by V. G. Lee
In taxi, Miriam’s mother says the very thought of hospitals gives her palpitations and she doesn’t know how she’ll get on if she is ever really ill. Says it would be better if Miriam took her out and shot her. Murmured, ‘Surely not?’ However, once inside the hospital, Miriam’s mother becomes energized, sends me off in search of a wheelchair for Mrs Ferguson and makes herself unwelcome with the flower seller by using the Latin names for the flowers she wants: ‘I’ll take a dozen Lathyrus odoratus, a few solidago canadensis and a bunch of Matthiola incana.’
‘We’ve come to see Mary Ferguson,’ Miriam’s mother tells the ward sister.
The ward sister eyes the wheelchair, which I’ve purloined from outside Intensive Care, and says, ‘You won’t need that wheelchair, Mrs Ferguson can’t be moved.’
Miriam’s mother ignores this. ‘We thought we’d take her for a turn around the gardens - she’s used to plenty of fresh air.’
‘We don’t have a garden, just a car park, and, as I said before, she can’t be moved.’
‘We’ve come a very long way, haven’t we Margaret?’
I agree that we have. The ward sister sits down and opens a file. We wait. After a few minutes the ward sister looks up from the file and says, ‘Yes?’
Miriam’s mother leans over her desk. ‘Are you going to tell us something more from that file?’
‘No, this is an entirely different patient’s file.’ And she waves her hand dismissively at us.
We find Mrs Ferguson with her leg hoisted high in the air. She seems to be asleep. Miriam’s mother sidles up next to the bed. ‘Mary, Mary Ferguson, it’s Veronica and also Margaret, Miriam’s little friend.’
Mrs Ferguson opens her eyes. ‘Veronica?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Margaret, Miriam’s little friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘How delightful.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Look, I’m wearing that red coat you set aside the other week.’ Miriam’s mother moves to the foot of bed and raises both arms so that Mrs Ferguson’s vision is full of her and the red coat.
‘It suits you. Red’s your colour.’ She closes her eyes and says, ‘I’ve had the hell of a time.’
‘You poor thing. Don’t talk about it if it’s painful.’ Miriam’s mother scampers back to Mrs Ferguson’s side and begins to stroke her forehead.
‘I want to talk about it. Doctor says it’s therapeutic. Don’t bottle things up, he says.’
‘There, there,’ says Miriam’s mother. ‘Margaret, be a lovey and get a vase. See the flowers, Veronica. All your favourite pastels.’
‘Yes, very nice, but can I tell my tale or not?’
‘In your own good time. No apples or grapes?’
Found vase and filled it with water. Mrs Ferguson just embarking on story.
‘... standing at the bus stop outside Barclays Bank, just tucking my money into my inner sanctum,’ (Mrs Ferguson pats an area between her breasts), ‘when this old chap, he must have been at least my age, raced past me on one of those mobility scooters and grabbed the money out of my hand. Hared off at top speed with it.’
‘And the blighter knocked you down?’ Miriam’s mother asks, moving the Golden Rod to the back of the vase.
‘No. I waved my walking stick at him and yelled “Stop thief”, and as I raised my stick the bus came up behind me and knocked it out of my hand.’
‘And you with it, I’ve no doubt?’ Miriam’s mother says, opening Mrs Ferguson’s bedside cabinet and peering inside.
‘No. I bent to retrieve my stick. I should know better than to bend down with cataracts because then, would you believe it, I fell over?’
‘Oh I’d believe anything. This is a very nice bed jacket. New or Hospice?’
‘New. Toppled into the gap between the pavement and the bus. I could have been killed. Luckily the doors closed on my coat, which meant only my leg was trapped. If I’d gone headfirst I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.’
‘Well,’ said Miriam’s mother. ‘There’s a grand adventure. What do we do for refreshments?’
October 29th
While Miriam away I’m working full time. Am almost in a secure financial position. Will consider giving up Russell’s cleaning job nearer Christmas. Wonder why I’m so reluctant to leave? Possible masochistic fascination with Lorraine Carter, who now completely ignores me. Left mop head very dirty for five days in hope of tempting an outburst. Nothing. I am beneath her contempt at the moment. Might even consider breaking bucket. Did not go to October’s Supperette Club, but may go to November’s.
