A Little, Aloud

by Angela Macmillan

  We got off at the railway station. With some of the money in the chair cushion I bought two tickets to London. I panicked for a moment when the ticket man asked for my pass, but Hope told him, in her Cambridge-professor’s voice, that we would pay the full fare. The ticket man rubbed his head for a minute, and then shrugged.

  ‘Please yourself,’ he said.

  The train was long and smelt of coffee and burnt rubber. I guided Hope to where the guard had let down a ramp.

  ‘Going down to the smoke, are we, ladies?’ The guard sounded a little like Chris, his cap pushed back cockily from his forehead. ‘Let me take that for you, love,’ he said to Hope, meaning the wheelchair, but Hope shook her head.

  ‘I can manage, thank you.’

  ‘Straight up, old girl,’ I told her. I saw the guard noticing Hope’s blind eyes, but he didn’t say anything. I was glad. Neither of us can stand that kind of thing.

  The piece of paper with the Knightsbridge address was still in my purse. As we sat in the guard’s van (with coffee and scones brought to us by the cheery guard) I unfolded it again. Hope heard me doing it, and smiled.

  ‘Is it ridiculous?’ I asked her, looking at the shoes again, shiny and red as Lolita lollies. ‘Are we ridiculous?’

  ‘Of course we are,’ she answered serenely, sipping her coffee. ‘And isn’t it fun?’

  It only took three hours to get down to London. I was expecting much longer, but trains, like everything else, move faster nowadays. We drank coffee again, and talked to the guard (whose name was not Chris, I learned, but Barry), and I described what countryside I could see to Hope while it blurred past at top speed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Hope reassured me. ‘You don’t have to do it all now. Just see it first, and we’ll go over it all together, in our own time, when we get back.’

  It was nearly lunchtime when we arrived in London. King’s Cross was much bigger than I’d imagined it, all glass and glorious grime. I tried to see it as well as I could, whilst directing Hope through the crowds of people of all colours and ages: for a few moments even Hope seemed disorientated, and we dithered on the platform, wondering where all the porters had gone. Everyone but us seemed to know exactly where they were going, and people with briefcases jostled against the chair as we stood trying to work out where to go. I began to feel some of my courage erode.

  ‘Oh, Hope,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not sure I can do this any more.’

  But Hope was undeterred.

  ‘Rubbish,’ she said bracingly. ‘There’ll be taxis – over there, where the draught is coming from.’ She pointed to our left, where I did see a sign, high above our heads, which read Way Out. ‘We’ll do what everyone does here. We’ll get a cab. Onwards!’ And at that we pushed right through the mess of people on the platform, Hope saying Excuse me in her Cambridge voice, me remembering to direct her. I checked my purse again, and Hope chuckled. This time I wasn’t looking at the picture, though. Two hundred pounds had seemed like inexpressible riches at the Meadowbank Home, but the train fare had taught me that prices, too, had speeded up during our years away from the world. I wondered if we’d have enough.

  The taxi driver was surly and reluctant, lifting the chair into the black cab while Hope steadied me. I’m not as slim as I was, and it was almost too much for her, but we managed.

  ‘How about lunch?’ I suggested, too brightly, to take away the sour taste of the driver’s expression. Hope nodded. ‘Anywhere that doesn’t do rice pudding,’ she said wryly.

  ‘Is Fortnum and Mason’s still there?’ I asked the driver.

  ‘Yes, darling, and the British Museum,’ he said, revving his engine impatiently. Best place for you two, I thought I heard him mutter. Unexpectedly, Hope chuckled. ‘Maybe we’ll go there next,’ she suggested meekly. That set me off as well. The driver gave us both a suspicious glance and set off, still muttering.

