by V. G. Lee
‘I don’t think I can do that.’
‘I thought not.’
Mr Wheeler appears, wondering what size pantechnicon can warrant the use of so much road? Martin mutters, ‘There’s the unloading to be taken into account.’ He sulkily withdraws one dustbin from outside Mr Wheeler’s gate before going back indoors. From behind me in the kitchen I hear Deidre’s voice coming from the telephone receiver. ‘He’s a miserable old basket case,’ she’s shouting. Hope Mr Wheeler can’t hear. Return to phone and say quietly, ‘Deirdre, he has a right.’
‘He has a right to a torrent of abuse. Exciting isn’t it?’
‘Very.’
Forget about Deirdre’s delivery and climb up to my meadow. I’m surprised how good it looks after so short a time. In the centre of its circle I’ve planted an old fashioned tea rose in memory of Tilly. Not really appropriate but I wanted a shrub that would last for years and years. Sit on bench and think about getting another cat but not ready yet. Think about possibility of meeting a new lover - not ready for that either. Count on my fingers the months that have passed since Georgie left. Count from end of February. Almost six months have gone by. There are still ‘firsts’ to get through; first birthday without her, first autumn, first Christmas. Think sourly that of course at New Year Georgie was with Stella. Can’t bear to go over all those times when Georgie was away ‘on business’ when she must have been with Stella. Feel spirits dropping. Concentrate on few small clouds scudding across wide stretch of blue sky. In the distance is the sea, a straight green ribbon on the horizon.
Down in the street I hear Deirdre’s lorry arriving. There is a crunching sound as the first dustbin goes over and under its wheels. Powerful brakes squeal. Wonder whether the vicar is actually driving lorry and am sufficiently curious to start back down to the house. Suddenly I recognise Miriam’s voice sounding rather officious.
‘Delivery for Mrs Deirdre Storm. I need a signature.’
Then Deirdre, ‘I’m not signing anything till I’ve checked the goods. Where’s my Martin got to?’
Spot Martin in an upstairs room in the process of lowering the blind. He mouths, ‘Keep schtum,’ and then the blind blots him out. I go round by the back gate. There is Miriam and the vicar. Both are wearing black jeans and black singlets and they are unloading Deirdre’s furniture onto the pavement. So far there is a very formal three-piece suite covered in a maroon and cream striped shiny fabric, several wobbly occasional tables - spindly legs painted gold, two matching book cases with carved pomegranate detailing, two footstools and several wooden crates. Oh, and a six foot high statue of nude woman holding sheaf of corn or wheat.
Deirdre beaming turns towards me. ‘Fabulous. All fabulous. A few bits to give the garden an artistic gravitas and the rest for the back sitting room. Sort of Regency Buck chic.’
‘Fabulous,’ I enthuse. Call out to Miriam, ‘Hello Miriam - I thought you were on holiday.’
Miriam nearly drops the pedestal she’s carrying.
‘Steady,’ cautions vicar who’s crumpling under the weight of the top half of a full size lamp-post.
‘Margaret what are you doing here?’ Miriam looks flustered.
‘I live next door.’
‘Keep it off the pavement Miriam sweetie,’ vicar says. Miriam-sweetie keeps it off the pavement.
‘Back garden,’ Deirdre says as they stagger past.
August 13th
Miriam sporting an air of quiet confidence when she arrives at one o’clock. Says she intended to tell me but wanted the relationship to ‘bed in’ in more ways than one first.
August 14th
This afternoon bought Listening Ear and took it onto the beach. Blustery, English seaside kind of day. Set up my striped windbreak, set out towel, sandwiches, yoghurt drink, notepad and biro. Weight newspaper down with large pebbles and browse through. Main story: postal van reversing into the bollards outside the cinema at 6am in the morning. Headline: What a Difference a Day Makes! ‘Twelve hours later and many innocent cinemagoers could so easily have been massacred,’ fumes local bobby!
On inside page find article plus indistinct photograph of badgers. There is now a Bittlesea Bay Badger Protection Society which already has five members and its own website where readers can report sightings. Tear this article out and place inside notebook. Move on to Letters page and am rewarded by yet another polemic from Martin.
