Dear /&%>,
‘Contumely’ and ‘vilipendency’ are both 7s, though I strongly suspect illegal use of the thesaurus. I’ve never dared use ‘contumely’ myself. I suspect it of perfidy – a noun in adverb’s clothing.
Margaret xx
IPSWICH TOWN CRIER
TUESDAY 19 APRIL 2005
MP FALLS ON FEET
Ipswich MP Mr Richard Slater today fell on his feet during a visit to a new annexe at Ipswich General Hospital. The new department deals with artificial limbs, and Mr Slater was slightly injured when he tripped over a pair of prosthetic feet, knocking himself out on a consulting table and spraining a finger in his fall. But he was certainly in the right place, as Dr Clive Troman was immediately on hand to administer first aid. ‘Normally I deal with amputees,’ said Dr Troman, ‘specialising mainly in hemipelvectomy patients. However, I have not forgotten my basic resuscitation techniques, and was able to employ them to good effect upon Mr Slater.’
Mr Slater commented: ‘As I was coming round I heard Dr Troman saying that the forefinger was broken and would have to come off. It was a relief to discover that he was talking about a prosthetic hand which I had knocked to the floor, rather than my own!’
The Hollies
East Markhurst
19 April 2005
Dear Margaret,
I feel very modern with my mobile telephone. You’ll have me ‘texting’ next – writing half the words in code like the youngsters do. I’ve seen them doing it on EastEnders. Thank you very much, my dear – you always were a thoughtful girl. Do you remember when you were little, about four I think, and your torch batteries kept running down, and Mum found out you were leaving it on in the toy box every night in case your dolls were afraid of the dark? And I was thinking last night about our golden wedding, up at the village hall, and how Grandad couldn’t remember who anyone was, and got upset. You took him in the little side kitchen and made him a cup of tea and managed to calm him down, and he told me later he’d really enjoyed his day. It’s funny how, even when his Alzheimer’s was getting bad, he always seemed to remember you, love. Because, you know, sometimes he couldn’t even remember who I was, and all he seemed able to recall was things from when he was a boy. That used to make me cry more than anything – married to me fifty years, and he would look at me as if I were a stranger and tell me that he wanted to go home.
I am sorry to hear about your friend, the one who wants to harm herself, and I’m sure that you do help her, love, even if you only sit with her sometimes when she’s feeling low. And you needn’t worry, I do know about child abuse. We never talked about it in my day, of course, but your generation didn’t invent it, believe me. And I watch a lot of daytime television these days, remember. I know more about all sorts of things, sex included, than I ever did when your grandad was alive! I’m sorry she might have to go into hospital. But I don’t think she needs to think of it as a ‘defeat’ as you call it. When I was a girl they didn’t call it the psychiatric hospital, they called it the mental asylum – a safe place for people who couldn’t manage in the outside world. Maybe that’s what your friend needs at the moment, a little bit of asylum.
Mrs Ashby at church was asking after you the other day, and she wanted to know whether you are ‘courting’. Such a sweet old-fashioned expression, I thought – I haven’t heard it since I was a girl. It’s what my old mum would have said. Anyway, I told her I was much too polite ever to ask you! I know you haven’t mentioned anyone ‘special’ since that nice boy in college, Mark wasn’t it, the one who came to the vicarage for Christmas with us all one year? At one time it seemed like you never came to visit without him. He used to butter me up something rotten, bringing me sherry, and teasing me about being the ‘merry widow’. But I’m guessing that’s all ended long since. I hope he didn’t break your heart, dear. I know what these charmers can be.
Kirsty is very kind. She does pick up my shopping, not that I get through a lot of things. I can walk to the post office myself now, but still find it hard to manage a carrier bag as well as the frame. She’s a thoughtful girl, too. Yesterday she brought me in a lot of women’s magazines that she had finished with, and she says she will pick up some library books for me next time she goes into Winchester. But you never know what they’ll have, and it isn’t easy for someone else to choose books for you, when they don’t know what you like, or what you’ve already read. Still, maybe she’ll get me reading something new, something she likes, and perhaps I’ll like it too. I wouldn’t want to be too narrowly stuck in my tastes just because I’m an old lady! I watched an episode of that ‘West Wing’ and quite enjoyed it. I wonder if it’s really like that for politicians? It all seems such a muddle, somehow.
Take care of yourself, dear.
Love from Gran xxx
ST EDITH’S PRIMARY SCHOOL
St Edith’s Lane, Ipswich IP3 5BJ
20 April 2005
Nativity Play
This is to inform parents that the Key Stage Two Nativity Play will take place at 2 p.m. on Tuesday 10 May. It has been decided after all to stage the production, which had to be cancelled in December due to an epidemic of diarrhoea and vomiting amongst the snowflakes.
Doors open at 1.30 p.m. and parents are advised to come early if they wish to get a good seat. May we remind you once again that flash photography is not allowed; this year we will not be using a real donkey, so there should be less risk to the fabric of the school hall, but nevertheless the flashes can be equally distracting for human cast members.