October 30th
Met Deirdre at Bittlesea Bay Cafe. Said she’d also received a post card from Janice. Found myself asking, ‘Did she mention my name?’
Deirdre looked surprised. ‘No. The card was for me, nothing to do with you. Why would she mention you?’
Own post uninspiring. Autumn bulb catalogue offering me a free cuckoo clock with every order over fifty pounds and a leaflet for Damart nightwear. Feel I must be getting old as actually toyed with ordering two pairs of long johns and matching vests. Thought that, if I ordered, the day I put on Damart long john underwear would be the day I would meet the new love of my life who would then be sadly disappointed as I slipped seductively out of outer clothes and began struggling with tight fitting long johns; however, if I didn’t tempt fate then I would never meet the new love of my life and get that opportunity to be embarrassed. Filled in form and cheque. Destroyed form and cheque. Destroyed Damart leaflet.
November
November 2nd
Check emails. Friends Reunited telling me I now have seven school friends waiting to speak to me. Who are these people? Have never had seven school friends. Check before deleting. Weed, weed, bully, big head, unknown, weed. Delete. Am always hopeful that Linda Hughes from primary school might want to get in touch. I was never a great friend of hers, nor even a minor one; I admired her from afar. Have hopes that one day Linda H might look back over the years and wonder what happened to cheery Margaret Charlecote. But not today. Also a message from the Bittlesea Bay Badger etc announcing a talk by Mr Raymond Wheeler on December 1st. Says talk will be advertised in the What’s On section of the Listening Ear.
November 3rd
Visited Mrs Ferguson in hospital without Miriam’s mother. Mrs Ferguson asleep but Mr Ferguson was there. A white-haired chap, distinguished looking. Talk was of Noreen and Peter’s Christmas wedding. Peter has been promoted to manager and Noreen is starting a word processing course at the local college.
Mr Ferguson said, ‘What about you Margaret, you’re leaving it a bit late?’
Explained evasively that I had once been engaged to Ronald but I’d lost him.
‘Falklands War?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘To another.’
‘Bad luck. Plenty more fish in the sea. You should join a club.’
Mrs Ferguson’s eyelids fluttered open. ‘Margaret’s a lesbian you fool,’ she said.
‘A what?’
‘A lesbian. It’s all the fashion these days.’
Gave Mr Ferguson a sickly smile. Mr Ferguson looked very disappointed in me, looked about to make a citizen’s arrest.
‘Good Grief,’ he said. ‘Dear oh dear oh dear. Ladylike woman like you.’
November 5th
Bonfire night. Firework display on cliff top overlooking Bittlesea Bay Cafe. Went en masse with Miriam and her vicar, Deirdre and Martin. Martin protested that he hated crowds, hated children, hated babies, pushchairs, fresh air, and found the night sky infinitely depressing.
Vicar prompted to expound on God’s infinity, likening it to a night sky or any sky for that matter.
‘God’s what?’ Martin roars. (Not from anger, only to be heard over the shouting voices of about five hundred people.)
‘His infinity. It’s enormous. Limitless. Without end.’
‘I know what infinity means vicar...’
‘Infinity, infinitely. These long words make you t
hink, don’t they?’ Deirdre interjects, scenting a possible locking of Martin’s horns with vicar’s dog collar.
Whoosh! Goes the first rocket, exploding into a fountain of red stars.
‘Quick,’ Deirdre shouts. ‘We’re not in place yet.’
She dashes at the crowd. The crowd, although standing with its back to Deirdre, senses her rapid approach and parts like the Red Sea. We rush through in Deirdre’s jet stream to arrive breathless at the very front of the crowd and perilously near to the cliff edge.
‘Should we be pushing in?’ Miriam asks of anyone.
‘Yes,’ says Martin. ‘Otherwise I’d be forced to go home immediately.’
