Still, it was a great evening, and James tapped a glass and said everyone should raise a toast to me and Penny, which was very nice, and Father Emmanuel said we should all say a prayer of thanks, and that anyone who wanted to come to his church on Sundays was always welcome (somehow I doubt God had much to do with it all, but still, we all bowed our heads hypocritically while he droned on) and Ned said we should thank all our supporters who had written letters and gave a special vote of thanks to Harry and Sylvie for the loan of the equipment, and then the councillor (never one to miss an opportunity) banged on a glass even more loudly to get everyone’s attention and implied it was all down to him and that he’d had a word with the leader of the council and in view of the publicity there was no way the plan would go ahead.
It was all a very pleasant orgy of self-congratulation.
Michelle sloped off with Ned and James, and while Brad took Alice home next door to put her to bed – he wants to give me £4,000 for the entire series of paintings when I’ve finished them! I can’t believe it! – Sharmie gave me a hand with the clearing up. I’ve made a date to take Alice to the circus next week. Tragic – I’m just so desperate for children to do things with! And still harbour such terrible feelings about destroying her dear old granny’s chimes.
Penny braved the bottom of the garden to retrieve the plates the children had taken down there, and came back saying that not only had they broken one of my favourites, but they’d obviously had a sausage fight and there were bangers scattered all over the beds.
Felt like such a heroine, I couldn’t have cared less. And if the cockroaches have a feast on the sausages, then good luck to them. May their little black tummies burst.
3 December
Very odd Skype with Gene who assures me that Christmas is a non-existent festival in New York. They don’t hang up stockings, he tells me, and they have, in any case, just celebrated Thanksgiving. I think he was wondering why I hadn’t sent him a present.
‘There’s no Father Christmas here,’ he said, ‘we have Santa Claus. And Mom says we mustn’t say Happy Christmas we’ve got to say Happy Holidays instead. And we had a horrid turkey at Thanksgiving, all slimy.’
Turned out, as Jack told me during the same Skype, that their friends at Thanksgiving insisted on going out into their yard and deep-frying the bird in peanut oil, and serving it with some vile concoction of Campbell’s mushroom soup with green beans stewed in it, and crispy fried onions sprinkled on top. Then they had sweet potato puree as a complement, with marshmallows as a nightmarish garnish.
‘Completely inedible,’ said Jack. ‘And what are you doing for Christmas, Mum?’
I wanted to say I was hoping to come and stay with them, or that they’d say they were coming back here for a holiday, but because of Jack’s question I didn’t like to.
‘Oh, I’ll probably spend it with Penny – or Marion and Tim, who asked me over for the day, or Sylvie, who said, really sweetly, that I’d be very welcome. So it’s not as if I don’t have any perches,’ I said, casually. Then I screwed up my courage. ‘But I suppose there’s no chance …’
‘Oh, we’ve got no idea about our plans,’ said Jack, rather impatiently. ‘Everything’s up in the air at the moment. There are lots of options.’
After we’d logged off, I felt very blue. Christmas without the family. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Suddenly I wondered what on the earth the point of me actually was. No doubt everyone has these moods, but when you’re my age you can’t say, ‘Well, who knows what the future will bring, tra la?’ quite so confidently as you used to, because we all know what the future will bring. Oblivion.
Marie! Stop it! You sound like a Daily Rant headline! Who was it – Don Marquis? – who wrote ‘there’s a dance in the old dame yet toujours gai toujours gai?’
I’m jolly well going to try to get rid of all thoughts of Louis and Archie and Christmas just for tonight and … and … I’ll ring Penny and we’ll go out and have a yummy supper and a couple of lovely drinks and I’ll be right as rain.
4 December
And, do you know, I was! Right as rain, that is. There’s nothing like wallowing in the Slough of Despond and then getting really irritated and then having supper with a good girlfriend to put a jollier slant on everything. I realise I’ve got terribly behind with the knitting, too, so I’ve decided to knit at least three inches a day and that way I’ll have finished Gene’s jersey by Christmas. And maybe I’ll be able to go out to New York in the New Year anyway. Something to look forward to.
