Was that what made you go? The way she always kept us close, worrying if we were safe or not. It’s a mistake I’m not going to make with Robyn anyway. She needs to make up her own mind about things, even if her decisions don’t always seem like the most sensible ones.
29. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
I had another little visit from Robyn yesterday. I was in the lounge when she walked into reception. I thought she was visiting George, but she was looking around a bit nervous like and then when she spotted me, she came straight over to where I was sitting.
She didn’t bother to say hello. ‘Those poems were OK,’ she said, and I could see her bag was bulging with library books. ‘Tell me more.’
I guess it’s just her manner to be gruff so I racked my brains. I told her all the other names I could remember from our conversations and the books I used to see you reading later in the park. She wrote it all down in this little notebook she has, as serious as could be. I said she should look at the paintings of Turner. ‘See how he does light,’ I told her. I was thinking about how we used to watch the sky from the studio window, and I got you that book of Turner’s watercolours as a present. We used to pore over it together until you told me that this was the kind of photographs I should take. Maybe I should have listened to you because then you might have stayed with me and everything would have been different, but I loved my photography. It wasn’t bad to me, Mo. Nothing bad about a woman’s body.
The other thing I told her to read was Thomas Hardy. See, I’ve never forgotten coming back to the studio one day when I’d arranged to meet you there. I always liked to make an excuse to be out when you came so I could find you waiting for me. This time, you were sitting in the chair by the window and I thought I’d surprise you so I took my shoes off and started to creep across the floor. I stopped when I saw that you were crying, but not before I had time to notice the book on your knee. The Mayor of Casterbridge. I read it after when you’d gone back to George, and I wept too. But not as much as you did. I never told you I’d found you like that, Mo. I just crept back out and came back five minutes later, all bustling and shouting. It annoyed you, I expect, but at least you didn’t have any tears left in your eyes and you never mentioned the crying. I didn’t ask, because I didn’t want you to tell me it wasn’t just about the book.
Anyway, young Robyn looks as if she’s got lots of crying left inside her and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from women over the years, it’s that they need to get it out somehow. She didn’t see George. I asked if she was going to and she looked a bit sheepish and said maybe next time.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have felt so pleased about that. I couldn’t stop smiling even when Mrs. Oliver came over and propositioned me. Don’t get jealous, Mo. We’re too old for all that in here. You and I, though, we will never get too old. I suppose we have that, at least.
M
30. letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis
Dear Mrs. Lewis,
While I am certainly appreciative of your attempts to entertain us, I wonder if you thought last night’s speaker was totally appropriate for the audience. The Welsh voice in flow is indeed a wonderful thing, but thirty minutes of dubious rugby songs from the milkman left much to be desired. I am only grateful Catherine Francis misunderstood several of the words and thought they were religious chants.
In addition, I cannot have been the only one woken up early this morning by Annabel Armstrong chanting a refrain from one of the more unsuitable songs from last night. It seems we have become a laughingstock.
Some people, I am afraid, do not understand common civility and it is a shame when we let them into our homes. If you would like me to take over the running of the social events, I would be happy to oblige.
Yours sincerely,
George Griffiths
31. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
Dear Lizzie,
Well, I did it! Exactly as you suggested!
Remember how Graham always said you were a bad influence on me? Oh, I laughed and laughed when I read in your letter about asking Martin to take my picture. I know you just meant it as a bit of fun but I was feeling mischievous. After all, I’m seventy-nine, what have I got to lose? I told myself that if he looked horrified, I was just going to pretend I was joking. I got him when he was in one of those armchairs in the sitting room. They have low seats, those ones, so I knew he wouldn’t be able to get out fast. He was looking happy too, otherwise I might have lost my nerve. I kept reminding myself how he said I looked beautiful.
