Later
Waited in the most terrible state for Louis to arrive to take me to dinner. I’d put the Inkspots on to give me courage and was building up my confidence, usual Maori-style, in the kitchen, when he rang the bell. And on hearing the music he simply danced in, grinning, putting his paper down on a chair and then he seized me by the waist and insisted on finishing the dance till the next track.
‘Nothing beats those old Inkspots!’ he said. ‘“I love coffee, I love tea, I love the Java-jive, and it loves me …”’ he sang. ‘But Marie, what is the Java-jive? I guess if we knew that, we’d also know the meaning of life.’
‘But I’ve always wondered about the Java-jive,’ I said, laughing. ‘In fact I’ve been relying on you, as an American, being able to supply the answer. If you can’t do that well, let’s call the whole thing off …’
It all promised to be a terrific evening.
He’d booked a swanky Italian restaurant in Knightsbridge, with linen tablecloths and linen napkins and several glasses for each person as if they were going to have aperitifs, red wine, white wine, pudding wine and water one after the other, and it was full of glamorous young couples who looked Jack and Chrissie’s age, holding hands across the table and murmuring things to each other. And it was here that I started to feel rather like an old granny. And yet I also felt, at the same time, which was what was so odd, just as I had done on my first ever date when I was seventeen. One gets pulled between two generational states. I knew how Schumann or whoever it was must have felt when he was trying to stretch his poor hands into playing two notes bigger than an octave at the same time. But over a delicious escalope alla marsala and a glass of champagne I started to relax even more.
Here I was with this young bloke (well, he seems young to me), eyes crinkled with friendliness rather than geriatric crinkliness, a lovely brown neck, hands with not a liver-spot in sight. Sexual desire flared up in me and I felt quite shy as I tried to fight it down.
We talked of his mother – suspected cancer, naturally. ‘I’m so sorry, that is worrying,’ I said. ‘But quite honestly, is there anyone over sixty who hasn’t got cancer these days?’ And he burst out laughing and said, ‘Marie, that is what I love about you. That remark is one that no American woman would ever say!’ We then got on to painting, and were particularly scathing about the idea that art these days needed reams of explanations to accompany it, when he suddenly leaned over and took my hand.
‘You know, we’ve gotten ourselves into a silly situation,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I said. But I wasn’t quite sure what the situation was.
‘Part of me thinks I’ve completely fallen for you,’ he said. ‘And another part knows it’s ridiculous. I mean, we hardly know each other …’
‘I know,’ I said again.
‘But for some reason, the moment I met you in the plane …’
Before he went any further, I stopped him.
‘Look, I’m ancient,’ I said. ‘Don’t even go there. The whole thing would be ridiculous. I’m far older than you think. Let me tell you exactly how—’
‘Whoa! Enough already!’ said Louis firmly. ‘Age has got absolutely nothing to do with it. Don’t go there.’
‘But I’m …’
‘Shut up,’ he said, firmly. ‘I just know that I feel completely at home with you. You could be a hundred for all I care.’
‘I feel at home with you, too,’ I said. ‘It’s a funny feeling. Not one I’ve had for ages.’
‘Since when?’ he said.
And I suppose I meant since Archie was well.
And then I told him about Archie. And he suddenly leaned back and said, ‘I hope you’re not feeling this way about me because this old guy is dying, and you’ve got to find someone else …’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, rather startled by his analysis.
‘When Dad died, I remember Mom falling in love with some other old prof almost the day after the funeral and it was all we could do to stop her running off with him there and then. This isn’t like that, is it? You sure?’ He was looking at me almost suspiciously.
I assured him that it wasn’t, and if anything his kindness and perceptiveness about the situation had made me like him even more. Then I told him about going up the tree.
‘Now you’re not to tell anyone about the tree, will you?’ I said. ‘It’s a secret.’
He looked a bit annoyed.
