The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

And that was that.

  For the next twenty-four hours, Gabs fretted and fumed. She tried phoning the hospital, but had no luck. No one appeared to have heard of a Father Augustine, and Gabs realised that his real name might be quite different. As to his surname, she had no idea what it was.

  “You could try asking for the Catholic chaplain,” said Steph, who was still in grateful mode. “He’s bound to know.”

  “So he is.”

  Gabs phoned the hospital again. After a prolonged wait, in the course of which she had to press a lot of buttons and then listen to a rather piercing trumpet tune (was this really what the relatives of the sick needed to hear when they were anxiously awaiting news?), a man answered the phone.

  “Are you the Catholic chaplain?” Gabs asked.

  “I am.”

  “Well, I just want to know — do you have a priest in the hospital?”

  “I am the priest in the hospital.”

  “No, I mean a sick priest.”

  “You want a sick priest?”

  “I don’t want a sick priest; I’m looking for one. He’s — he’s a friend. I want to know how he is.”

  “Now, you know I can’t give out that kind of information. Unless of course you’re the next of kin.”

  “I could be,” said Gabs.

  “What do you mean, you could be?”

  “Well, I don’t know whether he has any family, and if he hasn’t, then I could be his next of kin, couldn’t I?”

  “My dear, it’s up to the patient to say who’s their next of kin. It’s not up to me. And it’s certainly not up to you.”

  “So you can’t tell me how he is?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “But you know who I’m talking about? I know him as Father Augustine.”

  “Not such a close friend, then.”

  “Well, no. But you know who I’m talking about?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay. Just one question, then. Is he alive?”

  The man laughed. “I think I’m allowed to say that he’s alive. Yes. I think that would be acceptable.”

  “Not — not dying then?”

  “Not as far as I know. Now, my dear, that’s really all I can tell you, and I probably shouldn’t have even told you that. If you really want to know how your — friend is, then I suggest you find his real next of kin and ask them.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Well, at least Father Augustine wasn’t at death’s door, and was therefore likely to leave the hospital at some stage. Gabs toyed with the idea of going to the hospital and trying her luck again, but decided against it. Besides, she didn’t want to embarrass Father Augustine by pitching up when he was ill in bed. That would hardly be fair. And he’d be feeling particularly vulnerable in his pyjamas.

  Father Augustine in pyjamas. Gabs sighed. Hitherto she had only seen him in his dog collar or his clerical robes, dressed for his job. But in pyjamas, he’d be just like anyone else — just a no-frills man. A no-frills and very sexy man. There was something about pyjamas that Gabs had always found particularly seductive, especially as nowadays so few men seemed to wear them. But she was quite sure Father Augustine would wear pyjamas. With stripes.

  “Any luck?” asked Steph, who was being quite sympathetic considering her views.

  “Well, I have it on authority that he’s not dead.”

  “I’ll ask about him when I go to Mass, shall I? Someone’s bound to know.”

  “Please.”

  “Shall I do another soufflé for supper? Or would you like a quiche?” Steph seemed to have bought more eggs. What was it with Steph and eggs? Gabs wondered. Shouldn’t it be coal?

  “Steph, please, could we have something ordinary? I’m starving. I need junk.”

  Steph looked at her pityingly. “I don’t know how you can,” she said, “especially as you’re supposed to be in love.”

  “Believe me,” said Gabs, “being in love takes it out of you.” She relieved Steph of the box of eggs she was holding and replaced them in the fridge. “What you need — what we both need — is fish and chips from the fish and chip shop. Have we any ketchup?”

  Mavis

  Clifford’s voice on the phone was breathless with excitement. “Mavis? I’ve got some news. I’ve got to have to have an operation!”

  “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

  “You know. It’s my heart.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got all those pills and that little puffer thing.”

  “Ah, but you know that test I had at the hospital?”

  Mavis certainly knew about the test. She also knew all the details, right down to which clothes Clifford had worn for the occasion and the consultant’s name. “Yes?”

  “Well, I’ve got three blocked arteries! Three! Can you imagine that?”

  Mavis tried to imagine three blocked arteries, but all she could come up with were three little tubes stuffed with butter (she had always imagined cholesterol to look like butter). What were they going to do? Suck the butter out? No doubt Clifford was about to tell her.

  “Yes,” Clifford continued. “And I’ve got to have a triple bypass operation!”

  Mavis knew very little about bypass operations — they always sounded to her like some kind of traffic complication — but she knew that lots of people had, and survived, them, so she took Clifford’s news calmly.

  “Oh dear,” she said, hoping that that was the right response.

  “You don’t sound very worried,” Clifford said.

  “Well, neither do you.” The awful cliché about ‘the wonderful things they could do these days’ flashed through Mavis’s mind.

  “I’d be worried if it were you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me all about it?”

  “Of course.” Mavis sat down and made herself comfortable. This was going to take time. “Please tell me what they’re going to do.”