‘Martin Morris,’ I said, ‘will you take some of your photos of me?’ You should have seen his face. He stopped smiling and looked as if he’d been hit by a tankful smack in the chops, but then he got weaselly. I remember that look from my Graham. I could see him thinking. What’s in it for me here? ‘You’re very lovely,’ he said, but mechanical, not like when he complimented me before. His eyes were all screwed up and he wasn’t really looking at me, which was a shame because I’d got dressed up. I’d put on some makeup and had my hair done nicely by one of the Tuesday hairdressing girls, and I was wearing that flowery dress too. You know that one I wore when we went to the bandstand at Margate the last time we were there and you said it made me look slim. Helen Elliott always gets a bit bilious anyway but she gave me such a glare when I came into the sitting room that I knew I was looking good.
‘You’re very lovely.’ That’s all he said. I smiled back at him but I was a bit disappointed. It didn’t have the same impact second time around, and I thought he’ll have to do better than that if he’s to get me relaxed enough for some proper sweetheart photos. I was regretting it more than a bit, I don’t mind telling you, and I was all set to have a laugh about it when he surprised me.
‘So what do I get in exchange?’ he said, and he winked.
I knew he’d wake us up. I feel like Prince Charming has cut down the thorns and some colour has come back into our lives. As you know there’s nothing I like better than some banter.
‘That depends,’ I told him. ‘I’m a respectable woman.’
He smiled at that in a way that, between you and me, made my cheeks go hot. And then he said he’d got some kind of plan and he wanted an intelligent woman to help him. He didn’t want to tell me about it straightaway but, Lizzie, don’t you fear, I’ll write to you the minute I know everything. I need to catch the mail with this now anyway.
This is better than Blackpool, my darling girl. For once I don’t feel jealous of you with your family and all the excitement over Laurie’s new man. I agree that a diamond earring is worrying on a man and the name is very odd. Troy. But Susan Reed says that lots of people meet in supermarkets. Her niece works in one and apparently in the evenings, the frozen food aisle is always busy with men and women getting more excited than they should over broccoli. You have to look for the ones getting single portions, apparently.
I wonder what Graham and Frank would have made of that. And what did you say Troy was? A massager? I didn’t know men could do that.
Oh, but what do you think Martin has in mind? ‘I’m a respectable woman,’ that’s what I told him. ‘Are you?’ he said straight off. ‘You look like a bit of a minx to me.’ And he raised an eyebrow. Remember how your Frank used to do that and how you told me once it always gave you a bit of a tingle. I don’t mind telling you that although I laughed and laughed, I got a bit of a tingle too. A minx. Me. If only Graham could have heard him. Well, I suppose it was a good job Graham didn’t hear him really but I feel twenty-two all over again. It’s just like you and me at the Palace ballroom and all the fun we had there. They say you’re only as old as you feel and Martin’s quite a bit younger than anyone else in here.
‘My husband was an army boxer,’ I told him. I know it’s a lie but Graham had the physique for it, didn’t he? I’m sure he could have boxed if he wanted.
‘Yes, but he’s not here, is he?’ Martin said. ‘It’s just you and
me and I don’t think you’ll be giving me a bloody nose.’
Just you and me! I wonder what’s in those envelopes, though. The ones the home help told us about that were never sent. I like a man with a secret, mind.
Yours aye,
Flo
P.S. I think Laurie might be wrong about Ireland being too expensive. Susan Reed has a second cousin living there so she’s going to look into coach tours for us. I know you said you would never do another after Blackpool but we can make sure we get one with proper toilets this time. And seats downstairs.
P.P.S. OK, I’m seventy-nine plus a few, but I intend to wait a few more years for my eightieth birthday if it’s all the same to you. How did two girls as young as us get so old?
32. answer phone message from george griffiths to angie griffiths
Hello Angie, this is your father speaking to you. Speaking to your machine I should say, but it’s your father here. It’s three thirty-five on Tuesday afternoon. I hope you are feeling well. I was relieved to hear from Nell that you are planning to visit us as I fear things are not going too well for her. Nell does her best but Robyn has turned into a complete rebel. She has been lying to her mother.