In an article in the Rant about How to be Happy, someone was quoted as saying that the key to happiness was having three things on the horizon. One in the next few weeks, another in the next few months, and another next year. Well, I’ve got visiting Louis and his mum, then Christmas, and as for the next few months, well, who knows. But I know something will turn up.
5 December
Woke this morning with a start, a funny feeling coming over me at 5.30 a.m. It was a Feeling of Dread. It’s not all that uncommon of course, but I wondered if it Meant Anything. Sometimes I make a note of these strange moments, thinking that if I see a headline in the Rant the morning after, saying that there was a fatal air crash at exactly the time I woke with the Feeling of Dread it would mean I had psychic powers. But unfortunately these Feelings of Dread never seem to relate to anything.
But the phone rang at 7.30 this morning, just as I’d finally got back to sleep, and it was Sylvie.
‘Daddy died in the night,’ she said simply.
‘Oh dear,’ I said. I felt a wellspring of emotion, and for a moment everything seemed completely unreal. It didn’t feel as if I were in the room at all but floating, somehow, at ceiling height.
‘But thank God he didn’t suffer for long in that awful state, Marie,’ said Sylvie, with a catch in her voice. ‘Oh dear, poor old Daddy. I know we were all expecting him to die, but it’s different when it happens isn’t it? I still can’t believe it. I still think he’s alive … it hasn’t come home to me yet.’
‘Come home to me.’ I wonder if such deaths ever really ‘come home’. I know that were my father or mother to walk into the room right now, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. They still live on daily in my mind. I don’t think I’ve ever really understood they’re dead. They’ve just gone away somewhere.
I tried to feel sad, but I couldn’t. It was as if I’ve used up all my sadness over the past few months. I just felt like crying with relief.
‘Oh Marie,’ said Sylvie, down the telephone. ‘Don’t be too upset. You know Daddy would have wanted it like this.’
‘I know,’ I sobbed. ‘It’s just that it’s been such a long time coming … oh poor old Archie, thank God he’s at peace at last.’ Finally, trying to pull myself together, I added, ‘Can I do anything? How are you feeling? I know we knew it was coming and I know it was what we’d all hoped for in a way, but …’
‘No, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Mrs Evans is the one who’s taking it most badly, of course. Losing Dad means she loses more than just him, but her job, her role in the house, everything. She was with him for forty years, you know! But I’m getting her to come and work for us, and I know Daddy provided for her in his will …’
‘What about the funeral?’ I was trying to get out of bed and pull on my dressing gown without her hearing. Very softly and quietly and switching the phone from ear to ear while I put each arm in a different sleeve while she was talking so she wouldn’t know I was doing something else. I hate it when I can hear people feeding the cat or peeling potatoes – or even writing emails – while I’m talking to them on the phone. I like full concentration.
‘We’ll probably have it next week,’ she said. ‘We want to get it over as soon as possible, so it doesn’t get in the way of Christmas.’
Later that morning, I rang up as many people as I could to tell them about Archie. It made it feel more real, the more people I told. Everyone was very sad and kind, and Penny and James even offered t
o come round, but most of my older friends just said, ‘Ah well. There we are.’ They’re used to death. It was the young ones who seemed so appalled.
Even Jack was upset, surprisingly, when I skyped him.
‘Oh, Mum, how sad!’ he said, and I could see he was upset. Tears came into his eyes as he looked slightly up and to the left of my shoulder. ‘Oh, I wish I’d been able to say goodbye. He was such a good bloke. You must be devastated.’
‘Well, devastatedish,’ I said. ‘I just feel weird to be honest.’
‘Oh well, it will make you a bit freer,’ he said. ‘Looking on the bright side.’
‘Yes. And talking of being freer … you’re definitely not coming over at Christmas, are you?’ I asked daringly. ‘I just need to be certain so if you’re not I can make other plans.’