Sir! In reply to A. Oakley (self-styled Accident Prevention Officer) I would like to emphatically state that when I’m ready for a mobility scooter I shall feel free to ride it at maximum speed wherever I like and A. Oakley had better just jump out of my way! This person illustrates all the worst, small minded traits synonymous with the provinces. Sometimes I ask myself why the heck did I ever leave London?
Make note to headline my own reply ‘Storm in a Teacup’.
August 16th
Re Miriam. Since meeting the vicar she’s improved considerably. Says she and the vicar (Miriam refers to her as ‘the vicar’ or ‘my vicar’) have long talks about life. Says vicar is on her wavelength and who’d have thought dull old Miriam (this is Miriam referring to herself in the third person) would have snaffled such a prize. Says she said this to vicar and vicar most gratified to be considered a prize worthy of snaffling.
Ask how Miriam’s mother is getting along with Mrs Ferguson? Very well. Idyllically. And is thrilled that Miriam’s new friend is a vicar. Miriam has to ration amount of conversation her mother has with vicar as mother continually brings conversation round to whether vicar can categorically vouch for an after-life and give specific details of what Miriam’s mother can expect.
‘I mean, my vicar’s not a travel agency. She’ll be asking next what the weather’s like up there and should she take her winter coat.’
NB. Believe Miriam is being wryly comic here rather than her usual sarcastic.
August 17th
Deirdre treats me to lunch at the Bittlesea Bay Cafe. We have double egg and chips, white bread and butter twice. This is not an Atkins day, in fact her friendship with Atkins seems to have cooled over recent weeks.
We go outside onto the terrace that looks down over the cliffs to the seafront. We discuss how this cafe would be worth millions if the owners revamped it and opened in the evenings. Double egg and chips twice arrives and I announce that I am going to dip my bread into my egg. Deirdre says she is going to make chip butties out of her bread.
This is something of a special occasion, a saying goodbye to my deceased cat, Tilly, occasion. Deirdre says, ‘No matter how busy we get in our lives we shouldn’t let deaths and births pass uncelebrated unless you really don’t like that person or pet. I had a real soft spot for Tilly.’
Deirdre stares dreamily out to sea where a small white-sailed yacht is tacking across our field of vision. Suddenly she says, ‘Do you believe in messages coming through from the dead?’
Say cautiously, ‘Perhaps messages do come through from the dead but I haven’t personally received any.’
‘I’ll tell you something. Don’t feel affronted that this happened to me and not to you.’
I insist that I wouldn’t dream of being affronted.
‘Yesterday afternoon there was such a strange smell of sea and flowers in our lounge. Nothing fishy or unpleasant - sort of perfumed yet other worldly. I’m ninety nine point nine five certain that it was your Tilly telling me to tell you that she’s absolutely fine where she is.’
Am affronted. Can’t imagine why Tilly should choose to haunt Deirdre’s lounge several weeks after dying asking for messages to be passed on to me. And why would she bring a sea smell in with her? Not as if she drowned or was a fish.
Deirdre continues in her dreamy voice, ‘Definitely sea and flowers. I looked up the chimney to see if there was anything or anyone up there.’
Thinks: why ever should a smell of sea and flowers find their way up or down Deirdre’s chimney?
‘That smell just made me think of your Tilly.’
As Santa Claus?
‘Mm. Interesting,’ I said.
‘Ah well,’ continues Deirdre. ‘Here’s to you, Tilly wherever you are.’ Deirdre raises her half full cup of cold cappuccino in the direction of the seafront.
‘To Tilly,’ I intone. I do not raise my cup, which is empty.
‘Get ’em out then,’ Deirdre says and I fish Tilly’s box of ashes out of my rucksack.
Say hesitantly, ‘Deirdre, the terrace is rather crowded for chucking ashes hither and thither.’
Deirdre grabs the cardboard box. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Turns to crowded table on other side of us, ‘You won’t mind if we scatter my friend’s cat’s ashes will you?’