I found out by accident when Nell thanked me for helping her with her schoolwork.
‘I haven’t,’ I said, straight off, and you should have seen Nell’s face go white. I dread to think what other fibs that girl has been telling her mother. I have promised to draw up a schedule for Robyn. It always used to help you and Nell to have some focus. Focus and discipline, I’ve found, are the tricks to succeeding in most things. I myself am having to apply it to my own life due to petty annoyances here with other residents at Pilgrim House. Anyway, thank you for the card of Notre Dame, although you would think they would be able to take a photograph without all the scaffolding. Yes, I do understand that it is not always possible for you to get to the phone, and I appreciate the efforts you make to keep in touch. I will leave you now. It’s three forty-two. And this has been your father.
33. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
Do you remember how jealous you used to get? There was never any need but I think you knew that. And you liked it too, didn’t you? You told me once it made you feel alive. You were always such a strange little thing.
So shall I tell you about the women I’m living with here and make you jealous? Would you like that, darling? What I wouldn’t give to make you feel alive.
First off, there’s Catherine Francis. Lady F, Mrs. Oliver calls her for no reason I can see other than Catherine wears pink lipstick and silk scarves tied around her neck like the Queen. She doesn’t speak much to me. I thought at first that George had his eye on her, but now I’m not sure. He told her off the other day for half finishing the crossword in the paper. I think he was angry she got more clues than he normally manages.
Helen Elliott wants to be Catherine’s friend so badly that it can only annoy Catherine. Every Friday when Catherine makes her special bus trip into town for an afternoon shopping, Helen does everything she can to be invited too. She even hangs around the lobby looking at the pictures but Catherine always sweeps by her. Nice enough, but firm. Mrs. Oliver can’t understand why Helen doesn’t just go into town on her own, but of course it’s not the shopping Helen wants, but Catherine. Well, I know all about that kind of wanting.
Then there’s Susan Reed. She has a large family and you probably don’t need to know any more than that. Oh, and that they visit. Often. She’s always after George to get his, your, grandchildren and hers together, but they’re not really Robyn’s type. All side partings and stamp collections.
Annabel Armstrong is next. Between you and me, she’s well meaning but a bit off her rocker. None of the rest of us say anything but I’ve noticed we all do our best to hide her excesses. Ever since she caught me coming out of George’s room that time she’s taken to calling me a thief. It gets annoying but I’ve managed to turn it into a joke because as the other residents agree, there are far far worse places you can go than here. We wouldn’t want that for anyone, even Annabel.
It’s hard to separate Beth Crosbie from her husband, and you wouldn’t want to. BethandKeith, we call them. Keith’s not a proper resident, as George keeps pointing out to anyone who will listen. Mind, Keith seems to go out of his way to drive George mad. The other day he even asked him if he’d mind moving to a different armchair so he could sit next to Beth to watch some television program about dogs. George went straight to his room to write one of his famous letters to Brenda, I expect. Mrs. Oliver is the one I understand best. ‘Call me Florence,’ she said the other day. ‘Not bloody likely,’ I replied. ‘Before I know it, you’ll be strapping me to a bed and shoving thermometers where I don’t want them like Florence bloody Nightingale.’ She laughed then. In fact, she reminds me of your Trisha. The way they both liked a joke. What happened to her, I wonder? She came back to the studio that day just to have some more photographs taken, Mo. I wish you believed me. Nothing more than that.
God knows, I wasn’t a saint. But never with someone you cared about. And then later never with someone I cared about. But that’s a different story. You’ll have to wait for me to tell you that one. You were always bad at waiting, weren’t you? Remember how impatient you got with me, how slow you said I was? I’d like to tease you now. Now all we can both do is wait. So there you have it, your competition. Odd lot we are here. And of course there’s George. But you know all about him. Too well, I should think.
And now, until later.
