by Maeve Haran
Now where was that damn camera? The last time she could actually remember having it in her hand was when they went mushroom picking. Could she have given it to Julia to put in her parka pocket?
The thought of ringing Julia and asking her made Ella droop. Losing a camera would be added to the growing Signs of Senility she suspected Julia and Neil were mentally drawing up.
The sight of a large and pretentious car arriving outside her front door settled the argument. It was her daughter and son-in-law arriving to drop off her Christmas present. Julia was one of those women who bought presents throughout the year and had them all wrapped and tagged by about July. Another sign, in Ella’s view, that she didn’t have enough to do in her life.
‘Julia! Neil!’ She opened the front door and stood with a smile that was all the more welcoming because she was putting on a bit of an act. Being natural with Neil was too difficult; she just ended up wanting to kill the man. So she put on her Delighted Mother-in-Law face instead. It was somehow easier all round. ‘Come in.’ She looked at the enormous package, wrapped in purple foil and festooned with a bow. ‘Gosh, how exciting.’
‘Don’t get too carried away,’ dampened Neil. ‘It’s only a shopping trolley. Julia thought it might be useful for you so you don’t need to take the car out all the time.’
This, she knew, was a disguised dig at the car park incident, and she couldn’t help wishing her daughter had got her a present without a hidden agenda.
‘How lovely and useful.’ She wondered if it would be leopard skin like the one Sal had got Claudia to take to the country, but doubted it. Julia, sadly, wasn’t the type for witty presents. This one would be a tasteful tartan, probably in dark green or blue, something suitable for old ladies.
‘Cup of coffee?’
‘Actually,’ Neil commented pointedly, ‘we’re on our way to the bank manager. He wants to discuss our overdraft.’
If he was hoping for Ella to reach for her chequebook, he was going about it the wrong way. She even began to wonder if the early arrival of the Christmas present might be a tactic in their guilt-tripping war of attrition. If so, then a tartan shopping trolley was hardly much of an inducement.
Ella glanced out of the kitchen window at Neil’s ludicrous car and it was on the tip of her tongue to quip, ‘Of course, you could sell the four by four.’
‘By the way, Julia, you haven’t by any chance seen my camera?’
Neil rolled his eyes, mentally adding this memory lapse to the others in his collection, while Julia made a big show of searching in her handbag.
‘Sorry,’ she shrugged eventually, ‘not guilty.’
‘It’s so irritating,’ Ella persisted. ‘It’s nearly new and I hadn’t downloaded the photographs from it yet.’
‘That was silly,’ pointed out Neil, who was the kind of man who had back-ups of everything on his key-ring.
‘You’re sure you haven’t seen it?’
Julia shook her head.
‘Funny. The last time I had it was when we went to the woods with Wenceslaus. Before he got ill.’
Julia stared out of the window as if some especially fascinating event was happening there.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Neil suggested. ‘Maybe he’s sold it.’
‘Neil!’ flashed Julia with sudden spirit, ‘don’t be bloody ridiculous. That isn’t even funny.’
‘I didn’t mean it to be,’ Neil replied coldly. ‘There’s something I don’t like about that chap. I mean, what does he actually do for his free rent? He’s never even here, as far as I can see.’
‘That’s because he’s found himself a job.’
‘Bet he doesn’t pay any taxes. None of these people do. They come here, take all the young people’s jobs, bung up the NHS, overcrowd the schools, then they make a bit of cash and what do they do? Put it back into our economy? No – send it home to build a big house for when they leave.’
‘Good heavens, Neil,’ Ella couldn’t keep the edge of annoyance out of her voice despite her best efforts, ‘I had no idea you were so eloquent. Maybe you should stand for politics.’
‘Maybe I should. Do better than the current lot, that’s for sure. Anyway, if he’s earning, why isn’t he paying rent?’
‘He offered, as a matter of fact,’ Ella was determined not to sound defensive. This was her house, not theirs. ‘I said no. I would rather have his practical help and computer advice plus the reassurance of having him around than ask him for rent.’
