So everyone is happy although when Keith spreads his books out in the sitting room and hushes us, I can tell it annoys George.
Well, everything annoys him really. Apart from Martin. ‘Are we still up for the seduction then?’ I asked Martin the other day, and he said perhaps we’d better put it on hold for the moment because of this Residents Committee. But it’s as if Martin’s taken the job over for himself. They’re always in corners having deep chats, and the other night they went off to the pub together without telling me.
‘What about my photos?’ I asked Martin, not so much because I wanted them as I wanted to be part of it all again.
‘We’ll do those soon,’ he said.
But I don’t know. Tonight, when the woman from the grocers came to talk about foreign food, I went over to sit with Catherine and Helen on purpose. ‘Look what the cat’s brought in. We’re very honoured, I’m sure,’ Helen said, but I bit my tongue. It was only when the woman’s wig started to slip and you could see her bald patch that I looked around at where George and Martin were sitting. Martin was open-mouthed, not from the bald patch but as if learning about different cheeses in France was all he ever wanted to know about. Even when the woman passed around this plate of cheese that smelled like Graham’s armpits after he’d been on the parade ground, Martin took two chunks.
‘This is definitely what they eat in France,’ he asked, and when the woman nodded he crammed them into his mouth.
‘How soon is soon?’ I’d wanted to ask Martin, but of course I didn’t. Graham taught me the importance of waiting.
And then afterward, when Brenda was taking the cheese woman out, Annabel Armstrong stood up and walked into the middle of our circle of chairs. She’s been less herself recently even more than usual, but there was no need for Helen to mock. ‘Aye, aye,’ she said, ‘here’s the cabaret. More virgins, I expect.’
Annabel curtseyed then, held her dress out around her and started to sing. It was a thin warble that felt like you wanted to turn the radio up to hear properly. ‘Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do...’
And of course Helen had to join in. ‘I’m half crazy.’ She was winking at us as she sang. She’s been unbearable since palling up with Catherine, but to give Lady F her credit, she hushed Helen.
Annabel’s little face was all flushed, and she put her hand up to her heart.
‘All for the love of you,’ she warbled, and then blow me down but Martin didn’t join in. ‘I can’t afford a carriage,’ he sang and because he didn’t seem to be teasing her, the rest of us joined in too. ‘But you’ll look sweet, upon the seat...’
And at the end, when we all bellowed out together, ‘...made for two’, Annabel curtseyed again before going up to Martin.
‘Thief,’ she said, and then she walked out of the room.
I was as quiet as the rest of them then, not sure what had happened, but before anyone could say anything, Brenda bustled back.
‘Well, that was a very nice talk,’ she said. ‘So interesting.’ We were still looking at each other, a bit shell-shocked. ‘I do believe she’s tired you all out,’ Brenda said.
For some reason, I looked at George. I’ll punch you if you say anything about Annabel, I was thinking. But he just shook his head. ‘She was very stimulating,’ he said. ‘And now it’s up the rolling hills of Bedfordshire for me.’ And we all got up and left, although Brenda said she was planning to make us an extra cup of good British tea as a treat. She doesn’t always let us drink tea so near bedtime but I suppose she felt a bit put out by the speaker’s comment that French coffee was better.
But now I’m sitting here writing this, and I wonder why George didn’t say anything because it wasn’t like him not to spill the beans on anything out of the ordinary. It’s a mystery, and you know me and mysteries, Lizzie. I need to find a way of getting to the bottom of it all.
Yours aye,
Flo
101. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
I went out and planted your cornflower seeds today. There’s a spot around a bench here that I think you would like. I nearly toppled over when I was leaning forward to make sure they were pushed in properly. It’s one of the perils of getting old. You lose your sense of balance and forget how far you can go before you won’t be able to get back again.
Robyn and I are back in our old routine. She’s a good girl, just wants to please her mother. I’m not sure I can teach her much more so she mostly works away on her own, while I look through Nell’s things. Of course, I never sent her your letter, Mo, but I did ask her about you the other day. She didn’t want to tell me at first, but I started talking about those funny poems she wrote about us all at Pilgrim House and she opened up a bit more. ‘She was kind, but quiet,’ Robyn said. ‘Granddad mostly did the talking for her, but I think she always got on with Auntie Angie more than Mum. That’s what Mum says anyway.’
Of course, you preferred Angie because of me, but that doesn’t mean that Nell’s not important to me now. They’re becoming my family as much as yours. And when we get Angie back here, then we’ll all be together. As we should have been.
George didn’t deserve any of you. He and I went to the pub the other day and I asked him about Angie. He didn’t say anything about her, but just started going on about this important mystery job that keeps her in France. ‘So you speak to her often?’ I asked, and his eyes didn’t even start to water. Muttered something about talking to a machine. ‘So when was the last time you saw her?’ I asked, and he said she’d come back briefly for your funeral but went away again straight after.
‘You could see her,’ I said. ‘You could get her back here.’
‘No,’ he said, and he did this straightening his shoulders thing he does. As if someone’s shoving a stick down his back. I could tell it annoyed him, having to admit something in his life wasn’t going the way it should.
