Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  ‘What was he doing?’ she asks excitedly. She’s a big fan of his.

  ‘He was…mmmm… he was picking at his polystyrene cup.’

  ‘Oh.’ She doesn’t seem too impressed. Then she adds, ‘Come on, come on, tell me all about the scenes you were in, Alice. They sound really romantic’.

  ‘Yes, they were,’ I agree happily, thinking of how Mel had stared deep into Julia Robbins’s eyes. I’d just got a quick glance at them because I was supposed to be chatting to the woman in a bonnet. But one glance was enough.

  After Annie has quizzed me about Mel and Julia for at least half an hour, I tell her about my swim in the river. ‘Ah, yes, that sounds like the old Alice,’ she smiles.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I give her a quick, almost fearful glance.

  ‘Oh – oh nothing. It sounds fun, that’s all,’ she replies, suddenly bashful. It’s as if she’s said something she hadn’t meant to say. Something she’s been thinking for some time. Friends do that sometimes. They let something slip and you realize they’ve formed some opinion about you that they haven’t shared. They may allude to it indirectly, but they don’t want to be too blunt. Maybe they sense you’re not ready to hear it, but it tends to leak out anyway.

  I don’t press her for an explanation about the ‘old Alice’ she’s referred to. I know what she means. She has known me for so long she can remember happier, carefree times. Younger days when swimming in my undies wasn’t that uncommon. Days when she and I laughed wildly as Aaron chased us with a frog he’d caught. We weren’t even frightened of frogs, we just liked the squealing. Afterwards we’d let the frog go. We’d watch it hopping away and Annie would say, ‘Maybe we should have kissed it.’ But, like her, I don’t want to talk about all that now.

  ‘Yes, swimming in that river was fun,’ I agree. ‘After- wards, when we had a drink outside a pub, I didn’t even have any knickers on.’

  ‘Good for you!’ she chuckles approvingly. ‘When you meet your Mr Wonderful you must do that again. Whisper to him that you’re not wearing any knickers when you’re in a restaurant. He won’t want dessert, I can tell you. It will drive him wild.’

  ‘Really,’ I say. Annie has many useful tips regarding seduction. ‘Maybe I should try it with Eamon.’

  She doesn’t reply.

  After Annie has gone I decide to pay Mrs Peabody a quick visit. I must say I’m curious to see how Cyril and his new partner Dora are getting on. I rather hope they’ve found true love like Mel and Julia. But, as soon as I go into Mrs Peabody’s sitting-room and look into their cage, it is rather clear they haven’t.

  Cyril is staying very stubbornly in a corner. He seems to be taking no interest whatsoever in his new partner.

  ‘He’s just shy,’ Mrs Peabody explains. ‘He’s not used to company you see, dear. Just give him time.’

  What Mrs Peabody can’t discern because of her poor eyesight is that Cyril is not only ‘shy’, he is also darting frequent hostile looks in Dora’s direction. He looks like he’d like to eat her. Literally.

  ‘Maybe his years alone have made him too fussy,’ I comment, aware that this is something that has often been said of myself. ‘Maybe he’s holding out for Pamela Anderson.’ As I say this a soft ‘feck’ emanates from Dora and Mrs Peabody goes over to her.

  ‘Yes, p e c k – peck – dear,’ she says carefully. ‘You just need to get that first letter right.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Let’s have a little sherry, shall we?’ She’s grown rather partial to sherry recently, and I must say I’m quite fond of it myself.

  ‘OK,’ I agree swiftly. She fetches the bottle and I get the glasses. As we sit, sipping our Harvey’s Bristol Cream, I reflect that I, and Mrs Peabody, and even Mira and Eamon seem to be drinking rather more than we used to. Eamon really dug into the alcohol on our recent dinner date, and Mira has become very keen on red wine. She’s taken to reading up about it in the Sunday newspapers and says if you’re prepared to spend ‘just that little bit extra’ you can get surprisingly good vintages. We have it with dinner almost every evening now. We sort of waddle into the sitting-room afterwards and slump contentedly on to armchairs. I think we’re going to have to buy a bit more Aqua Libra. I really don’t want us to turn into the kind of people who look at their watches and say, ‘Ah, it’s 11 a.m. Time for a little tipple before lunch.’ That kind of thing can happen quite easily and I’m beginning to understand why. Drink takes the edge off one’s worries. It makes things seem more simple. Mellow. It hides things from you. Am I hiding something from myself? No, of course not. It’s just a habit. That’s all it is.