  There are some places which can survive anything. Fortnum’s is one of these, a little antechamber of heaven, glittering with sunken treasures. When all civilisations have collapsed, Fortnum’s will still be there, with its genteel doormen and glass chandeliers, the last, untouchable, legendary defender of the faith. We entered on the first floor, through mountains of chocolates and cohorts of candied fruits. The air was cool and creamy with vanilla and allspice and peach. Hope turned her head gently from side to side, breathing in the perfume. There were truffles and caviar and foie gras in tiny tins and giant demijohns of green plums in aged brandy and cherries the colour of my Knightsbridge shoes. There were quail’s eggs and nougatines and langues de chat in rice-paper packets and champagne bottles in gleaming battalions. We took the lift to the top floor and the café, where Hope and I drank Earl Grey from china cups, remembering the Meadowbank Home’s plastic tea service and giggling. I ordered recklessly for both of us, trying not to think of my diminishing savings: smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on muffins light as puffs of air, tiny canapés of rolled anchovy and sundried tomatoes, Parma ham with slices of pink melon, apricot and chocolate parfait like a delicate caress.

  ‘If Heaven is anything like as nice as this,’ murmured Hope, ‘send me there right now.’

  Even the obligatory bathroom stop was a revelation: clean, gleaming tiles, flowers, fluffy pink towels, scented hand cream, perfume. I sprayed Hope with freesias and looked at us both in one of the big shiny mirrors. I’d expected us to look drab, maybe even a little foolish, in our nursing-home cardies and sensible skirts. Maybe we did. But to me we looked changed, gilded: for the first time I could see Hope as she must have been; I could see myself.

  We spent a long time in Fortnum’s. We visited floors of hats and scarves and handbags and dresses. I imprinted them all into my memory, to bring out later with Hope. She wheeled me patiently through forests of lingerie and coats and evening frocks like a breath of summer air, letting her thin, elegant fingers trail over silks and furs. Reluctantly we left: the streets were marvellous, but lacked sparkle: looking at the people rushing past us, haughty or indifferent, once again I was almost afraid. We hailed a taxi.

  I was getting nervous now; a prickle of stage fright ran up my spine and I unfolded the paper again, its folds whitened by much handling. Once more I felt drab and old. What if the shop assistant wouldn’t let me in? What if they laughed at me? Worse still was the suspicion – the certainty – that the shoes would be too expensive, that already I’d overspent, that maybe I hadn’t even had enough to begin with . . . Spotting a bookshop, glad of the diversion, I stopped the cab and, with the help of the driver, we got out and bought Hope a copy of Lolita.

  No one said it might be unsuitable. Hope smiled and held the book, running her fingers over the smooth unbroken spine.

  ‘How good it smells,’ she said softly. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’

  The cab driver, a black man with long hair, grinned at us. He was obviously enjoying himself.

  ‘Where to now, ladies?’ he asked.

  I could not answer him. My hands trembled as I handed over the magazine page with the Knightsbridge address. If he’d laughed I think I would have wept. I was close to it already. But the driver just grinned again and drove off into the blaring traffic.

  It was a tiny shop, a single window with glass display shelves and a single pair of shoes on each. Behind them, I could see a light interior, all pale wood and glass, with tall vases of white roses on the floor.

  ‘Stop,’ I told Hope.

  ‘What’s wrong? Is it shut?’

  ‘No.’

  The shop was empty. I could see that. There was one assistant, a young man in black, with long, clean hair. The shoes in the window were pale green, tiny, like buds just about to open. There were no prices on any of them.

  ‘Onwards!’ urged Hope in her Cambridge voice.

  ‘I can’t. It’s—’ I couldn’t finish. I saw myself again, old and colourless, untouched by magic.

  ‘Unsuitable,’ barked Hope scornfully, and wheeled me in anyway.

  For a second
I thought she was going to hit the vase of roses by the door.

  ‘Left!’ I yelled, and we missed them. Just.

  The young man looked at us curiously. He had a clever, handsome face, but I was relieved to see that his eyes were smiling. I held up the picture.

  ‘I’d like to see – a pair of these,’ I told him, trying to copy Hope’s imperious tone, but sounding old and quavery instead. ‘Size four.’

  His eyes widened a little, but he did not comment. Instead he turned and went into the back of the shop, where I could see shelves of boxes waiting. I closed my eyes.

  ‘I thought I had a pair left.’

