how stylish and wonderful you look. I mean it’s hardly a compliment, is it? Sadly, young people are too shy to dish out random compliments to strangers, so if we, the oldies, didn’t go round telling people how great they looked, no one would ever get any compliments at all.
When I got back I skyped the family. Gene had somehow solved the metal puzzle we’d been fiddling over for hours back in New York, and he insisted on showing me several times how he’d managed it. First, the two rings were together – and then, with a twist of his little hands, they were apart. It was baffling. I was so touched and proud.
The Dutch girl has gone, thank goodness, and Gene looked triumphant. ‘She talked to her friends on the phone all the time when Mum and Dad were out’ (did he say ‘mum’ and dad or ‘mom’ and dad? I couldn’t be quite sure, even though I was listening like a hawk), ‘and Dad got cross …’
As I’ve been knitting with a vengeance since I got back – I managed to salvage most of the stitches, having bought yet another new pair of needles – I was delighted to be able to show Gene my progress and even tried to fit the new version on him via the computer screen. It didn’t work very well, of course. But I’m really glad I’ve started again. I realise I made dozens of mistakes the first time, which I have now put right. The elephants look exactly like elephants.
Gene was absolutely disgusted to find that his school had sent out a note to parents asking them to discourage their children from wearing monster outfits at Hallowe’en. Having always been a big fan of Stephen King films, in which, as far as I remember, there is always a compulsory Hallowe’en scene just to build up the tension, I was most surprised. But no, things have changed, apparently.
‘I wanted to wear my monster zombie outfit,’ he said, sadly. ‘It’s got big hands with cuts on, and hair on the back, and I’ve got these special vampire teeth with blood on, not real blood, just paint … but mum said they wouldn’t like it. And we wouldn’t get any candy.’
‘What did you go as?’ I asked.
‘I went as Snoopy,’ he said, rather dejectedly. ‘Snoopy’s nice but not scary. But,’ he added, cheering up, ‘we got lots of candy.’
Later, Jack said Hallowe’en had been a fiasco and they’d ended up by handing out about fifty dollars’-worth of sweets to children who came calling. Not only that, he said, but the whole family was dismayed to find there were no Guy Fawkes celebrations at all.
‘Of course, it’s obvious when you think of it,’ he said, ‘and we were idiots to imagine they might celebrate it, but I do like a good bonfire night. Do you remember those fireworks we used to have, Mum, in the garden?’
‘Of course I do, darling!’ I said. ‘I was only just thinking of them. And can’t you hear the fireworks outside, now?’ I added, as explosions burst into the air. The smell of bonfires had even crept through the cracks in the windows. But of course, like farts, you can’t smell bonfires on Skype. ‘Oh well,’ I added consolingly, ‘there’s always Thanksgiving.’
Jack looked very grumpy. ‘Haaappy Hullidays,’ he said in a fake American accent. ‘I can’t think Christmas will be much fun here. You know, we can’t get anything right. The other day Chrissie and I were invited to a party which had the words Fancy Dress on the invitation and we were just about to hire pirate costumes, when someone told us that ‘Fancy Dress’ means ‘Black Tie’! It’s like a foreign country.’
I said, rather pointedly, ‘It is.’
We logged off, with much love and kisses.
Oh I do miss them! I worry so much – I feel certain they’ll stay there and then eventually I’ll just become some awful visiting stranger and Gene will turn into an American High School kid and join a fraternity and fall in love with one of those short-skirted cheerleader girls who march along with bands, twizzling sticks – tears are coming into my eyes just at the awful thought of it – and they’ll be complete foreigners. I just wish they weren’t abroad.
Can’t get out of my mind the way Gene called sweets ‘candy’. I suppose it’ll only be a matter of weeks before he calls biscuits ‘cookies’. And calls maths ‘math’. And rubbish ‘garbage’. (Or is it ‘trash’?)
6 November
Louis rang! From London! He’s just arrived and he wants to take me out to dinner tomorrow, but it’s the wretched Residents’ Meeting – the huge one at Father Emmanuel’s church – so there’s no way I can get out of it. He says if I can make the next day, he’ll hang on here one more day before going to Oxford to see his mother – he’s staying with some editor friend of his in Notting Hill – so we’re all set for the day after tomorrow. He says it makes things a bit easier for him, because he’s got to interview the Foreign Secretary about something – foreign policy presumably.
‘Have you see the Rant’s headlines today?’ he asked. “MAD MATHS GENIUS LEADS MOB IN MADRID RAMPAGE!”?’ I expect that got you going.’
Did ask him if he wanted to attend the meeting, but he mumbled an excuse. ‘But I know you’ll be great. To the barricades!’
Longing to see him, but feel so nervous!
7 November
Penny and I have been beavering away to get this meeting off the ground, and thank God it’s now over. I’d been up half the night making notes, we’d got an agenda, and Father Emmanuel had let us use the church as an evening venue.
But even though we’d leafleted the whole neighbourhood and put posters up in all the shops, we were terrified no one would come. I wouldn’t have blamed them. The walls of the hall were plastered with pictures of Our Lord. Or, rather, in my case, Not My Lord.