  ‘Liam is such a nice young man, isn’t he?’ Mrs Peabody suddenly announces as I struggle to open a packet of peanuts she has offered me.

  ‘Mmmm – well – he’s certainly…’ I pause. What is he ‘certainly’? Irritating? Yes, that is one word I would use to describe him.

  ‘He was over here just now helping me move the garden seat,’ Mrs Peabody continues. ‘He just pops by like that sometimes. He’s very obliging.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say, wishing she’d shut up about him.

  ‘He was telling me that he was born in Ireland but his parents emigrated to America when he was four. He was brought up in New York and returned here in his late teens.’

  ‘Oh, how interesting,’ I comment politely, though I don’t find it interesting at all. I am staring at Cyril and Dora. I think Dora is more interested in Cyril than he is in her. She looks at him quickly, hopefully sometimes, but he doesn’t respond. For some reason this reminds me of James Mitchel. Oh, bugger it anyway, why did I phone him?

  ‘Liam’s a primary school teacher,’ Mrs Peabody is now telling me. ‘He works in the inner city. I think he finds it a bit sad sometimes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, most of the kids he teaches come from poor backgrounds. He wishes things were easier for them. He says they’re lovely now, but he doesn’t know how they’ll turn out later. There’s just so much he can do for them.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I must say I’m a bit surprised to hear that Liam is a teacher. That puts him in a slightly different light. He seems to have a social conscience too, but he and Elsie don’t seem to have much of a conscience about each other. I wonder if I should tell Mrs Peabody this, but I decide not to. Her friendship with him is obviously important to her. She probably sits there and tells him about me. I hope to goodness she doesn’t go into too much detail.

  ‘Well, Mrs Peabody, I suppose I’d better go,’ I say, after I’ve emptied my glass for the fourth time. She tends to fill it up when you’re not looking. Bits of it have spilt – her aim isn’t as accurate as it used to be. I give the table a quick rub with my paper hankie and help her bring the bottle and glasses back into the kitchen. Then I waddle back to the cottage. Why on earth did I drink all that sherry? I should have held on to my glass – that way she couldn’t have got at it.

  As soon as I reach the kitchen I make myself a strong cup of Gold Blend coffee. I think I only buy that brand because of the romantic ads for it, which of course is quite ridiculous. Men don’t seek you out in that manner. They don’t track you down just because you have their preferred blend of dry roasted coffee beans. Life would be so much easier if they did, but they don’t. My goodness, we humans are so impressionable. Dear old Mrs Peabody gave everyone ‘Ferrero Rocher’ chocolates last Christmas because the ads convinced her they were the ‘Sign of Good Taste’.

  As I drink my coffee I re-read a letter from Eamon. It arrived on Friday and contained an architectural sketch. Eamon has decided that if we do marry he will build me an artist’s studio. It will be at the back of his house and the designs for it look wonderful. He’s obviously given it a lot of thought. I look at the sketch again, trying to get excited about it – I’ve always wanted a studio of my own – but I find myself yawning instead. It must be all that alcohol. Perhaps I should eat a biscuit.

  As I reach into the cupboard for the chocolate digestives I look at Tarquin. He’
s dozing on his cushion. Every so often he stretches his paws luxuriously and gives a little yawn. He knows a lot about contentment. I’d better learn something about it too. For the cheery, carefree, playful Alice who swam in that river seems very far away suddenly. Was it reading Eamon’s letter that suddenly changed my mood? No, of course it wasn’t. I’m thrilled about that studio. Delighted. It shows what a really nice man Eamon is. I bet James Mitchel wouldn’t build a special studio for me. No – no – I mustn’t think about James Mitchel now. If I’m not careful I’ll slip into my Cyril mode.