Mrs E. Martin
Deputy Head
IPSWICH TOWN CRIER
WEDNESDAY 20TH APRIL 2005
YOUR LETTERS
Sir, I am writing to express my concern about the state of some of the cycle paths in Ipswich town centre, and in particular the problem of raised metalwork. There are numerous instances, usually where the road surface has been repaired, where gratings or manhole covers are set considerably above the level of the surrounding tarmac. A particularly bad example is in the contraflow cycle lane in Godolphin Street, close to the junction with Parkside Road. Cyclists are obliged either to risk riding over these obstacles, or swerving out of the cycle lane, both of which are very dangerous. Yesterday I saw an elderly gentleman wobble and almost fall off his bike while trying to circumnavigate a raised grating. I have written to the borough council about this matter on two occasions, but as yet have received no reply.
M. Hayton, 42 Gledhill Street, Ipswich.
WITCH
Women of Ipswich Together Combating Homelessness
Extract from minutes of meeting at Ding’s house, 21 April 2005, 8 p.m.
News of residents
Helen has arranged to go into hospital over the weekend while Witch House is unstaffed. If it goes well, she may decide to do this regularly for a while. Pat T. has ascertained that this will not affect her housing benefit.
Lauren has been given another warning about noise after Mrs Robertson from number 27 complained again; she claims that some boys poured a can of lager on to the primulas in her front window box after she came out and told them to keep quiet. It was agreed to invite Mrs Robertson to attend the next house meeting, to air her concerns.
Joyce has been trying to reduce the levels of her medication, but in the interests of other residents she has agreed to do it only by slow degrees and under Dr Gould’s supervision.
Varnish ’n’ Nails started work on the repainting of the downstairs this week. Carole has gone to stay with her sister until it is finished, because the dust is giving her night-mares.
News of former residents still receiving support
Marianne has unfortunately lost her job at the chemist’s, after Mr Singh found she had been inhaling the aerosol deodorants. She has applied for a job at the newsagent’s on Mawson Street.
Any other business
It was decided that we couldn’t have the joint meeting with Women’s Aid at Witch House next week because we’ve got the dec
orators in.
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 23/4/05 22:13
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
I had my second meeting with Richard Slater today, and I think it went OK. It seemed to be a good idea, wearing my interview blouse, because this time he had his eyes fixed intently on my face the whole time, and seemed to be really listening to my arguments. And I know it’s not like me to notice something like this, but I have to say he has a very nice throat. I think what drew my attention to it was that his Adam’s apple kept bobbing up and down, like he was swallowing a lot. Maybe I was staring at it, because in fact he said that he had got a dry throat, and got himself some water, and I said, I hope you aren’t getting a cold, because sometimes my throat feels dry and scratchy just before I go down with one. And then I thought, what am I doing, blathering to an MP about sore throats. He must think I am a complete idiot!
Anyway, he had spoken to colleagues at the Home Office – apparently he’s pally with a junior minister there. It seems that what is supposed to happen is that asylum seekers who don’t have relatives or friends over here to support them are all channelled into housing in ‘reception zones’ (which under this ‘dispersal’ policy they have can mean wherever they choose to send you, Glasgow or Birmingham or anywhere with no housing shortage – in fact quite possibly Moss Side!). Or else one of those awful accommodation centres – you know, you’ve seen them on TV, I’m sure – usually some bleak converted barracks or something. It would be like being in prison! It’s so unfair – Nasreen is happy with us, and she gets the support of Emily and Pat T., plus I have been helping her with her reading, and she’s a really good influence on Lauren, one of the other residents, who she’s become friends with (sorry, with whom she’s become friends!).
But Richard says that although asylum seekers aren’t entitled to normal homeless persons’ accommodation, what we can do is persuade the borough council to designate Witch House as being appropriate temporary housing for Nasreen under the Immigration and Asylum Act 1999, and then her rent will be paid by the Home Office. It’s a bit unusual, but he thinks it is allowed by the regulations. I went straight round and told Nasreen. Her English isn’t up to the minutiae of immigration law, but she was absolutely delighted to know she might be able to stay with us until they make the decision on her asylum application. In fact, she threw her arms round my neck and hugged me. Mock all you wish, but cycling home I found myself in tears.
Love,
Margaret xx
PS. How’s your dad? You haven’t mentioned him for ages, and I’m never sure if I should ask.
From: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Sent: 23/4/05 23:50
To: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Hi there, Margaret! First it was nice eyes, now it’s a nice throat. You want to watch out, my girl, your eyes seem to be moving downwards, and anyway, isn’t looking lustfully upon a man against your anchoritic vows? But I’m very glad that you may have sorted things out for your friend Nasreen.
Speaking of lust, I just got back from Declan’s. He asked me to stay over, and I sooooo wanted to, but you’re not wrong about the ticklish problem of Zoe and bathrooms and underwear and difficult explanations. It’s bad enough trying to relax and enjoy Declan’s exceedingly attentive ministrations whilst suppressing the resultant noises of appreciation (and believe me, there is much to appreciate!). I’m scared of even breathing too rhythmically. Declan’s flat is very small. Unlike his other assets . . . I really want to sleep all night with him and wake up with his body wrapped around me. So I know I’m in big trouble, because this isn’t like me at all – normally I value my space in bed. I’ve always been a wham, bam, shut-the-door-on-your-way-out-and-I’ll-call-you-tomorrow kind of girl. What is happening to me, Margaret?