‘Look, Marie, just because I’m a journalist doesn’t mean I’m a bastard. Of course I won’t tell anyone. Anyway, who would I tell? It’s not likely The Times is gonna run with it, is it? Unless maybe you fell out,’ he added, grinning, ‘and even then I’m afraid they wouldn’t give a shit. But I would,’ he added, taking my hand again. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Marie? Are you sure you’re going to be safe? I’m worried about you.’
His concern made me want to weep.
After supper we walked to the car and then I realised with a jolt he was so much younger than me that he actually walked faster. He took my hand and I scurried along like a dachshund, trying to keep up without panting.
He drove me back home and drew up outside the house – he’d borrowed the car from his host and it kept stalling at the lights. But before I could get out, he drew me close to him, put his arms round me and gave me a long kiss.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,’ he said, stroking my cheek. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Marie. You’re so lovely. But much as I’d like to come in, tear off all your clothes and take it from there, I don’t think it would be a good idea. It’s too soon. I don’t want us to be like all the others …’
We cuddled up again, and when he finally pulled away, he said, ‘Jeez, this takes me back to senior prom. She was called Marie, too, pretty little brunette … I took her home, kissed her in the car and looked up – her dad was waiting on the porch watching every move! I got out of there pretty damn quick, I can tell you!’
On hearing this, I looked nervously out of the window, hoping that no passing resident was staring in. But luckily, nothing.
‘I so want to see you again, Marie. But I’m off to Oxford tomorrow to be with my mom while she has these tests. I’ll try to get down in the next few days. I’ll call you.’
I tottered to my front door, feeling absolutely sick with desire and confusion.
13 November
Four days and still no word from Louis, which isn’t a good sign. He surely can’t have gone back to the States without being in touch? I can’t help feeling that there is something a little odd about him. He keeps blowing hot and cold. And anyway what was that about ‘all the others’? Whatever, the result is that I’m left reeling. The awful thing is that I can’t really tell anyone because I know it’ll sound so stupid. I mean look at me when Penny fell in love with Gavin, so much younger? I couldn’t have been less sympathetic. And now it’s happening to me, and I’m just as goofy as she was.
Later
Had a very nasty moment this afternoon when I was looking through some old photograph albums (to see what I looked like when I was Louis’ age, if the truth be known) and suddenly I spotted a picture of me and David, and Jack aged ten, sitting by a very nice little table inlaid with mother-of-pearl that used to belong to my mother. With rather a sick feeling, I realised I hadn’t seen it around for ages – presumably David had taken it with him when we got divorced. I felt really angry about this, and couldn’t think of anything else except how to get it back. After all, we’ve been friends for years since then, and no doubt he’s found a place for it, and I know it would look a bit churlish suddenly to want this table returned after all this time.
I shall just have to bide my time. Sometimes, if you wait around for a good moment to mention something it just comes up and you can slip it into the conversation naturally. But I still feel a tremendous resentment. Why, I don’t know. It’s only a table, for heaven’s sake. But it really rankles.
James and Ned have suggested I s
tart to brush up my climbing skills, not that I have any to brush up since, after making that promise to Jack, I haven’t tackled a ladder for months. And after the chimes episode, I’ve been particularly wary of heights. So I’m starting to practise tomorrow afternoon in Ned’s garden, where he has an old apple tree.
Spent the rest of the afternoon huddled in every jersey and coat I possessed, painting the November section of Seasons of the Doomed Trees. It was so cold I could have been in Archie’s kitchen.
14 November
Ned has an extremely tidy, minimalist flat and a very tidy minimalist garden full of gravel. It’s all a bit too Japanese for me, but still, he looks very good in it, with his bony figure and his silver hair. He gave us some tea, and, bless him, had specially gone out and bought some milk for James and me, which was decent of him because he obviously thinks of it as the Devil’s Brew. He also gave us some strangely nice vegan biscuits which were made out of polenta and sugar and vegetable oil, but no eggs. God knows how it all stuck together. Probably with some vegetarian glue.