  I turn on the radio, desperate for distraction. I’m hoping for something chatty and cultural but Cyndi Lauper singing ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ blasts around the room instead. I’m about to turn the dial to another station when I decide not to. At least it’s cheery. I turn down the volume and tap my fingers to the beat. ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun tum tum tee tum’ I find myself humming as I rise and reach for a J-cloth. The counter tops are in need of a good wipe. Tarquin likes sitting on them, even though I scold him about it. His paw marks are clearly visible. I squirt some Mr Proper at them and start to scrub, and as I do so I find myself tapping my feet and jiggling around a bit. It’s like there’s a dance inside me that’s itching to get out. Yes, this is more like the ‘old Alice’ Annie spoke of. She was obviously there all the time. She was just waiting for her cue. I feel honky and funky suddenly. I feel like a woman in an open-topped convertible cruising along a palm-fringed highway on MTV. As I begin to gyrate to the music, Tarquin stares at me warily. He has studied me long enough to know these movements are not connected with Whiskas.

  This is great. How long is it since I danced alone like this? I see the moustache I wore on the film lying on a shelf and grab it. Should I put it on? Yes, why not! Just for a bit of fun. ‘Men always make passes at girls with moustaches,’ I sing as I look out at the garden happily. Even the nasturtiums seem to be dancing in the light summer breeze. I twirl the J-cloth dramatically in the air above and shout ‘Ye ha!’ and then I realize something… I realize Liam is watching me. I halt in mid-twirl. I stand very still and watch him back.

  Just for a moment it seems as though the world has stopped turning. As though there is only us, staring at each other, over the boundary wall.

  ‘The little bollocks,’ I mutter to myself. ‘The cheek of him, watching me like that.’ I duck and cower beside my distressed-pine table. How long has he been standing there? Oh, no, and I’m wearing the moustache too! The humiliation of it! Tarquin looks at me sympathetically. Then he heads towards his food bowl and gives me a hopeful look.

  ‘Can’t you ever get off the subject of food!’ I reprimand him irritatedly. ‘You’re just like James Mitchel and ceramics.’

  After some minutes it occurs to me that I cannot spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on the floor by the cooker. It’s quite ridiculous. I rise and peer gingerly up at Liam’s window. Oh, thank goodness, he’s gone. I must put up those net curtains soon. I simply cannot have Liam snooping on me like this.

  As I get on with my cleaning I feel a bit self-conscious. It is just possible that Liam is now peering out at me secretively – though this is highly unlikely of course. Even so I seem to feel the need to compensate for my prior wantonness. I try to summon the serene poise of, say, Nigella Lawson, as I scrub and polish and dust. If there was a cake in the room I’d definitely decorate it.

  Oh, no, the phone is ringing! Mira must get it. Is she in her bedroom? I really hope she is. ‘Mira – phone!’ I screech. I couldn’t talk to James now, even though I know he’ll never phone me. I know this with great certainty, and yet every time I reach for the receiver I’m sure it’s him. I even practise my lines before I pick it up. I can now say ‘Hello, James’ in four different ways, and I’m still not sure which is the right one.

  ‘Mira!’ I shout. ‘Mira – the phone!’ Oh good, she’s heard me. She’s answering it. She’s saying, ‘Yes, Alice is here.’ On hearing this I dart into the sitting-room. I grab a piece of paper and scribble on it fast. The note says, ‘If it’s James Mitchel say I’ll phone him back.’ I thrust it under her nose. Mira just glances at it and then hands the phone to me.

  ‘Who is it?’ I hiss. We have been through this little drama many times recently and I think Mira’s getting a bit tired of it.