  He was carrying them, carefully, all sucked-sweet shiny and red, red, red.

  ‘Let me see them, please.’

  They were like Christmas baubles, like rubies, like impossible fruit.

  ‘Would you like to try them on?’

  He did not comment on my wheelchair, my old and lumpy feet in their porridge-coloured slip-ons. Instead he knelt in front of me, his dark hair falling around his face. Gently he removed my shoes. I know he could see the veins worming up my ankles and smell the violet scent of the talc which Hope rubs into my feet at bedtime. With great care he slipped the shoes onto my feet; I felt my arches push up alarmingly as the shoes slid into place.

  ‘May I show you?’ Carefully he stretched out my leg so that I could see.

  ‘Ginger Rogers,’ whispered Hope.

  Shoes for strutting, sashaying, striding, soaring. Anything but walking. I looked at myself for a long time, fists clenched, a hot fierce sweetness in my heart. I wondered what Tom would say if he saw me now. My head was spinning.

  ‘How much?’ I asked hoarsely.

  The young man told me a price so staggering that at first I was sure I’d misheard, more than I’d paid for my first house. I felt the knowledge clang deep at my insides, like something falling down a well.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I heard myself saying from a distance. ‘That’s a little too dear.’

  From his expression I guessed he might have been expecting it.

  ‘Oh, Faith,’ said Hope softly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I told them both. ‘They didn’t really suit me.’

  The young man shook his head.

  ‘You’re wrong, madam,’ he told me, with a crooked smile. ‘I think they did.’

  Gently he put the shoes – Valentine, racing-car, candy-apple red – back into their box. The room, light as it was, seemed a little duller when they had gone.

  ‘Are you just here for the day, madam?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. We’ve enjoyed ourselves very much. But now it’s time to go home.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He reached over to one of the tall vases by the door and removed a rose. ‘Perhaps you’d like one of these?’ He put it into my hand. It was perfect, highly scented, barely open. It smelt of summer evenings and Swan Lake. In that moment I forgot all about the red shoes. A man – one who was not my son – had offered me flowers.

  I still have the white rose. I put it in a paper cup of water for the train journey home, and then transferred it to a vase. The yellow chrysanths were finished, anyway. When it fades I will press the petals – which are still unusually scented – and use them to mark the pages of Lolita, which Hope and I are reading. Unsuitable, it may be. But I’d like to see them try to take it away.

  WHEN YOU ARE OLD

  W. B. Yeats

  When you are old and grey and full of sleep

  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

  And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

  Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

  How many loved your moments of glad grace,

  And loved your beauty with love false or true,

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

  And bending down beside the glowing bars,

  Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

  And paced upon the mountains overhead

  And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

  READING NOTES

  Reading this story in residential care homes for the elderly has always proved a delight. While no one has ever expressed a desire to escape and run off to London, many say they dream of being able to do something exciting for a change. As Maggie said, ‘If I had the energy, I would love to go back to the Lake District and just walk.’

  The poem made Amy feel sad. ‘So much is behind you,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing.’ When asked why she said ‘amazing’ she replied: ‘Because I say to myself, was that me? Did I really do all those things? Amazing!’

  Residential care homes, the indignities of old age, the perks of old age, the way in which the young view the elderly, Jimmy Choo shoes, provide something serious and not so serious to think and talk about.

  Love at Christmas

  THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

  O. Henry

  (approximate reading time 13 minutes)

  One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

  There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

  While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

  In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name ‘Mr James Dillingham Young.’

  The ‘Dillingham’ had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called ‘Jim’ and greatly hugged by Mrs James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

  Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling – something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

  There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

  Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

  Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grand-father’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, w
ith all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

  So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

  On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

  Where she stopped the sign read: ‘Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.’ One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the ‘Sofronie.’

  ‘Will you buy my hair?’ asked Della.

  ‘I buy hair,’ said Madame. ‘Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.’

  Down rippled the brown cascade.

  ‘Twenty dollars,’ said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

  ‘Give it to me quick,’ said Della.

  Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

  She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation – as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value – the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.