A Little, Aloud

by Angela Macmillan

  ‘This matter is growing alarming,’ reasoned Mr Pickwick with himself. ‘I can’t allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out she’ll alarm the house; but if I remain here the consequences will be still more frightful.’ Mr Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn’t get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly—

  ‘Ha-hum!’

  That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr Pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away stone-dead with fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before.

  ‘Most extraordinary female this,’ thought Mr Pickwick, popping in again. ‘Ha hum!’

  These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy.

  ‘Gracious Heaven!’ said the middle-aged lady, ‘what’s that?’ ‘It’s–it’s – only a gentleman, ma’am,’ said Mr Pickwick, from behind the curtains.

  ‘A gentleman!’ said the lady, with a terrific scream.

  ‘It’s all over!’ thought Mr Pickwick.

  ‘A strange man!’ shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Mr Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his desperation, ‘ma’am!’

  Now, although Mr Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr Pickwick’s nightcap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr Pickwick, while Mr Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.

  ‘Wretch,’ said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, ‘what do you want here?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am; nothing whatever, ma’am,’ said Mr Pickwick earnestly.

  ‘Nothing!’ said the lady, looking up.

  ‘Nothing, ma’am, upon my honour,’ said Mr Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. ‘I am almost ready to sink, ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can’t get it off, ma’am (here Mr Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug, in proof of the statement). It is evident to me, ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.’

  ‘If this improbable story be really true, Sir,’ said the lady, sobbing violently, ‘you will leave it instantly.’

  ‘I will, ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,’ replied Mr Pickwick.

  ‘Instantly, sir,’ said the lady.

  ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ interposed Mr Pickwick, very quickly. ‘Certainly, ma’am. I–I–am very sorry, ma’am,’ said Mr Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, ‘to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma’am.’

  The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr Pickwick’s character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm; nothing could subdue his native politeness.

  ‘I am exceedingly sorry, ma’am,’ said Mr Pickwick, bowing very low.

  ‘If you are, Sir, you will at once leave the room,’ said the lady.

  ‘Immediately, ma’am; this instant, ma’am,’ said Mr Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing.

  ‘I trust, ma’am,’ resumed Mr Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again – ‘I trust, ma’am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this—’ But before Mr Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him.

  Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr Pickwick might have for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared. So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning, as philosophically as he might.

  He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.

  ‘Sam,’ said Mr Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, ‘where’s my bedroom?’

  Mr Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.

  ‘Sam,’ said Mr Pickwick, as he got into bed, ‘I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.’

  ‘Wery likely, Sir,’ replied Mr Weller drily.

  RESOLUTIONS WHEN I COME TO BE OLD

  Jonathan Swift

  Not to marry a young Woman

  Not to keep young Company unless they really desire it.

  Not to be peevish, or morose, or suspicious.

  Not to scorn present Ways, or Wits, or Fashions, or Men, or War, &c.

  Not to be fond of Children, or let them come near me hardly.

  Not to tell the same Story over and over to the same People.

  Not to be covetous.

  Not to neglect decency, or cleanliness, for fear of falling into Nastiness.

  Not to be over severe with young People, but to give allowances for their youthful Follies and Weaknesses.

  Not to be influenced by, or give ear to knavish tattling servants, or others.

  Not to be too free of advice, not trouble any but those that desire it.

  To desire some good Friends to inform me which of these Resolutions I break, or neglect, and wherein; and reform accordingly.

  Not to talk much, nor of myself.

  Not to boast of my former beauty, or strength, or favour with Ladies, &c.

  Not to hearken to Flatteries, nor conceive I can be beloved by a young woman. Et eos qui hereditatem captant, odisse ac vitare.

  Not to be positive or opiniative.

  Not to set up for observing all these Rules, for fear that I should observe none.

  READING NOTES

  Groups of all ages have had fun with the poem. Everyone’s list of things not to do when they are old always includes the lin
e about not telling the same story over and over to the same people. The possible age of the poet when he wrote the poem and why he includes the resolution ‘Not to be fond of children’ are questions worth thinking about, as is the whole problem of the keeping of resolutions.

  While not everyone has experienced Mr Pickwick’s particular mistake, nearly everyone can recall a particularly embarrassing incident and you do not even have to be old to know the humiliation of a senior moment. Coaching inns; four poster beds; nightcaps; back-hair; real fires in the bedroom and manservants are things of the past and the cause of general amusement nowadays. How does this compare to a stay at a modern pub or B&B?