Again, at the mention of Christmas Jack seemed irritated. ‘I’ve already told you, it’s all a bit difficult at the moment, Mum. I don’t quite know what we’ll be doing at Christmas … assume that no, we’re not coming over … but we’ll talk later.’
And then I wondered: oh dear Lord, maybe they’re planning to go to California for Christmas?
Gene came on next and started gabbling on about some go-kart track he’d been on. ‘It was awesome, Granny,’ he said. ‘I came second! And I wore a special hat and all these things, it was cool. And you know?’ he said, leaning forward so all I could see of him was his nose, ‘at Christmas, we …’ but here Jack stepped in and said: ‘Not now Gene, another time … sorry, Mum, but all our plans are up in the air. But we’ll see you very soon, whatever happens, I’m sure … lots of love.’
Oh God! At Christmas what? They were becoming US citizens? Having a beach holiday in Miami? Spending the entire holiday in Disneyworld? Joining the Scientologists? I tried to put it all out of my mind. Get Archie’s funeral over, that was what was important now. Golly, another funeral. They come thick and fast these days.
Then I was struck by a mind-blowingly vile and greedy thought. I wondered if Archie had left me anything in his will?
Isn’t it awful when some mind-blowingly vile and greedy thought like that pops into your head without so much as a by-your-leave? I mean, one can’t help one’s thoughts, but thoughts of this sort that pop into my head make me feel so mercenary and ashamed of myself.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering …
7 December
Spent all morning making Christmas cards. Looking at my list I see there are about seventy people I’ve got to send them to, and this year I’ve had rather a nice idea. I’ve cut out lots of Christmas tree shapes in green paper, stuck them down the centrefold of a red card, so their branches stick out when the card’s opened, Then I’ve drawn in the pots and added on some festive silver sparkle. At the top I’ve glued on a small gold star – I’ve still got loads left over from when I used to correct homework at school.
They look utterly charming, though I say it myself. And, finally, I’ve realised who Angie, Jim, Bella, Perry and Squeaks are. They’re Marion’s daughter and her family. Resolve to send them an extra affectionate message, and determined to pop down next year to make the acquaintance of Squeaks, whoever or whatever he or she or it might be.
Phone rang and it was Jack and Chrissie’s agents saying the tenants have done a runner, without paying last month’s rent. Bang goes their hefty deposit, then. Charming. Just before Christmas. Still, that’s Jack and Chrissie’s problem. Maddening, though.
This afternoon, I took Alice to the Moscow State Circus. She had dressed up in a pink skirt, a glittery top and a pair of bright yellow tights. She looked delightful. She was very shy about coming out with me on her own, but after I’d promised we’d get her some candyfloss and reassured her that I wouldn’t let any scary clowns drag her into the ring, she agreed to get into the car, and after finding somewhere to park we made our way to the circus and got settled into our ringside seats.
‘My grandma takes me to shows,’ she said, through an enormous pink cloud of floss. ‘And I told her about you on Skype, and she says you sound real nice and she says to send you lotsa love. Grandma to grandma, she said to say.’
In the interval I looked at the programme – ten quid! – and said that it was a pity it was all printed in Russian. Alice quickly pointed out that I was holding the programme upside down. Hope she doesn’t tell Sharmie and Brad about this. If so, I’ll never be allowed out alone with her again. Will have to claim I didn’t have my specs on.
8 December
Of course now Archie has died, I’ve cancelled any plans to travel, but told Louis I’d pop up to Oxford anyway, to see him and his old mum. I was curious to have a good peer at her. And desperate, in any case, to see him again. So I decided to go.
As I drove down, I found myself wondering what she would be like. God knows, I thought, what she thinks my relationship with her son is, if indeed she knows anything about it at all. No doubt I’m seen as some kind of aunt-like figure who has befriended him. I’m sure she doesn’t see me as a romantic liaison, even though no doubt she’s been introduced to quite a few of those, I was certain. Just as I was starting to dread the meeting, my satnav announced, ‘You have reached your destination!’ and I drew up outside a large, detached red-bricked house in north Oxford. And getting out of the car, I pulled myself together and plastered on the old smile. It was half past two.