As far as Dad is concerned, I think you can assume no news is good news. He’s much the same. But believe me, I shan’t be shy about boring you with all the ghastly details if he gets worse.
Big hugs,
Becs xxx
PS. If Zoe ‘outs’ me at school, and I am denied my human rights by the Brunswick Road Governors, I may be seeking asylum in Albania.
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 23/4/05 22:55
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
It wasn’t lust – purely an aesthetic observation. And ‘anchoritic’ is only a 5.5.
Margaret xx
From: Richard Slater [[email protected]]
Sent: 25/4/05 14:14
To: Michael Carragan [[email protected]]
Hi Michael,
Thanks for helping with that information about housing for asylum seekers on Friday. I had my second meeting with Margaret on Saturday, and she seemed really happy with what you’d come up with for me.
May God and the National Women’s Executive Committee forgive me, but she really does have the most breathtaking breasts. Last time she had on jeans and a fleece which didn’t give more than a general impression of height and presumptive slender curves, but this time she was wearing a less than impregnable creamy blouse, with something lacy and insubstantial underneath. I found myself gulping somewhat in the manner of a concupiscent bullfrog. I tried hard to get a grip on myself by concentrating all my attention on her face, like someone who has been on one too many interpersonal skills courses. She’d got her hair scooped back from her face this time, in some kind of rather fetching clip arrangement, but wayward tendrils kept escaping at the sides. It is just one shade away from black, and her eyes, I decided after some very serious analysis, are not exactly hazel, more grey, but with little spangles of gold. And her skin is simply amazing – so white that it’s nearly translucent, with a delta of tiny blue veins just visible near the corners of her eyes. But then, of course, my reprobate male imagination kept returning to other areas of blue-veined whiteness . . . And she is terribly sweet, too. She asked me if I was getting a cold, which I found obscurely touching. I had this strange feeling that she might actually offer to blow my nose, as if I were a dribbly child in her class.
Good grief, what am I getting into here, Mike? I don’t have space in my life for a complication like this. I can’t just go out with her a few times, maybe a show, maybe bed, like with Laura last spring. Laura was a grown-up, we both knew what was what, nobody harboured any expectations and nobody created any. It’s not just that Margaret is young. (Though she undeniably is. I haven’t dared to ask her quite how young, but a qualified primary school teacher can’t be less than, what, twenty-three can she?) It’s that she’s so . . . unspoilt, somehow. And I don’t mean in the way you’re thinking, you old hound! I mean all that idealistic fervour, those blazing principles, all undiluted and untarnished, and not yet sunk beneath a cushioning layer of cynicism. I can’t take on all that – I don’t want the responsibility. Let’s have another drink soon, and you can remind me not to be such a crazed loon over a diaphanous blouse and a pair of earnest eyes.
Richard.
Richard Slater (Labour)
Member of Parliament for Ipswich
From: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Sent: 27/4/05 22:06
To: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Hi Margaret,
Out with Declan again tonight, or rather in with Declan. I’m still feeling self-conscious about the escape of any unstifled mid-coital vocalisations, so we have taken to selecting his noisiest video as background to our activities, just in case Zoe wakes up. The Guns of Navarone would perhaps not hitherto have been my chosen mood-inducer, but I have begun to find that I quite enjoy all the gunfire while Declan is storming my mountain fortress. I haven’t even felt the need to imagine that he’s Gregory Peck.
Brunswick Road Primary continues true to form. In Show and Tell today Jamie Turcott informed the class that his mum�
��s throwing a party for his brother tonight, to celebrate his release from youth custody. Only Vrisha Chopra made the understandable assumption that this had anything to do with custard. Most of the class can barely tell you the days of the week, but they know that youth custody means prison for kids.
Becs xx
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 27/4/05 22:32
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
St Edith’s, by comparison, is not exactly life on the edge. In Circle Time yesterday Abby Bentham showed the class a pencil. Rainbow coloured, I’ll concede, and with a rubber on the end shaped like a daisy, but nevertheless a pencil. Why is it that all Year 3 girls, and none of the boys, share an obsession with stationery? Vicky Taylor in my class has pencil cases rather in the manner in which Imelda Marcos had shoes – beyond need, beyond reason. It makes me want to tell her that there are small Philippino children who would be grateful for just one plastic zip-up in which to keep their gel pens. I wonder what it is in the female genetic code which creates this overpowering drive towards the hoarding of notelets and envelopes. The male compulsion to run and kick a ball (or a stone, or an empty Coke can) I can understand. It may presumably be tracked back to some distant evolution from the hunting instinct. All those little boys who want to be Thierry Henry are really aspiring to be the supreme hunter, the one capable of dragging the most carcasses back to his encampment. But from what primal imperative does the collecting of neatly sharpened crayons derive?
More Than Love Letters Page 7