‘Good deal for him.’ How did he always manage to make it sound as if she was being taken for a ride when the truth was she loved having Wenceslaus here?
‘And for me too. As a matter of fact, it works brilliantly. Far more people who want to stay in their own homes should do it. It’s a really good solution. You get companionship, security and help with DIY all in one. In fact, now I’ve got Wenceslaus,’ Ella added naughtily, ‘I may never have to move. Now, isn’t it time you got off to see the bank manager?’
She waved them goodbye, as she always did to her guests, standing under the elegant Georgian portico at the top of her front steps. As she was about to go back inside she heard Neil’s murmured remark to Julia as they got in the car. ‘Really, that bloody Pole’s got far too much of a hold over your mother. You ought to watch him. With the access he’s got he could get up to anything.’
Julia, for her part, was staring out of the window as if she didn’t exist on the same planet as he did.
Ella shut the door, seething. But at least she’d just had another idea for a blog. She rushed upstairs, turned on her screen and began to write.
THE ANSWER TO BEING OLD AND LONELY IS INVITING A STRANGER INTO YOUR HOME
OK, so it might sound a bit weird, but she’d explain it in the blog and – she had to admit – it was certainly eye-catching.
Sal lay in bed feeling utterly exhausted. She hadn’t really understood until now what cancer sufferers meant when they said it wasn’t the disease that made you feel ill, it was the treatment.
Apart from how terrible she felt, her time at the magazine had been a big success. Rose and Michael liked her ideas, the staff seemed to accept her, and she was really enjoying taking something already good and making it better. Best of all, she’d discovered, it was fun to write for a market she was so in tune with.
Sometimes it was hard to explain to the young quite how heady the Sixties had been. Of course, to understand their dizzy liberation, you had to have experienced what went before – the unutterably dull and deathly decade of the 1950s. When Sal, Claudia, Laura and Ella had started university, it felt as if everything was changing: marriage, convention, what women did with their lives. It had been the birth of the Me Generation and now the Me Generation was growing old. Could she, Sal, help map out the route for them?
Suddenly full of energy at the excitement of it all, she got out of bed and looked out at the sunny winter’s morning, feeling that life was good after all. She had a job, a flat, close friends. So what if she also had cancer?
She shampooed her hair and wrapped it in a towel to dry while she did her make-up, wondering what to wear. She had started a New Grey fashion page in the magazine, calling it ‘I Shall Wear Purple’ in homage to the wonderful poem by Jenny Joseph about growing old disgracefully, and had a few of the clothes to try out.
Just time to dry her hair. Sal removed the towel, got out her hairbrush and began to brush. When she put the brush down she gasped. It was full of strands of red-gold hair. She knew this might happen despite the cold cap, and yet she’d still prayed she’d avoid it. Sal dropped her head into her hands and wept, not even daring to look into her dressing-table mirror. It was so sodding unfair. Getting cancer at all and, even worse, getting it now. Would she even get the chance to grow old, disgracefully or not?
She opened her hands and looked at herself boldly in the mirror. ‘You look like a red setter with mange!’
Reaching for the wig on its stand she carefully pinned up her own remaining h
air, just as the shop assistant had done and pulled the wig carefully onto her head. It was remarkably convincing. If anyone at New Grey guessed and asked her why she was wearing a wig, she’d just tell them she had to look good as an editor and washing her hair every morning was too much trouble.
She had no idea how long she could keep up this charade. And yet she had to. Some people, like Rachel, might be able to wear their cancer with pride, and she admired them greatly, but she wasn’t one of them. Others spent all day online, trying to find out every last thing about the disease, its treatments, which hospital or doctor offered the greatest hope, and she could see the attraction of that. But that wasn’t for her either. For Sal there was only one sensible course: to pretend the whole thing wasn’t happening.
She smiled crookedly at her own reflection. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being in denial,’ she told herself out loud. ‘It’s stood me in good stead all my life and I’m not going to give up on it now.’