By quarter to eight – the meeting beginning at eight – only a handful of residents had shown up and they weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. Talk about the halt, the sick and the lame. I couldn’t help thinking that some of them had only come because we’d promised them a cup of tea. But just as I was chatting to the people who were going to speak and apologising for the lack of attendance, there was a sudden commotion and blow me, people started to flock in from everywhere. The local policeman came, two extra councillors – apart from the ones who’d been hauled in to answer questions – a reporter from the local paper, and local residents starting to shove in from the back. Seats were filling up. Suddenly it was standing-room only. There was an enormous roar of noise, like an orchestra tuning up. Eventually there must have been at least three hundred people there, if not more – and then Penny nudged me and it was time to start.
I managed to kick off with an outline of what we objected to, which was met by a round of spirited applause, and I then introduced the speakers – first Ned, who really was brilliant talking about the trees and frankly made our piece of scrub sound as cherishable as the Galapagos Islands themselves.
Then Brad gave an eloquent delivery about planning. ‘As you may realise from my accent, I’m from the States,’ he began. ‘And in the States they would allow this to happen. They build anywhere. But in this great country, this country of democracy, this country in which I am honoured and privileged to live as your guest – and what great hosts, might I add, you have been – in this great country, this Great Britain, and yes, I mean great, this is a place where you care about each other. And you care for your environment, too …’
He would have made Ross Shatterton himself sign up to the campaign.
Then Tim blathered on (giving a very good impression of the average bloke in the street, which, of course, he is), the rest of the committee gave their three-minute spiels and even Sheila the Dealer managed to stumble up onto the platform and rasp at the top of her voice about the ‘bleedin’ guvment’ (not that the government has got anything to do with it), which of course got lots of the audience on h
er side.
Finally Father Emmanuel gave dark hints about what might happen to those who oppose the word of the Lord, implying that He was naturally on our side, and invited us all to offer up a prayer to God, asking him to intervene in our fight.
No one paid him any attention because by then the crowd was incandescent with fury. The poor councillors there to answer questions looked increasingly frightened, exchanging notes and whispering between themselves. And as they made their pitiful points about regeneration and jobs for the locals and investment for stakeholders (whatever they are), the crowd became more and more restless. People started getting up and shaking their fists. Slow hand-claps began. The chant of ‘Save our Common! Save our Common!’ grew into a such a crescendo I wished the Robinia pseudoacacia and the Platanus acrifolia, or whatever the trees’ Latin names were, could actually have been there in person to hear all the voices raised on their behalf.
In the end the councillors agreed to have a second look at the plans (it was the only way they could prevent a full-scale riot), the fury slowly abated, and I felt so overwhelmed by the whole experience that I only just remembered to shout that I wanted everybody’s phone numbers and email addresses and would those who hadn’t signed the petition please add their names to the list so that we could send additional protests and would they please make a donation to Father Emmanuel’s church as they went out.
Michelle came up to me afterwards. ‘You vair’ good,’ she said. ‘I am ’appy to leev in your ’ouse. It is like big rock concert! Next time, O2! Bravo! Yes, and you, too, actually!’ she said, turning to Ned, who’d come up to join in the self-congratulatory throng. ‘We all go for drink, hein?’ and she made a coquettish drinking gesture and winked at him.
So off they went, while Penny and I, exhausted, had a congratulatory dinner à deux at the Indian restaurant next to the church. There is something so calming about the spicy smells of a hot curry house.
‘Thank God that means I won’t have to shin up that wretched plane or Plantus whatever-it’s-called,’ I said, feeling mightily relieved as I scanned the menu. ‘I was dreading it.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Penny. And we ordered a delicious feast. Surprisingly, halfway through, the blue-and-red bead curtain at the door parted and it was James. He’d come to join us. He was looking a bit bleak.
‘We thought you’d gone off with Ned,’ we said. ‘What’s up?’
‘He’s decided he’s not gay after all,’ said James, rather sadly. ‘He told me just before the meeting. He wants still to be friends, but he says he needs to find a woman and settle down. Usual story. I was just an experiment, it seems. Still. I don’t think I could have stood a diet of nuts and soya milk for much longer. There we are.’
‘I thought you’d got him on to haddock?’ said Penny. ‘What happened to that?’
‘He only ate a tiny bit once, to please me. And it was then he realised it wasn’t going to work. And that was that. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted.’
And he ordered a large tandoori chicken masala.
‘Um …’ said Penny, struggling to find the words. ‘He will still help with the trees, won’t he?’
‘Of course. Don’t worry,’ said James. ‘Nothing would prevent him from continuing in the tree fight. He’s even more gung-ho about it than me. I was never sure about all that recycling stuff, and eco-environmental self-sustainability, plastic shoes and all that. He could never really let go and enjoy himself. However, when I last saw him, half an hour ago, he seemed to be getting on rather too well with your lodger,’ he said, turning to me. ‘I left them to it. She’s clearly got her eye on him,’ he added, rather sourly. ‘Though I would have thought he would have been a bit old for her.’
‘Crikey,’ said Penny and I, in unison.