  “Well,” said Clifford, “they kind of switch off your heart, and a machine takes over, and then they take veins from somewhere else…”

  The account went on and on. Mavis was still wondering how Clifford was going to manage without those veins — after all, didn’t one need all one’s veins? — when he finally came to a halt.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I think…” Mavis groped around for something useful to say. “I think it’s just wonderful the things they can do these days.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? And afterwards, I shall be in intensive care for a while.”

  Intensive care, Mavis knew, would be hypochondriac heaven. Every tiny ache and pain taken seriously; all those machines ticking and buzzing; all those drips and tubes; all that attention.

  “What does Dorothy think?” she asked.

  “Well, funnily enough, she doesn’t seem particularly worried.”

  “Really?” Dorothy went up in Mavis’s estimation.

  “Yes. She’s taken the news very calmly. Of course, she came along to see the specialist with me —” (of course) “ — and asked a few questions, but she seems fine about it. To tell you the truth, I was a little bit hurt.”

  “Oh dear.” Mavis pulled herself together. “Well, I shall be very concerned indeed. And of course, I’ll miss you.”

  And the sex, she thought bleakly. She would certainly miss the sex. Was that very bad of her? For how long would Clifford be hors de combat?

  “I thought you would,” Clifford said.

  “Will I be able to visit you?”

  “Oh no. Family only, I’m afraid.”

  “Won’t you mind that? I mean, won’t you feel a bit sad that I can’t see you?”

  “Of course.” Clifford didn’t sound at all sad. “But I’m afraid it can’t be helped. It won’t be for long, unless there are complications.”

  Ah. Complications. We mustn’t forget those. Mavis waited to be told about the complications, but apparently these could wait for another time.
>
  “When are you having this done?” she asked.

  “In a fortnight.”

  “So that gives you time to —” time to what? Put his affairs in order (Mavis had always rather liked that expression)? Buy new pyjamas? — “time to get ready,” she finished rather lamely.

  “Yes. And to see you. Of course I must see you before I go in.”

  “That would be nice.” Mavis immediately felt better and regretted some of her less charitable thoughts during the course of this conversation. “Could we — are you all right to go to Dennis’s?”

  “I think I could manage Dennis’s,” Clifford said. “Provided we’re careful.”

  After Clifford had rung off, Mavis sat and thought about what he had said and tried to analyse her feelings. Obviously she was concerned, but why didn’t she feel more worried? There had been a time when she had had nightmares — literally — about something awful happening to Clifford, but since his retirement he had taken such exceptionally good care of himself that she could no longer imagine anything happening to him at all. Sometimes she felt that it was more than likely that he would outlive her, not least because she couldn’t afford the expensive specialists and private hospitals favoured by Clifford and had to settle for whatever the NHS could give her.

  Meanwhile, the weather was hot and humid, Maudie had had another disastrous pie-making session (three broken dishes, and it had taken Mavis two hours to clear up the mess), and the cat, possibly mistaking her for a visitor, had ambushed her one evening when she came home from work, necessitating a visit to the doctor for a tetanus injection. This move was ill-advised on the part of Pussolini, for Mavis had been so angry that she had locked him out of the house for twenty-four hours and refused to feed him.

  “You can go and find your own supper,” she’d yelled at him as he slunk snarling into the undergrowth at the bottom of the garden. “If you can catch me, then you can certainly catch a mouse. Dratted animal!”

  A week after her conversation with Clifford, Mavis received a surprise phone call from Alice.

  “Hi, Mavis. I wonder whether you could do me a huge favour?”

  “Yes?” People rarely asked Mavis for favours, and a huge favour sounded ominous.

  “I thought I’d do a makeover for an article I’m writing, and it occurred to me that you might be just the person.”

  “You’re doing a what?”

  “A makeover. You know. You get someone with —” Alice’s voice trailed away awkwardly for a moment — “someone with a good face and complexion who doesn’t wear much make-up, and you sort of transform them.”

  “Transform them how?”

  “With make-up. I’ve got all these wonderful samples, and I could try them out on you. Then if it works out well, we might be able to do it properly and get a photographer down to take pictures, and you’d appear in our colour supplement. Gabs thought you’d be the ideal candidate.”

  “Gabs?” What had Gabs to do with all this? Had Alice and Gabs been meeting behind her back? Not just meeting, but discussing her appearance? Mavis experienced a stab of jealousy.

  “Yes. You know what Gabs is like. She’s really into make-up and stuff, and I’m not much good at it, and when I told her I needed a — a model, she said you’d be ideal. She said you had good bone structure and lovely skin.”

  “Gabs said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” No one had ever praised Mavis’s bone structure or skin, not even Clifford (but then he was usually preoccupied with other bits of Mavis). Was Alice telling the truth?

  “That’s quite a compliment, coming from Gabs,” Alice said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Will you do it? Come round here one evening and have a makeover?”

  “I don’t mind coming for this — this makeover thing, but I’m not sure about the photographer,” Mavis said. She had never been comfortable having her photo taken, as she was never sure what to do with her features while it was happening.

  “Well, never mind about that now. I could just find out what suits you, and then use it for my article. Gabs has already done me; I’m dark. It would be helpful to have someone who’s fair.”