Being a tree man, Ned had got some kind of out-of-date contraption of his own for getting up the apple tree – the real sturdy stuff will come from Harry next week – and he’d slung it up over the branches of his apple tree and casually invited me to swing my way up like a monkey. It looked so easy when he did it, but when I tried I just found my arms weren’t up to the job. And once I did get up to the top, with a lot of help from James and Ned shoving me up by my bottom, I felt absolutely terrified when I glanced back at the ground beneath me.
But they were really sweet, shouting and cheering, and Ned took a photograph and then they both said, ‘Well, goodbye, see you tomorrow,’ and pretended they were going off together and leaving me up there. Lots of jolly banter, and when I got back down to earth I found my knees were trembling.
‘You did really well, darling,’ said James. ‘I’m proud of you!’
‘Yes, well done,’ said Ned. ‘We’ll make an eco-warrior of you yet.’
‘Well, I hope I don’t look like an eco-warrior,’ I said, since most eco-warriors are renowned for their matted hair, generally grungy appearance and appalling smell.
‘After a couple of days up a tree,’ said James, ‘you’ll be unrecognisable. The birds will have made a nest in your hair, your clothes will be covered in leaves, squirrels will be hiding in your cleavage and ants and woodlice will be living under your nails. You’ll come down with the ability to talk to the animals, like Doctor Dolittle. You will be Worshipped Like a God.’
15 November
When I was young I was always glaring at strangers in the street. I suppose I was terrified of them. I’d scowl and then stare at the pavement and stride past them furiously as if I were deeply offended by something they’d said the night before and I was never going to forgive them.
These days, however, I’m always smiling at strangers. Sometime I even speak to them. ‘Hello!’ I chirrup. ‘Lovely weather we’ve having for the time of year, don’t you think?’
Of course now strangers smile at me in the street and I’ve realised suddenly that it’s not because I’m dancing on air and everyone is infected by my love of humanity – no, it’s that they recognise me from chairing the Residents’ Meeting. Most peculiar, having all these welcoming faces around. And rather nice. It’s fun being a celebrity for a while – which, of course, everyone wants to be in their weaker moments, even when it’s not for the allotted fifteen minutes.
However, I was so busy smiling at someone in the street yesterday that I fell down again, this time grazing my poor old knees really badly on the pavement. I managed to hobble back home, but am rather worried. I thought I ought to visit the doctor because if there’s something wrong with my balance perhaps there’s something wrong with my ears, which is where balance is stored. Sometimes I think I could set up my own doctor’s practice because I now know almost every ailment available to me.
I thought I’d go to bed for an hour to get over the shock, and as I reached for my glass of water, I suddenly noticed that it was actually sitting on the exact mother-of-pearl table I’d been so cross about David taking. It has been my bedside table now for years, but was so covered with books that I’ve never noticed it.
Thank goodness I never mentioned it to him! Particularly when it was under my nose all the time. I suddenly felt rather more sympathetic to poor old Archie and his delusions about the brooch.
16 November
Finally, an email from Louis! He says his mother’s tests have come through, but now he’s got to hang around because she’s got to have some further scans. ‘I did love our evening together. You’re so often in my mind,’ he wrote.
It all seems unreal. Perhaps it is unreal. I mean, I’m sure if someone else were to tell me the story of me and Louis, I’d say at once that he was just some serial charmer and not to believe a word he says. But I can’t help it. I do believe what he says.
17 November
Still have that odd guilty feeling about going to the doctor. I know that I pay his wretched salary out of my taxes but (and I imagine it’s some pre-welfare state habit, inherited from my parents), I feel I shouldn’t really worry him (and mine is a ‘him’) unless I have a brain tumour or a lump on my nose the size of a marrow.