It was the final session of Relationship Recovery today and Laura was feeling amazed at how quickly it had gone. She had always been sceptical about the value of something like this, and wary both of psychobabble and touchy-feely emotional incontinence, but she had come to the conclusion that joining a group was valuable in itself. Maybe it was because you felt: Oh my God, my life’s better than X’s – or perhaps it was because in a group you were all in the same boat. It was also, Laura had found, much easier to spot other people’s disastrous relationship patterns than your own.
But actually, working in the shop had done her just as much good, she was convinced, as coming to the group. And they paid her as opposed to the other way round.
‘Right, everyone,’ Suzanne clapped her hands, ‘can we all sit down in the circle? We don’t want to waste our last session, do we?’ She looked eagerly round the group. ‘I would like you all to say, in just one sentence, what you’ve got out of coming.’ She smiled indulgently at her co-leader. ‘It doesn’t have to be flattering. Stephen and I are strong enough to take it, but it should be honest. Louise,’ she addressed the amazing divorcing octogenarian, ‘why don’t you start?’
Louise thought for a moment. As she did so a ray of sunshine caught and illuminated the hairs on her chin. ‘I suppose what I’ve learned, listening to you lot,’ she seemed to be looking straight at Laura, ‘is that people put up with too much for the sake of security. I did myself. Then I stopped. And do you know what, it’s been absolutely fine.’ The others began to clap. ‘Except,’ Louise added, ‘that my daughter won’t speak to me. But then she’s nearly sixty herself and dull as a wet Wednesday in Wigan.’
Laura smiled at her. She was a wise old bird.
‘What about you, Gerald?’
‘Bloody waste of time, the whole thing. My wife was in the wrong, end of story.’
‘She had a lucky escape, if you ask me,’ Louise murmured.
‘Rich, have you learned anything these last six weeks?’
‘The thing is,’ Rich replied with alarming candour, ‘I don’t really like women. I mean, I’m not gay or anything, but I just prefer the company of blokes, so I think I’ll just stay out of relationships, if you know what I mean.’
‘Laura, your turn.’
Laura found that Louise was watching her closely.
‘The odd thing is,’ Laura realized the truth of this as she said it, ‘I don’t feel bitter any more. Maybe it’s because my daughter’s going to have a baby and I’m still overwhelmed by that. I feel angry. I feel it’s a waste. But at the same time I know my marriage wasn’t as good as I’d told myself, so losing it doesn’t seem as bad as it did. Maybe I just needed to believe it was good, as Louise says, because I wanted the security. I feel, almost, ready to – I loathe the words “move on” – but certainly to open myself up a bit, look forward, not back. That’s it.’
‘Lastly, it’s your turn, Calum.’
Calum was looking at Laura. ‘I must admit, I think Laura’s an incredible woman; the fact that she can be so calm and philosophical—’
‘Don’t worry, Calum,’ Laura chipped in, ‘I still want his head on a plate.’
They all laughed.
Calum continued. ‘I suppose I’ve learned that I’m quite egotistical.’
‘Come again?’ asked Rich.
‘Selfish,’ Calum stated baldly. ‘I didn’t really think about my wife’s needs, only mine. If I was starting out again, I’d try to remedy that.’
‘Good,’ Suzanne congratulated. ‘Remember the tools for your relationship recovery are in your own hands. I want you to give yourselves a clap!’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ Louise protested.
‘Now I’d like you all to take each other’s hands and, since it’s nearly Christmas, sing “Auld Lang Syne” together . . .’
‘I thought that was New Year,’ whispered Louise.
‘. . . to cement a long-lasting sense of friendship and trust between you.’
‘Do you think you’ll ever see any of these people again?’ Louise asked with a wicked grin, taking Laura’s hand as instructed.
‘No, never,’ Laura admitted, suddenly aware of Calum’s gaze. ‘You?’
‘Me neither. For the sake of auld lang syne!’