  Fair? Was she fair? Mavis scrutinised her face in the kitchen mirror. Certainly she had been as a girl, but now her skin was more sallow than fair, and her hair, which had been quite a nice dark blond, had turned to mouse streaked with grey.

  “Mavis? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure that I’m fair, though.”

  “Well, you’re fairer than I am, and I’d really like to do you. Please? It won’t take long.”

  “Can I bring Mother?”

  “Of course you can. We always love to see her, and Gabs says she’ll pick you both up.”

  “Gabs will be there too?”

  “Gabs is going to be doing it. Believe me, Mavis, you don’t want to be made up by me.”

  Mavis wasn’t sure she wanted to be made up by anyone, but it would be an evening out, and if she could take Maudie there’d be no problems with finding a sitter.

  “All right,” she said, feeling rather reckless. “I’ll do it.”

  On the evening in question, Gabs called for Mavis and Maudie promptly at the time they’d arranged.

  “Ooh! A pink car!” Maudie said. “Are we going to confession?”

  “Not today, Mother,” Mavis told her. “Nice car,” she added. “It’s a very interesting colour.”

  “My sister calls it the tartmobile,” Gabs said. “She thinks it’s terribly vulgar. I love it.”

  When they arrived, Alice was waiting for them. She had set up a mirror on the kitchen table, together with rows of bottles and tubes and brushes. She went to make coffee (Mavis had rather been hoping for something stronger) while Gabs set to work. Maudie, meanwhile, was settled in front of the television, and the front and back doors were locked in case there was a repetition of her last escapade. Mavis was relieved to see that there appeared to be no sign of Alice’s son. She had always felt awkward with young people, especially young men, and she didn’t want this one watching her undergoing such a personal procedure.

  “You know, you have got lovely skin,” Gabs said, tilting Mavis’s face towards the light. “You just need to look after it properly.”

  Mavis wondered whether she ought to feel offended at what could have been perceived as a criticism, but Gabs had such an artless manner that it was hard to take offence.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

  “I’ll show you.”

  An hour and a half later, Mavis was transformed. Gone were the shadows under her eyes, the bushy eyebrows, the sallow complexion. When she looked at herself in the mirror, the face that looked back at her was the face of a stranger. She put up a hand to touch her cheek to make sure it really was her. Her skin felt soft and creamy and glowed a subtle pink. She ran her fingers along a newly plucked eyebrow. Long dark lashes fluttered beneath glimmering eyeshadow, and when she smiled, the smile was a pretty dusky rose colour.

  “Goodness!” she said.

  “Yeah. Great, isn’t it?” Gabs said. “What do you think?”

  “I — don’t know.” Mavis was used to her old face and her old skin. She wasn’t sure that she had the personality to carry off this new look.

  “I think you look fabulous,” said Alice, who had been watching and taking notes.

  “I feel a bit like those people on that television programme. Mother likes to watch it. You know the one. They whiten people’s their teeth and give them plastic surgery, and they come out looking — artificial.”

  “But I haven’t changed you,” Gabs said. “That’s your face and your features you’re looking at. I’ve just brought out the best in you.”

  “I suppose so.” Mavis wondered whether she was supposed to be grateful. So far, she wasn’t making a very good job of it.

  “I know,” said Alice, “let’s have a proper dr
ink, and then you can have another look. I’m sure it will grow on you.”

  They all had several drinks, and Mavis began to feel decidedly better. The face in the mirror, pink with expensive blusher and cheap wine, was beginning to look a bit more like her own. Perhaps she could get used to it after all.

  “Of course, you know what would help?” Gabs said.

  “What?” Mavis was feeling decidedly nervous.

  “If we coloured your hair. Not that there’s anything wrong with the colour, but everyone does it nowadays.” (Did they?) “We could put in some highlights. It would give your face a nice lift. You’d be amazed.”

  Mavis was beginning to think that she’d had as much amazement as she could cope with for one evening, but another part of her thought, why not? What had she to lose? It was years since she had changed the way she looked, and she’d hardly noticed that the same old foundation and hairstyle didn’t look at all the same on Mavis at fifty-something as they had on Mavis as a young woman.

  “Could you do it?” she asked Gabs.

  “Sure. No problem. I do my sister’s, and she’s never complained. We’ll fix a date.”

  “I think I’d like to get used to this makeover thing first,” Mavis said, “if you’d show me how to do it myself.”

  The following day was Friday, and Mavis was taking a half-day off work and meeting Clifford for their final date before his operation. Determined to wear her new face for him, she spent a lot of time getting ready, carefully applying some of the samples Alice had given her. She went a bit wrong with the eyeliner, but managed to do the rest very satisfactorily, and when she had finished, she was pleased with the result. Clifford would be delighted. It would be a little good luck present for him.

  But Clifford was very far from delighted.

  “Mavis, what have you done?” he demanded when she opened the front door to him.

  “What do you mean, what have I done?”

  “Your face!”

  “I was given some new make-up. Don’t you like it?”

  “No, I do not! It makes you look — you look common.”

  “Clifford, what a horrible thing to say! I go to all this trouble, and you insult me!”