  When Youth is Far Behind

  FAITH AND HOPE GO SHOPPING

  Joanne Harris

  (approximate reading time 25 minutes)

  It’s Monday, so it must be rice pudding again. It’s not so much the fact that they’re careful of our teeth, here at the Meadowbank Home, rather a general lack of imagination. As I told Claire the other day, there are lots of things you can eat without having to chew. Oysters. Foie gras. Avocado vinaigrette. Strawberries and cream. Crème brûlée with vanilla and nutmeg. Why then this succession of bland puddings and gummy meats? Claire – the sulky blonde, always chewing a wad of gum – looked at me as if I were mad. Fancy food, they claim, upsets the stomach. God forbid our remaining tastebuds should be over-stimulated. I saw Hope grinning round the last mouthful of ocean pie, and I knew she’d heard me. Hope may be blind, but she’s no slouch.

  Faith and Hope. With names like that we might be sisters. Kelly – that’s the one with the exaggerated lip liner – thinks we’re quaint. Chris sometimes sings to us when he’s cleaning out the rooms. Faith, Hope and Cha-ri-tee! He’s the best of them, I suppose. Cheery and irreverent, he’s always in trouble for talking to us. He wears tight T-shirts and an earring. I tell him that the last thing we want is charity, and that makes him laugh. Hinge and Bracket, he calls us. Butch and Sundance.

  I’m not saying it’s a bad place here. It’s just so ordinary – not the comfortable ordinariness of home, with its familiar grime and clutter, but that of waiting-rooms and hospitals, a pastel-detergent place with a smell of air freshener and distant bedpans. We don’t get many visits, as a rule. I’m one of the lucky ones; my son Tom calls every fortnight with my magazines and a bunch of chrysanths – the last ones were yellow – and any news he thinks won’t upset me. But he isn’t much of a conversationalist. Are you keeping well, then, Mam? and a comment or two about the garden is about all he can manage, but he means well. As for Hope, she’s been here five years – even longer than me – and she hasn’t had a visitor yet. Last Christmas I gave her a box of my chocolates and told her they were from her daughter in California. She gave me one of her sardonic little smiles.

  ‘If that’s from Priscilla, sweetheart,’ she said primly, ‘then you’re Ginger Rogers.’

  I laughed at that. I’ve been in a wheelchair for twenty years, and the last time I did any dancing was just before men stopped wearing hats.

  We manage, though. Hope pushes me around in my chair, and I direct her. Not that there’s much directing to do in here; she can get around just by using the ramps. But the nurses like to see us using our resources. It fits in with their Waste not, Want not ethic. And of course, I read to her. Hope loves stories. In fact, she’s the one who started me reading in the first place. We’ve had Wuthering Heights, and Pride and Prejudice, and Doctor Zhivago. There aren’t many books here, but the library van comes round every four weeks, and we send Lucy out to get us something nice. Lucy’s a college student on Work Experience, so she knows what to choose. Hope was furious when she wouldn’t let us have Lolita, though. Lucy thought it wouldn’t suit us.

  ‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century, and you thought he wouldn’t suit us!’ Hope used to be a professor at Cambridge, and still has that imperious twang in her voice sometimes. But I could tell Lucy wasn’t really listening. They get that look – even the brighter ones – that nursery-nurse smile which says I know better. I know better because you’re old. It’s the rice pudding all over again, Hope tells me. Rice pudding for the soul.

  If Hope taught me to appreciate literature, it was I who introduced her to magazines. They’ve been my passion for years, fashion glossies and society pages, restaurant reviews and film releases. I started her out on book reviews, slyly taking her off-guard with an article here or a fashion page there. We found I had quite a talent for description, and now we wade deliciously together through the pages of bright ephemera, moaning over Cartier diamonds and Chanel lipsticks and lush, impossible clothes. It’s strange, really. When I was young those things really didn’t interest me. I think Hope was more elegant than I was – after all there were college balls and academy parties and summer picnics on the Backs. Of course now we’re both the same. Nursing-home chic. Things tend to be communal here – some people forget what belongs to them, so there’s a lot of pilfering. I carry my nicest things with me, in the rack under my wheelchair. I have my money and what’s left of my jewellery hidden in the seat cushion.

  I’m not supposed to have money here. There’s nothing to spend it on, and we’re not allowed out unaccompanied. There’s a combination lock on the door, and some people try to slip out with visitors as they leave. Mrs McAllister – ninety-two, spry, and mad as a hatter – keeps escaping. She thinks she’s going home.