‘Bad feng shui to stand behind people,’ Deirdre says, which I know she has just made up.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Crackle! Crackle! Phizz! More fireworks. The infinitely depressing night sky is lit up by brilliant shining stars falling in the shapes of flowers, palm trees and more stars. We, the crowd, lift up our faces as if the stars are magical drops of rain.
‘Ooh!’ we chorus. ‘Aah.’ Some ‘Bravos’. From Deirdre, ‘Fan-bloody-tastic!’
Miriam and the vicar are grinning like children, their faces transfixed, transported.
‘Don’t look at them, look at the fireworks, you ninny,’ Deirdre says.
A good evening. Pub after. No arguments. All mellow. Martin tells his Mussolini joke. We laugh. Me and Deirdre find it even more side-splitting now that we’ve heard it at least fifteen times.
November 7th
Phone call from Mr Wheeler. There is something he’d like to discuss. Whenever convenient. 7.30pm. this evening would suit him very well. Have become quite at home in Mr Wheeler’s kitchen, but for the first time ever he invites me into the lounge. There is a roaring log fire, two comfortable armchairs, one on either side, and a tray with two sherry glasses and a decanter sitting on a circular coffee table.
‘I don’t hold with crisps,’ he says.
‘Me neither,’ I reply, just to be affable.
‘Well, sit down. I could offer you a plain digestive biscuit - that’s rather nice with sherry.’
Say no, a sherry on its own would be ...just the ticket. Can see from Mr Wheeler’s expression he approves of this phrase.
‘It’s Harvey’s,’ he says.
‘Excellent.’ Refrain from smacking lips but do manage to look thrilled. Seated in armchairs, sherries poured, we pause. Mr Wheeler scrutinizes the carpet pattern as if pattern holds answer to esoteric mysteries. I also look. Pattern old-fashioned enough to be almost cutting edge: orange and yellow autumn leaves on an olive green background. In process of formulating an admiring comment when Mr Wheeler says, ‘I suppose you know I’m doing this talk.’
‘I wasn’t sure if it was you.’
He shrugs his shoulders irritably. ‘Yes it is me, although why they had to use my first name - I can’t stand Raymond.’
‘It’s not a bad name...’
‘It’s not a name I’d have chosen.’ Steely glint in Mr Wheeler’s eyes. Feel this is not the time to express my own aversion to name of Margaret.
‘What I wanted to know, Margaret, was whether you’d mind if I used your badger anecdote in my talk? Also I’d like to take a snap of your back gate. Show the kind of damage badgers are capable of when desperate.’
‘This is going to be a positive talk about badgers isn’t it?’ I gulp sherry. Do not want to fall out with Mr Wheeler, but have realised over past months that there can be a hard-nosed, unsentimental side to him.
‘Of course it will be a positive talk,’ he barks. ‘Why ever would I give a negative talk? I like badgers god damnit!’ He puts his glass down with quite a bang on the tray and rubs his forehead.
‘Are you all right, Mr Wheeler?’
‘Not really. To be frank, preparing for this talk has brought back memories.’ He vigorously attacks the fire with a poker. Don’t know what to say, so sip sherry and wait.
‘Years ago, in my wife’s time, there was a badger run through all our back gardens. This was before the gardens were fenced off. The badgers were something the two of us had in common. We’d sit in the kitchen with the house lights off and watch them. Badgers are very playful and affectionate with each other; it was a pleasure, almost an honour to be allowed to watch.’ He pulls out a large check handkerchief and blows his nose; says, ‘Oh heck, Margaret, I’m sorry about this. Look, all I wanted to know was whether you minded me using your anecdote; I didn’t intend to give you my life history.’
‘Please go on,’ I say gently.
‘Not much to tell. Nothing that makes me look very decent. After she left I was the first one in this block of six houses to put up a fence. You see I didn’t care about badgers any more. I didn’t want to sit and look at them on my own. They broke through those fences. Do you know what I did next?’
I shook my head.
‘I lined the fence at the point where they were breaking through with sheet metal. That stopped them.’
‘I’ve never noticed any metal on my side.’