Woman with stiff grey perm replies, ‘You will be careful. We don’t
want it flying back over our salads.’
‘Of course we’ll be careful. These ashes mean a lot to my friend, we want them nestling in mother earth not on your lettuce and tomatoes.’
Inside I cannot help starting to shudder with laughter. There is something truly marvellous about Deirdre. At that moment I admire her hugely. Get to my feet. Lick my index finger and test the wind’s direction. It’s in our favour.
‘What should we say?’ Deirdre asks.
‘Nood norning, Tilly.’
‘Oh you and your talking cat. Very well.’
We toss the ashes out over the balustrade. They fly forward in a fine grey shower. ‘Nood norning, Tilly,’ we say together. And then we shout it. We bellow ‘NOOD NORNING, TILL’ so that many feet below us, down on the beach, people look up and start waving. We wave back.
August 18th
Trawl through Lonely Hearts column in local paper. Have never noticed these before. They’re slotted in between Situations Vacant and Articles for Sale Under Five Pounds. No Women wanting Women or Men wanting Men. Not too many Women wanting Men. Most of the column taken up by Men wanting Women: Read following:
‘Who’ll start the bidding? Stunningly attractive man mid-forties wants to share his peak of condition with like-bodied female. If you’ve got it, why not flaunt it my way?’
Fight urge to leave a sultry voiced message on advertiser's voicemail.
‘I’ll start the bidding. One sack of compost over your BIG HEAD.’
August 19th
Take in tomatoes and sweetcorn for Miriam and Tom. Both pleased with tomatoes but seem apprehensive re. sweetcorn.
‘There won’t be any beetles in them?’ Miriam asks. ‘In the supermarket they’re all clean and yellow.’
Reply that there shouldn’t be any beetles. Notice that both Miriam and Tom double knot the carrier bags, no doubt to prevent escaping beetles.
August 20th
Very late for TM Accountancy this morning as Lorraine Carter called an urgent staff meeting, which involved not opening Russell’s till quarter past nine instead of nine o’clock. Announced that the store would be closed for ten days during September for a re-fit. ‘Whoopee,’ I whispered under my breath, which LC, who has supersonic hearing, picked up. Announced with gaze drilling into my forehead, ‘Staff with employment record of under six months will not receive salary for that period. I think that’s just you, Margaret.’
Leave store. Make my way through throng of furious customers demanding entry. During sprint to office imagine scenario where I lure Lorraine Carter into a dark cellar. As she makes her way down chilly stone steps the shadows conceal booby trap of mops, brooms and Lorraine’s spare set of golf clubs, positioned half way down. ‘Aargh!’ as LC topples forward. Does not die but, during several days confinement in cellar, reaches an understanding of the more empathetic approach needed with her staff.
Late afternoon set off for my Wheeler’s Watch. It’s raining. Wear storm-proof jacket with the hood up. Do not wear Wheeler’s Watch sash as I’m feeling rebellious. Walking down Stirling Avenue - through the rain I see the familiar figure of Janice coming towards me on the same side of the road. Am about to shout hello and wave but before I can do this she crosses over, carries on past me without a single glance.
Could, should have called out to her but have uneasy feeling that she was actually avoiding me.
August 21st
Visit Deirdre and Martin. We are not watching a film tonight, we are sitting in ‘the library’. Late yesterday afternoon Deirdre telephoned an antiquarian bookseller and ordered six yards of hardback books with red or green covers and gold lettering. Specification: must be mint condition and no dust. There are four incomplete sets of Dickens and Thackeray, several large tomes by GK Chesterton and the abridged works of Shakespeare.
Take in bottle of port as that seems in keeping with Regency Buck chic. Deirdre says, ‘No, but thank you, I prefer passion fruit but Martin might imbibe.’
Martin does.
Actually, the room looks okay apart from resembling a stage set. Martin wears his dressing gown over silk pyjamas and leather slippers, so he looks exactly the part, but Deirdre, in a kaftan covered with a pink, red and black circular pattern belongs to another theatrical production - say a play set in the nineteen-sixties.