The doctor said there was nothing wrong with me, but suggested I practise my balance by standing on one leg every morning while I brush my teeth. I said I’d have a go, but the first time I tried it, I nearly fell over again. It’s the action of cleaning one’s teeth that makes it so difficult. If I remain absolutely still I can balance on one leg for about thirty seconds, but cleaning my teeth simultaneously – quite impossible. It’s like that trick of rubbing one’s tummy clockwise and one’s head anti-clockwise at the same time. A trick I taught not only Jack but also Gene. And which was taught, in turn, by my own lovely granny to me.
This falling-over caper makes me glad I’ve organised a will. I mean if I hadn’t, and I climbed up that tree and fell out, then though my money would go to Jack there might be a remote chance, if he were to drop dead at the same time, that all my money (I say ‘all my money’ – there’s hardly any money, but I suppose the house is worth something) would go to the state.
18 November
Had a lovely email from Louis. He wrote, ‘Thinking of you …’ and ended it ‘love, Louis’.
But I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I mean, what does he really feel about me? I feel a bit as if I’m living in some fantasy of his. He’s wondering if I’m not keen on him because of Archie disappearing from my life. But I wonder whether he’s not keen on me because I’m unattainable since I’m too old. I know that syndrome. I remember the number of blokes who used to fall for me when I was happily ensconced with a boyfriend and then, the moment I became available, they all scarpered.
Actually, I’m starting to wish he’d never started it. It’s so irritating to manage to stifle all kinds of desires and feelings of longing for Archie and then have someone conjure them back up out of nowhere.
But however much I explain my feelings like this it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. I think about him far too much.
I am now of an age where I ought to be able to cope with it all. But of course I can’t. I’ve spent the last few days feeling really weird and confused, and not sure whether it’s about Louis or Archie, or the prospect of going up a tree, or because I miss Jack and Chrissie and Gene so much. I’ve shouted ‘pull yourself together!’ to myself so often that it doesn’t have any effect any more.
20 November
Woken by the sounds of thunder in the night and now the rain is absolutely gushing down. Daily Rant’s charming headline today is ‘NUCLEAR LEAK WILL BLIGHT GENERATIONS! No more “normal” say scientists!’
Since there’s not much normal around here as it is, a nuclear leak isn’t going to make a great deal of difference.
I braved the rain and went out to the newsagent to buy a new diary for next year. I waited in
the queue and was so furiously impatient with the woman in front of me, fiddling about with her change, that I completely forgot to have my own purse ready when it was my turn to pay. Naturally I couldn’t find it, and was patting my pockets, emptying my bag out on the counter and creating havoc in the queue behind me. Of course the people behind me got just as furious with me as I was with the previous customer. I apologised profusely but it didn’t make any difference.
Feeling completely flustered I hurried out, and even though it was still pelting with rain – a real monsoon – I was so keen to get away quickly I left my head bare. Finally I got to a place under an awning where lots of other people were taking shelter, and tried to sort myself out. I put my bag down, did up the buttons on my jacket and pulled my hood over my head. Forgetting, of course, that because of the downpour it was full of water. I was completely soaked. It was all I could do not to scream obscenities into the beards of the men queuing up to go into the mosque, but I thought that would go down extremely badly, so I restrained myself by clenching my toes as hard as I could. Pretty painful, clenching ones toes at my age, I can tell you.
Being English, everyone stared straight ahead and pretended they hadn’t noticed.
24 November
I am in a complete flap because Louis suddenly rang and said he was coming down from Oxford this afternoon, specially to see me, so I’m giving him a bite to eat here and then we’re going for a walk in Burnham Beeches, the nearest bit of country. I tidied up the sitting room, leaving just enough books lying around to show that I’m not a neat-freak. I decided to put out a Christie’s catalogue – the one my pictures featured in, because I thought that would give us something to talk about; a Beatrix Potter, to remind him I had a grandchild and wasn’t ashamed to say so; and my current books on the go, the short stories of Chekhov and Bob Monkhouse’s autobiography, Crying with Laughter. I know, I know … But it’s amazingly well-written and he had an absolutely fascinating life. And I thought the juxtaposition of Chekhov and Monkhouse would confuse him.
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 24