‘I could help you,’ I said. ‘All you need to do is to stop telling your girls what to do, and praise them even if you’re not sure they deserve it. Especially then.’
He said he’d think about it, but that he’d always been unsure about praising too much. It builds up false hopes, apparently, and he’d always thought the inside was more important than the outside. He doesn’t let up, does he? Mrs. Oliver says she’s changed her mind, and that he’s a good man, but I wouldn’t know about that. Good men, in my experience, never win in the end.
Talking of which, I am afraid I had to go in and talk to Brenda about Annabel Armstrong. I have managed to pass her insults off as part of her sickness, but things are getting a bit too serious now for anything to spoil my plans.
M
102. letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis
Dear Brenda,
I had a visit from Steve Jenkins today to talk about the Residents Committee. There is absolutely no point having such a committee if it is to be run by a member of the staff. It should be a chance for residents to speak freely about points that concern them. I am also disappointed that you delegated such an important job to a junior employee. I have been talking to several of the other residents about this matter, and you have left us no option but to take matters into our own hands.
Yours sincerely,
George Griffiths
103. answer phone message from george griffiths to angela Griffiths
Hello Angie,
This is your father. It is Thursday afternoon, and I have just come back from a walk around the park with the other male resident here. There are some daffodils already out along the edges but they had been trampled by the boys playing football. A parkkeeper was attending to some mulching at the far side, and although I was tempted to complain, I came to the conclusion that ball games are all part of growing up. I hope the weather is clement with you. Do keep in touch. I always enjoy your cards and the photographic insight into another culture.
Your father
104. email from nell baker to angie griffiths
&nbs
p; Yes, I’ve noticed Dad has been a bit strange recently too. Not only did he thank me for visiting the other day but he even tried to make a joke when we went to the optician. Every time she asked a question, he said ‘eye’. The trouble was she was Scottish and thought he was teasing her. He didn’t notice her face getting redder and redder. At least he didn’t complain about the fact she was a woman. Remember when he’d only see male opticians, dentists, and stuff. Perhaps he’s mellowing. It can happen.
And as for Martin, I don’t know why you keep going on about him. Hand on heart, he’s absolutely fine. I might not be the best judge of men, but I’m sure about this one.
Even Dad likes him. And Robyn.
105. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
Dear Lizzie,
So we are all a little sad here. Annabel Armstrong was moved to the hospital last night. We could all see it coming, but it’s still a shock when it happens. Three residents have left since I’ve been here. After the first time, I kept thinking it may be me next. I guess we all did. But it’s not, it’s Annabel.
I’ve noticed we are all bowing our heads a little when we walk past her room. The door’s been shut all day but before lunch I could hear Steve and Brenda in there chatting, and then the sound of the vacuum cleaner. Helen said they’d be getting ready for the next person but as Lady F pointed out, people do sometimes come back. It’s just not all that usual. Tom Pardoe didn’t, after all. We were still waiting for him when Martin appeared in his room.
It’s funny how you learn things about someone after they’ve gone. Annabel has two sons apparently. She never mentioned them so we all thought she was childless. Barren. That’s the proper term. It’s what Graham used to call me, and it still hurts. It feels like such a manly thing to be. Like a baron, all German moustaches and baton swirling. As if I wasn’t a proper woman. Which of course in many ways I’m not. Don’t be kind and jump in. I know what you think about women and motherhood.
Anyway, one of the sons lives just up the road. He was the one who came around to pick up her things after she’d gone to the hospital.
Beth Crosbie and I watched him from the sitting room. He seemed normal. The sort of man you’d pass in the street and would expect to keep in touch with his mother. So how did we never know about him? And who was it, if it wasn’t for him, that she would sing ‘Daisy Daisy’ and all those other nursery rhymes for?
And if there are two sons, then there had to be a Mister Annabel too, which comes as more of a shock. I always thought she might have been untouched. She was so much like a small girl in her flowered dresses and straight hair. I wonder about him now, was he kind to her or was he harsh? It’s as if, here, we all go back to the beginning when none of that need matter.
I’m writing this in the sitting room now. We’re nearly a full house. Beth is drowsing on one of the chairs opposite while, in the corner, Keith ploughs on with his research. He sticks his tongue out when he works. Doesn’t just let it fall, but actually holds the tip of it between his thumb and forefinger. I want to ask Beth if that’s something he’s always done, or if it’s a strange new habit he’s picked up. But she doesn’t pay him any attention, so I think that yes, he will have always done that and maybe it annoyed her at one time but now she’s used to it. I suppose it’s these little things about people that we come to love or hate. Sometimes both.
Helen’s sitting a little closer to Lady F than she normally does as I write this, but they’re not playing their usual game of Scrabble. And Martin and George have disappeared. They’ve gone to Martin’s room, I should imagine, because they spend hours in there. And so we wait to hear whether Annabel will come back to us or not. Somehow if there are plans afoot tonight, then I’m too tired for them.