‘What you thinking?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know what I’m thinking yet.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I think I like it. I thought you didn’t like books.’
‘They’re not books, they’re interior decoration. I intend to get the cleaner to wipe them over with disinfectant before yacht varnishing them - should facilitate dusting.’
Martin gets between me and Deirdre with the bottle of port and my glass. He is frowning hugely at me and dilating the famous nostrils, which is a signal that I am on dangerous ground.
‘It all looks lovely,’ I say quickly.
‘You don’t mean that,’ says Deirdre.
‘I do mean it.’
‘You don’t. Say what you really think. Go on everyone else has had their four pence worth...’
‘Deirdre, all I was thinking was that the room looked extremely nice in a theatrical way but that you didn’t quite match it...’
Martin pulls the face of one in extreme pain while Deirdre looks furious.
‘Please don’t get angry,’ I say.
‘Actually, I just don’t do anger,’ she says angrily. ‘Why should I have to match?’
‘Of course you don’t have to...’
‘I don’t want to match. If I wanted to match I would match. I’m happy not to match. Other people might want to match, not me!’ Flops back in Regency striped chair and stares furiously at a dingy oil painting of a horse and foal.
‘Stop it Deirdre,’ Martin says.
‘I will not stop it.’ She begins to blink rapidly. ‘It’s true. I don’t match. I don’t match with anything or anybody. Always the odd woman out. The butt of every joke, the fall guy...’
I stand next to Deirdre’s chair (more of a throne) pat her shoulder, ‘Come on Deirdre, I didn’t express myself very well. Why ever should you have to match your furniture? You are you, unique.’
‘You don’t mean that either.’ Pulls miniscule pink handkerchief from sleeve.
‘I do.’
Martin pats Deirdre’s knee briskly. ‘You need a Jaffa Cake.’
Deirdre looks tremulously at Martin. ‘I do. I need a Jaffa Cake. Margaret, I insist you share our Jaffa Cakes.’
August 23rd
Book in with Michelle at Hair Today. Watch her in the mirror as she dispiritedly pulls at my lack-lustre locks. Not much left of the aubergine highlights. Does not appreciate my self-styled fringe.
‘You have made a mess,’ Michelle says.
‘Won’t that be a challenge for you? Rather fun?’
Regret the word ‘fun’. Can read in Michelle’s grimace that ‘fun’ is a nasty, uncool word that her nasty, uncool, middle-aged clients use.
‘Doesn’t make my job any easier. What’s it to be this time?’
‘Same again.’
‘The copper tint?’
‘No, the blonde and aubergine
highlights.’
This time, while she works on my hair, I receive a lecture. What is the point of her making me look like a celebrity if I then neglect my hair? Don’t I realise that I’m very lucky to have so few lines and wrinkles, considering.
‘Considering what?’
‘Considering your age. What’s your self image like?’
In surprise I look up at Michelle and she grins back at me. ‘I’ve been on a course. Understanding the client’s psyche. I’m not just a hairdresser anymore, I’m a beauty therapist. Premature aging of skin, hair and body can be put down to drink, fags or depression. I reckon you’ve got depression.’
Admit that I have had depression and that at the moment it’s not easy to think well of myself. This information galvanizes Michelle.
While my hair is in tin foil she cleanses, tones and moisturizes my face and neck, setting each little product bottle in a row on the shelf in front of me.
‘How you feeling?’
‘Soothed.’
‘Want some more?’
‘Go on then but no eye makeup.’
‘Spoilsport. I’ll use a bronzante.’
‘A what?’
‘Wait and see. Eyes closed, head back.’
An hour later eyes open and face forward I find I look relatively wonderful. I am tanned, I sparkle, I glow from the neck upwards. Michelle looks equally pleased.
‘Know who you look like?’
‘No, tell me.’ Sharon Stone, Susan Sarandon?
‘Dame Judi Dench.’
‘I’m much younger than Judi bloody Dench.’
‘That’s what I meant, a young Dame Judi Dench.’
I settle up. Give Michelle a sizable tip. Buy all the beauty products.