‘It’s there. On my side. Going right down into the earth.’
‘Well we must remove it...if that’s okay with you?’
‘That won’t bring the badgers back.’
‘But it’s the principal. So if they wanted to come back they could.’
He says, ‘You are a woolly minded liberal Margaret.’
‘There are worse things to be.’
Mr Wheeler and his badger story have upset me. Here I am writing sad tales again when I’d somehow hoped for a better run-up to Christmas. Have spent some time thinking about Mr Wheeler and the parallels, if any, that can be drawn. Actually hope there won’t be any parallels. Am determined not to box myself in like he did. I will move on from Georgie!
Put badger talk in diary. Wednesday 1st of December. Thinks: might make a party of it. Wonder whether to ask Janice. Pick up telephone and dial half her number. Replace the receiver.
November 9th
Good news! Lorraine Carter is leaving.
November 10th
Miriam tells me in strictest confidence that she and the vicar plan to buy a house next year. Do not immediately say ‘What about your mother?’ as this might diminish Miriam’s recently discovered enthusiasm for life.
Say instead, ‘What a fabulous idea. Where abouts?’
‘Nowhere in particular as yet; first we need funds.’
Nod sympathetically. Encouraged, Miriam asks me to a clothing party which the vicar is holding. A clothing party? Vicar will have a rail of women’s clothes, a brochure, a size chart and a video. I, as one of the fortunate customers, will have ‘the opportunity to buy at cost price plus vicar’s commission various spring outfits in the latest fashion styles’.
Explain that, though happy to support clothing party, latest fashion styles may not be my own personal style.
‘Oh don’t be such a kill-joy, Margaret; your image could do with some updating.’
On way home mull over Miriam’s personal style. Adjectives spring to mind: dowdy, rugged and washed-out.
November 12th
Miriam says vicar investigating possibilities of pyramid selling scheme and krugerrands. Do not want to be accused of being a kill-joy so look animated. Miriam says vicar has a first class financial head on her shoulders. Respond with strange whistling sound.
November 13th
Meet Deirdre at Bittlesea Bay Cafe at Deirdre’s request. Not her usual cheery tone of voice; more peremptory order to one of her many subordinates as in cleaner, Morag and/or Vera. When I arrive she is already ensconced, her back to the view, hands folded over a lime green raffia handbag. Looks up at me unsmilingly and says, ‘You’re in the chair. Earl Grey as per usual...and a scone...with jam...and cream.’
‘What about the muesli and okra diet?’
Gives me a cool stare. ‘What about it? You forgot that one didn’t you? Constant dieters or inconstant dieters?’
Express bewilderment while experiencing s
light queasiness in stomach. Consider option of collapsing gracefully on floor with recurrence of mini-breakdown, but cafe floor is very muddy and I’m wearing my new fleece-lined denim jacket. By the time I return to the table with the tray, Deirdre has unfolded a copy of the Listening Ear and opened it at the Letters page. One letter is ringed in red.
Dear Listening Ear, skateboarders, train spotters, surf boarders, cyclists, mobile phone users, mobility scooter users, Baby on Boarders, table monopolizers, dog owners, Pot Noodle eaters, Martin J. Storm troopers, four wheel drive drivers, electric blanketeers, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all - I would be interested to know your opinions re. the decision to turn our one cinema into a multi-plex and pizzeria? Surely corporate business money would be better spent in providing a Wild Life Park or a Wild West Rodeo? May the Force be with you A. Oakley, Jedi Knight.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’ she says as I pour her tea.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Mobile phone users and Pot Noodle eaters. You are the only person I know without a mobile and we are the only couple you know who were on a Pot Noodle diet for the best part of the Millennium year.’
‘That doesn’t mean it’s me.’
‘Jedi Knight?’
‘That doesn’t mean it’s me.’
‘I think it does.’
‘What does Martin think?’
‘He thinks it’s the librarian who turned nasty when he left our car parked across the library disabled bays while we were on holiday.’
‘It was just a bit of fun, Deirdre, that got out of hand.’