I knocked and waited. After a while the door was opened by a woman who can’t have been a great deal older than me. And yet those few years make such a difference. It seemed to me as if she’d been born into a different generation. Her hair, unlike mine, was undyed, white and all over the place. She wore a stained old denim skirt. It was so strange – although the age difference between me and Louis was about nearly twenty years and the age difference between me and this dear old fossil was less than ten years, the gap between Louis’ mother and myself seemed like a vast and unbridgeable chasm. It was the sixties that did it. Anyone born before 1940 never experienced all that sex, drugs and rock-and-roll that we post-forties generation did. Well, I’m sure some did, but not on the same scale.
‘Oh delight!’ she said, clapping her hands. She only had a faint American accent, no doubt worn away by living so long in the city of dreaming spires. ‘You must be Marie! I’ve been expecting you! I’m so sorry, Louis’ not arrived yet … he’s out interviewing some friend of his father’s about Iran or something. But come in and have a nice cup of tea. I’ve heard so much about you, as the saying goes!’
But what had she heard about me? I only wished I could have asked. I felt immediately out of place. I just couldn’t work out how I fitted in. For the first time I felt my facelift put me at a disadvantage. She obviously thought I was younger than I was – and she seemed to be treating me, confusingly, as something between a child, a friend of Louis’ and a contemporary. I felt like some awful fraud, looking all young and stylish on the outside and all run-down and dilapidated on the inside. I consoled myself by promising myself I could leave the following day. It was all too uncomfortable.
The time crawled by. Three o’clock came and went, and still, at four, there was no sign of Louis. Joan – that was her name – and I sat in her living room, making polite conversation. The walls were lined with old books, and new books were piled on tables and chairs and on a baby grand and everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, a sure sign of someone who Lives in the Mind. I noticed the absence of a television set. Joan had put on a small electric fire with only one bar, and it wasn’t really doing the job. We drank tea out of chipped mugs and ate home-made biscuits, chatting, oddly enough, about grandchildren – Joan has three grandsons by her daughter. I was surprised Louis hadn’t mentioned his nephews to me. It made me feel slightly uneasy.
She tried, poor woman, to start a conversation about an article in the Times Literary Supplement, then questioned me about Stephen Pinker’s latest book, and when that failed even started questioning me about the upcoming US elections and what I thought would happen i
n the banking crisis. But when it became completely clear that, unlike her (and, presumably, all her brainy Oxford buddies), I knew considerably less than her about books or politics (especially as I receive most of my political information from that notoriously unreliable source, the Rant), we moved on to the subject of Martha, Louis’ godmother. She’d known her since high school apparently, and filled me in on their friendship, and then we ground to a halt.
Rather hopelessly I dragged in my latest views on Tolstoy and luckily scored a hit. She agreed completely. Totally overrated. So that was good.
Finally, I courageously asked her about her current ailments, and much to my relief that took up at least an hour. Quite interesting, actually. Halfway through she asked me about the tree escapade – Louis had obviously filled her in quite a bit about me. Then, at about quarter past five, she paused slightly, looked at her watch, and leaned back in her chair.
‘Oh dear, he’s so very late, isn’t he? You must think he’s so bad-mannered. But you know he’s just always so busy, poor boy. Deadlines. You’ve got a son, too, haven’t you?’ And then we nattered on about the odd relationship between sons and mothers. ‘Of course I worry so much about Louis not being married,’ she said, confidingly. ‘The trouble is that he’s always falling in love, poor boy. He just has to meet a girl, any girl, it seems, and he’s promising to marry her and then before I know where I am it’s all over and I’m being introduced to the next one. I feel sorry for those poor girls, as well.
‘There was this Ugandan girl who we liked very much, Masani – my husband and I met her and she was just perfect. But she went back to Kampala. Louis has probably told you about her? He still thinks of her, he says. But quite honestly, he ought to get married soon or no one will want him, I mean he’s nearly fifty … I don’t think any young girl would want to marry a man of fifty, do you? Too much responsibility.’
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 26