Yours aye,
Flo
106. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
I swear I can hear Marta crying in her bed at night. It comes through the wall and echoes around my room until I want to scrabble through the bricks and shake her back into happiness. Or at least into her way of ‘being’.
And then the next morning, I go back to my chair at the window and watch her in the garden with the boys. They’ve taken to including her in their games. She’s either the princess they have to tie up before rescuing, or she is the foreign witch they need to capture and then tie up.
I have told them they can have one of my cameras if they play nicely with her.
‘But you wouldn’t know if we did or not, would you?’ the first boy says. He’s the loudest, but the second boy is the cleverest, I think.
‘I know everything,’ I told him. ‘I know, for instance, where you’ve planted your treasure.’
They both gave a start then, but while the first boy looked at the base of the tree where I’d seen them digging the other day, the second boy looked up at the house, trying to see if I could have been watching them.
A camera is a camera, though. I think Marta will be spared some of their rope.
M
107. email from nell baker to angie griffiths
Dad is now officially worrying me.
I’d gone in to Pilgrim House to tell him about Martin and Robyn’s poetry classes. She’d persuaded me that it could put Martin in an awkward position if Dad didn’t know. And she’s right. You wait until you have the little nipper and it starts telling you how to behave.
Anyway, I got caught up in some traffic on the way there so I was all of about eight minutes late. I expected to find one of Dad’s notes, you know the ones: ‘I’m very disappointed,’ but he was standing there instead. Smiling. ‘I’m sorry,’ I started, but he just shook his head. And then he suggested we go for a walk because it was a beautiful day. He was talking about how one of the residents had been taken to the hospital, and we walked around the garden twice before he even mentioned Robyn. He didn’t complain about her though, just asked how her poetry was getting on. Of course that’s when I should have said something about the lessons, but Dad said he’d never seen the point of poetry, but different courses for different horses, eh?
It was the ‘eh?’ that put me off. Since when has Dad ever questioned anything?
But before I could say anything, he said he’d been thinking about me and he only wanted to know whether I would be interested in letting either Chrissie or Tina — they’re the hairdressers who go in to Pilgrim House — do my hair. He even said he’d arrange it as a treat for me. I pretended I had to go to a meeting and I ran to the car, Angie, just to get away. But then I had to sit there for a few minutes catching my breath. Since when has Dad ever thought about hairdressers or how we look? Can you imagine him thinking about Mum’s hair? You need to seriously think about coming over here. Fast.
108. letter from claude bichourie to angela Griffiths
Ma petite,
What on earth could be so urgent that I need to break my family holiday to come back to Paris? Maybe you are missing me, but if so, then you will need to be patient just a little bit longer. I long for you too, but we both know there are rules for these things. And consequences for breaking them. Here is a check for you to buy something pretty, or take your girlfriends out for supper and complain about us. Your naughty absent men.
Until soon,
Claude
109. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
He’s insatiable, this husband of yours. Every spare minute we have now and he’s on at me to look at the photographs. I get them out, and just watch him while he looks. I can’t help but think he’s searching for someone.
‘They really are very tasteful.’ He always sounds as if he’s surprised when he says this, but of course the photographs are. Times were different then, but it’s as if he needs to be persuaded that he’s not committing some sin by looking through them. I wonder if he’s a little disappointed too because I won’t tell him anything about the girls. The way he talks sometimes makes me think he suspects we had ourselves one long party t
hat he missed out on. As if he’d have been invited if we had.
I asked him straight the other day, ‘Did you ever play around?’
He winced. It was as if I’d hit him.
‘I think that’s possibly between me and my conscience.’ He adjusted his tie as he spoke. If he’d have pulled it any tighter, it would have throttled him.
‘So you did,’ I replied. I tried not to look surprised, or too interested.
‘No!’ He almost shouted. I raised an eyebrow at him. He was sitting there holding a photograph of Anita, the little Spanish girl who lived above her parents’ restaurant. I’d got her to bring in this ornate fan from home and she was peeping out from behind it. ‘It’s my mother’s,’ she kept saying, and laughing. That was a good shoot, but she came just the once. Although they never said as much, for some of these girls coming to me was their last fling before marriage. As if they wanted a record of another them, not the dutiful wife they were bound to turn into, out there in the world.
I have learned to keep silent with George, so I said nothing until he started to turn Anita’s photograph this way and that so energetically I wanted to hold out my hand for him to give it back.
‘I may have gone shopping once,’ he said, ‘with a lady who was not my wife.’
Shopping! Well, call the police, why don’t you? It was all I could do not to laugh but he was red-faced. I bit my tongue.
‘It was Maureen’s friend who had the idea,’ George said. ‘It was to buy a dress for Maureen’s fortieth birthday. And the whole thing was to be a surprise. We met at lunchtime and went to a department store together.’
I could just picture old George rushing out from Flanders, Flanders and Flanders, or whatever it was his accountancy office was called. All flustered and looking around to see if anyone was noticing him. And you oblivious at home, love. Thinking of me.
Getting The Picture Page 11