We had just got down to having a really good post-mortem about the meeting, over the traditionally revolting coffee that Indian restaurants always serve, when I happened to mention my relief at no longer having to go up the tree. It was here that James put up his hand and stopped me.
‘Oh, no, Marie, you’ve got to go up the tree! That’s next on our campaign plan! Ned said it would be mad not to go ahead. We’ve got to push home our advantage. If the council is reconsidering, we really do need extra publicity against the scheme to tip the balance. No, I think it all hangs on your going up there. We need a bold gesture.’
As my face fell, Penny interrupted. ‘Actually, James, that’s a really good idea. I hadn’t thought of that. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that. You did say you would, Marie. And you said we could get all this stuff from Harry, so it’ll be perfectly safe.’
Just then my mobile beeped. A text!
Hope meeting went well. c u tomorrow xxL, it said. Honestly, you would have thought I was a teenager: ‘xxL’ – never have three letters meant so much. My heart started to race faster and I must have blushed because Penny said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, trying to force my smile away by helping myself to a large pinch of those funny coloured seeds they give you after an Indian meal, and spluttering.
‘It’s not a bloke is it?’ said Penny, slyly.
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Just Jack. Yes, of course I’ll go up the tree. It’s fine.’
At that moment I would have agreed to anything.
8 November
Woke up this morning to find a letter from my doctor.
‘Dear Mrs Harp,’ it read. ‘It is now the time of year that we ask all our vulnerable patients to make an appointment for an inoculation against flu …’
Well, firstly I’m not Mrs Harp and secondly, surely I’m not what you’d describe as ‘vulnerable’? When I rang up the surgery they said everyone of sixty-five and over is described as vulnerable and I thought thank you very much. Anyway, why should I have a flu jab? When you get to a certain age, about seventy, say, shouldn’t you allow yourself to be carried off by whatever fatal disease comes your way? Otherwise you risk going on for ever and being a Burden To Your Family, and costing them thousands of pounds in nursing home fees – like Archie. So I’m going to refuse.
Anyway, Louis. We’re meeting tonight and I’m in an absolute panic. I have got my entire wardrobe out on my bed, and everything looks old and tatty. Even the Vivienne Westwood jacket that I bought a few years ago in a sale, that I thought could never go out of date, somehow looks stupid. And it’s frayed at the cuffs. In the end I decided on a very nice black skirt that shows off my slim tummy, and a top that’s high enough to cover that slightly wrinkly bit that older women always get just above their boobs, but low enough to show I actually do have boobs.
This morning I slathered on a strange face pack I’d found at the bottom of the cupboard under the bathroom sink. I hadn’t used the stuff since the sixties. It was a kind of green putty, and naturally enough the doorbell rang just as it was starting to dry.
When I opened the door I discovered Ned standing outside. I’d completely forgotten he’d texted last night to say he was coming over to talk about my going up this wretched tree. This morning, less dancing on air than I was last night, I’m increasingly wishing that I’d never agreed to this. Suddenly I’m starting to feel jolly vulnerable. Maybe my doctor has a point.
After he’d got over the shock of being welcomed by someone who looked like a Martian, Ned said he’d wait for me while I washed it all off. And as I was in the bathroom I heard Michelle coming downstairs and bumping into him in the kitchen. I came down, with my skin tightened and looking about forty-five years old and I noticed Ned was writing something down and Michelle was giggling.
So there was something going on, after all!
As she rushed off to her English class, Ned said kindly, ‘If you don’t want to go up this tree, I’m quite happy to do it instead. I really wouldn’t blame you.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but somehow I don’t think a fit chap like you going up the tree would have as much impact as a vulnerable old lady, i.e. me.�
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‘You’re not vulnerable!’ said Ned, taking the cue, and my heart warmed to him. ‘You’re tough as old boots.’ My heart cooled a bit.
When I got to sixty I was always referring to myself as an old lady. I think it was to make myself seem a bit younger. In other words, I’d imagine whoever it was I was speaking to thinking I was an old lady, so I’d try to get the description in first. But these days I realise it’s just a bit embarrassing. It’s as if I’m trying to be one of the lads. So normally I keep quiet about it. It had certainly been a mistake to try it on with Ned.
I gave him Harry’s number, so he could make arrangements to get the tree stuff, and he assured me that with the help of a couple of the drug dealers, he and James can make everything really secure.
‘But we’ll have to set it up at night, and get you up under the cover of darkness as well,’ he said. ‘James and I will get the banner up first – ‘YOUR COUNCIL WANTS TO KILL THIS TREE!’ – and then you nip up. And we’ll get the press round. It’ll be a great story: “Pensioner makes brave stand to save tree … retired teacher Marie Sharp risks life to stop council desecrating centuries-old common.”’
‘What do you mean, risking my life?’ I said, suddenly alarmed. ‘I’m not risking my life, am I?’
‘Well, I suppose technically, yes, if you were to drop out of it and there weren’t enough drug dealers milling around underneath to cushion your fall,’ said Ned. ‘But no more than you risk your life crossing the road.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Oh God.’
But I can’t get out of it now.
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 23