  It must have been the shoes that began it. Slick, patent, candy-apple red with heels which went on forever, I found them in one of my magazines and cut out the picture. Sometimes I brought it out and looked at it in private, feeling dizzy and a little foolish, I don’t know why. It wasn’t as if it were a picture of a man, or anything like that. They were only shoes. Hope and I wear the same kind of shoes; lumpy leatherette slip-ons in porridge beige, eminently, indisputably suitable – but in secret we moan over Manolo Blahniks with six-inch Perspex heels, or Gina mules in fuchsia suede, or Jimmy Choos in hand-painted silk. It was absurd, of course. But I wanted those shoes with a fierceness which almost frightened me. I wanted, just once, to step out into the glossy, gleeful pages of one of my magazines. To taste the recipes; see the films; read the books. To me the shoes represented all of that; their cheery, brazen redness; their frankly impossible heels. Shoes made for anything – lolling, lounging, prowling, strutting, flying – anything but walking.

  I kept the picture in my purse, occasionally taking it out and unfolding it like a map to secret treasure. It didn’t take Hope long to find out I was hiding something.

  ‘I know it’s stupid,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’m going peculiar. I’ll probably end up like Mrs Banerjee, wearing ten overcoats and stealing people’s underwear.’

  Hope laughed at that. ‘I don’t think so, Faith. I understand you perfectly well.’ She felt on the table in front of her for her teacup. I knew better than to guide her hand. ‘You want to do something unsuitable. I want a copy of Lolita. You want a pair of red shoes. Both of those things are equally unsuitable for people like us.’ She drew a little closer, lowering her voice. ‘Is there an address on the page?’ she asked.

  There was. I told her. A Knightsbridge address. It might as well have been Australia.

  ‘Hey! Butch and Sundance!’ It was cheery Chris, who had come to clean the windows. ‘Planning a heist?’

  Hope smiled. ‘No, Christopher,’ she said slyly. ‘An escape.’

  We planned it with the furtive cunning of prisoners-of-war. We had one great advantage; the element of surprise. We were not habitual escapees, like Mrs McAllister, but trusties, nicely lucid and safely immobile. There would have to be a diversion, I suggested. Something which would bring the duty nurse away from the desk, leaving the entrance unguarded. Hope took to waiting by the door, listening to the sound of the keypads until she was almost certain she could duplicate the combination. We timed it with the precision of old campaigners. At nine minutes to nine on Friday morning I picked up one of Mr Bannerman’s ci
garette-butts from the common room and hid it in the paper-filled metal bin in my room. At eight minutes to, Hope and I were in the lobby on our way to the breakfast-room. Ten seconds later, as expected, the sprinkler went off. On our corridor I could hear Mrs McAllister screaming Fire! Fire!

  Kelly was on duty. Clever Lucy might have remembered to secure the doors. Thick Claire might not have left the desk at all. But Kelly grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher from the wall and ran towards the smoke. Hope pushed me towards the door, and felt for the keypad. It was seven minutes to nine.

  ‘Hurry! She’ll be back any moment!’

  ‘Shh.’ Beep-beep-beep-beep. ‘Got it. I knew one day I’d find a use for those music lessons they gave me as a child.’ The door slid open. We crunched out onto sunlit gravel.

  This was where Hope would need my help. No ramps here, in the real world. I tried not to stare, mesmerised, at the sky, at the trees. Tom hadn’t taken me out of the building for over six months.

  ‘Straight ahead. Turn left. Stop. There’s a pot hole in front of us. Take it easy. Left again.’ I remembered a bus stop just in front of the gates. The buses were like clockwork. Five to and twenty-five past the hour. You could hear them from the common room, honking and ratcheting past like cranky pensioners. For a dreadful moment I was convinced the bus stop had gone. There were roadworks where it had once stood; bollards lined the kerb. Then I saw it, fifty yards further down, a temporary bus stop on a shortened metal post. The bus appeared at the brow of the hill, huffing.

  ‘Quick! Full speed ahead!’ Hope reacted quickly. Her legs are long and still muscular; she did ballet as a child. I leaned forwards, clutching my purse tightly, and held out my hand. Behind us I heard a cry; glancing back at the windows of the Meadowbank Home I saw Kelly at my bedroom window, her mouth open, yelling something. For a second I wasn’t sure the bus would even take an old lady in a wheelchair, but it was the Hospital Circular, and there was a special ramp. The driver gave us a look of indifference and waved us aboard. Then Hope and I were on the bus, clinging to each other like giddy school-girls, laughing. People looked at us, but mostly without suspicion. A little girl looked at me and smiled. I realised how long ago it must have been since I saw anyone young.