As they shook hands with Stephen and Suzanne and hugged the other members of the group, Laura noticed Calum waiting for her by the door.
‘Fancy that coffee? Or are you serious about never seeing us again?’
Laura smiled and shook her head. It had been a mistake when she’d invited him. It was too soon. She was, as the members of Alcoholics Anonymous might put it, ‘in recovery’, but she wasn’t recovered yet. And she didn’t want to bounce from one mistake to another, even if Calum had acquired some self-knowledge compared to Simon.
‘Not just now. I think we’ve probably got too much baggage.’
‘Why don’t you ask young Rich,’ Louise suggested naughtily, ‘he wants to spend more time with other men.’
After Calum had gone, Laura felt a sense of relief. She was only just getting back a sense of equilibrium, and it was such a wonderful feeling that she didn’t want to risk another bad relationship.
‘I think you made the right choice,’ Louise murmured. ‘For now. Get your balance back. But can I make a suggestion? If he asks you later, say yes. You’re a nice woman and I think he may be quite a good bet.’
‘For nice read doormat?’
‘For nice read nice. Have a happy Christmas.’
‘You too.’ It was only now, only today, that she felt she could actually start looking forward to her first Christmas without Simon.
And she might be calm and philosophical but she still hoped he would have a shitty Christmas with his demanding new mistress.
Claudia stared into space, in two minds about what to do. She had decided to sign up for the choir and was wondering if she should encourage Don to do the same.
She was actually beginning to enjoy the village, especially the preparations for Christmas. There would be carol singing and a get-together to distribute everyone’s cards, ending up in the pub. Most things in Minsley, she’d found, seemed to end up in the pub.
Don, on the other hand, seemed not to want to get involved.
The only place he seemed truly happy was the dump. Ever since she’d sent him down there with a load of cardboard he’d fallen in love with the place. He had even made friends with the staff who had filled him with Fascinating Facts About Refuse, with the result that he was now busy completely reorganizing their rubbish disposal. ‘Think about it, Claudia, each person in the UK throws away their body weight in rubbish every seven weeks! That’s thirty-three million tonnes a year, enough each day to fill Trafalgar Square up to the height of Nelson’s Column!’
Claudia tried to visualize Trafalgar Square buried in McDonald’s wrappers and old pizza boxes. She’d already heard about ‘fat bergs’ of congealed grease in the sewers underneath. Minsley seemed even more attractive by comparison.
‘An
d did you know, one glass bottle could power your laptop for twenty-five minutes?’
She had been going to try and persuade him to join her at the choir but since he’d announced his intention of constructing an ingenious system of boxes so they could start their new recycled life, Don, she could see, was a man on a mission of his own.
In a way it was a relief. For reasons she didn’t want to explore too deeply she decided she wanted to keep the choir as her separate interest. The attractive choir master had nothing to do with it.
By the time she arrived at the school where the choir practised, the queue just to sign up for the term snaked right along the corridor and down the stairs. It was, as she’d expected, mainly women her age, but there were a few really old ladies, Betty included, and also a surprising number of young ones, in their teens and twenties.
Less than a third were men.
‘That’s pretty good,’ confided Betty in a loud stage whisper. ‘You don’t get many men joining amateur choirs. Too busy telling other people what to think in the pub. Are you an alto or a soprano?’
Claudia nodded hesitantly. ‘I don’t know. I was never allowed to sing at all at school so I never got the chance to find out, but when I sing along with Abba my voice sounds quite high to me.’
‘No Abba here. Actually, we could do with a bit of “Mamma Mia” sometimes. It can get a little bit serious.’
Claudia began to wonder what she’d got herself into. She’d been hoping for something jolly and spirit-lifting, rather than Wagner and Stockhausen.
‘Hello, everyone.’ Daniel Forrest smiled around genially. It was cold in the hall and he looked well-wrapped up in his cashmere with his tartan scarf still tied in the European way. ‘Shall we get warmed up?’