M
34. note from george griffiths to brenda lewis
Dear Mrs. Lewis,
You asked me to make a list specifically of the issues that are concerning me so I have outlined these below. First of all, the following things have gone missing from my room. They are not in the chronological order of their disappearance but include:
Two bars of opened soap
One tube of toothpaste — Colgate
A postcard from my daughter in France
A pencil, just sharpened
A copy of the Daily Telegraph, with a half completed crossword, dated 21st February
A packet of seeds
I appreciate that none of these are of monetary worth. However, the thieving is of grave concern to me, particularly as I have my suspicions.
Second, I would like to express my concern about Annabel Armstrong’s health. My understanding is that one of the conditions of residency in Pilgrim House is the ability to care for yourself. However, it is becoming increasingly clear that Mrs. Armstrong is unable to take responsibility for her personal grooming and this combined with her continual chanting of obscenities makes me wonder if it would be kinder to find her accommodation where she could receive more support.
Third, while I appreciate that a husband and wife will want to be together, please could you confirm that Keith Crosbie makes a financial contribution to the running of Pilgrim House? We are, after all, a charity and yet I have noticed he enjoys several cups of tea during the time he is here and often takes a biscuit. When I questioned him about it, he said he was merely using up Beth’s share. In the appropriate circumstances, I am not unsympathetic to Beth’s lack of appetite, but a husband using it to further his own greed seems a bit much. If you think it might help your case, I am happy to do a spreadsheet of a typical resident’s consumption and arrange some kind of chart in the kitchen whereby we all keep a note of what we take.
And last, I was shocked to see tattoos on the hand of the new staff member. I realise we have to move with the times, and I have nothing against people defiling their bodies should they choose to do so in the privacy of their own home. However, it might be more suitable if you could advise him to keep his marks covered while he is at work. I know that Catherine Francis, in particular, is not used to such things. Perhaps he could wear gloves? I look forward to hearing your plan of action.
Yours sincerely,
George Griffiths
35. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
Dear Lizzie,
I was only joking when I said you made me do the photographs, and I’m sorry you took it so badly because no slur was intended. Anyway, I am flummoxed you thought I was blaming you for that unfortunate incident with the officers at Aldershot. Truth is, I’d forgotten about dancing with the young lieutenant although it’s true that Graham did think you were involved and it was wrong of me not to stand up for you more at the time. All I meant was that we egg each other on, love. We both know it’s all just a bit of fun.
I know you mean to be kind by worrying about me but I’m really not making a fool of myself. Yes, I do realise how old I am, and no, I hadn’t realised that there was such a thing as granny porn. Fancy Troy talking about such a thing at dinner, and in front of the children too. I bet you didn’t know where to put yourself particularly when, as you say, you had just read my letter. Write soon, Lizzie, and tell me all is forgiven. I shall wait for the mail.
Yours aye,
Flo
P.S. I’ve just had a terrible thought. You don’t think Troy is reading your mail, do you? Hide this, Lizzie, or eat it after reading. You can’t be too careful.
P.P.S. And he was heavenly, that officer in Aldershot. He kissed my hand, you know, and just gently licked my thumbnail until I thought I might have to faint. You wouldn’t have caught Graham doing anything like that. Truth is, I was grateful to you.
36. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
Although every day I feel I’m getting closer to your family, there are still times when I wish I’d never left my studio. I preferred it when I could think of George as some kind of perfect hero, taking you away from me. Honestly, love, he has to be the coldest fish I’ve ever met. I don’t mean to speak ill of your husband, but everything is about the right way to behave with him. Just yesterday, I came down to find Helen Elliott in the kitchen in tears. ‘What’s up?’ I asked her and she refused to tell me at first. Then she admitted that George had told her to stop bothering Catherine Francis. ‘I am mortified,’ she kept saying, and it took at least two cups of tea before I could get her to stop crying. George has only put this chart up in the kitchen, by the way, which we’re supposed to check off every time we use a teabag. No one does so I bet he has already written to poor Brenda to complain.
Getting The Picture Page 4