  ‘It’s someone you’ll want to speak to,’ she replies enigmatically, then she goes out the front door in her huge furry slippers. She must be going to the corner shop. I stare after her fearfully. Surely she would have told me if James himself was on the line. Yes, I’m sure she would, and yet a small doubt lingers. I pick up the phone and say ‘Hello’ in the singsong tones of a hotel receptionist.

  ‘Hello, Alice!’ a male voice greets me cheerily. Oh, thank goodness! It’s Matt. ‘Alice, I have a small proposal for you.’

  ‘What kind of proposal?’ I enquire, somewhat edgily.

  ‘Oh, not the kind of one you’ve had already,’ he laughs. ‘This one’s entirely different. In fact you might even find it fun.’

  Chapter 20

  I’m not finding it fun actually – this ‘Personal Exploration’ day that Matt has enrolled us in. I know he meant it kindly. I know he thinks it might help me clarify my feelings about Eamon’s proposal, but I’m simply not in the mood for it. I’ve done quite a number of these workshops in the past and Matt has too. Though they can be enlightening they also seem to involve eating rather a lot of lentils and sitting around trying to be authentic.

  ‘Have you ever felt you are living someone else’s life?’ That’s what the leaflet about this day said. ‘Have you ever felt submerged in other people’s expectations? That someone else is handing you a script that is not your own? Do you fear being true to your own passion? Then this workshop is for you. Please bring a light blanket for the meditation sessions.’

  This ‘Personal Exploration’ day is being held in a rather nice country house. It’s quite small but full of interesting pictures and wall hangings. I wish I’d had more time to explore it before we all had to come into this big room. We’re sitting on big cushions now. We’ve already done breathing exercises and a bit of yoga. We’ve also moved around for a while to music to loosen us up and held hands in a circle. Now we’re back on our cushions again and the workshop leader, Samantha, a woman with henna-dyed hair and numerous silver bracelets, is addressing us.

  ‘A lot of people feel that they took some wrong turnings in their lives,’ she says soothingly. ‘But we need to accept where we are right now. Appreciate it and see what it can teach us. In the end all roads merge into one. Don’t worry too much about your destination, because your journey is part of it.’

  ‘So wise,’ Matt murmurs in my ear.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree as I shift uncomfortably. My cushion is against the edge of a radiator. I decide to move it and hope the woman in the blue kaftan doesn’t think I’m encroaching on her territory. She has her eyes closed and doesn’t even notice.

  ‘I’d like to ask you why you’ve come here,’ Samantha continues with studied serenity. ‘People can have very different expectations of days like this so I’d like to know what it means for you.’ She looks at a woman called Julie. The answers are obviously going to be in a clockwise direction.

  ‘I’ve come here because my children have grown up and left home and my husband’s out a lot,’ Julie says sadly. She’s wearing a pink tracksuit. ‘Most of my friends have jobs and I feel at a loose end. I need a purpose again.’

  ‘Ah yes – the empty-nest syndrome.’ Samantha looks at her sympathetically.

  ‘I’m mainly here because I’m thinking of becoming a graphic designer,’ a man called Pete then reveals. ‘I work in a department store at the moment but it’s not my thing.’

  Samantha smiles unconditionally at him and then looks at Matt. He’s mainly here because of me. I wonder what excuse he’ll give for his attendance. I start to pull at the tassel of a cushion.

  ‘I’m here because I’m gay,’ Matt an
nounces bravely. ‘I find it hard to deal with some people’s prejudices and I thought that a day like this might be – mmmm – empowering.’

  Samantha positively beams at him. ‘Empowering,’ she repeats happily. ‘Yes, Matt, that is an important word. We’ll be using it quite a lot today.’

  Silence. Dear God, they’re waiting for me to speak. Why am I on this ‘Personal Exploration’ day? Should I tell the truth and admit that Matt pushed me into it. No. It would sound so wimpish. What about telling them about James Mitchel and Eamon? No. Too personal. My painting – that’s it.

  ‘I – I’d like to do more painting,’ I say. ‘I don’t have as much time for it as I’d like and I miss it.’ There. That sounded nice and succinct.

  ‘And what are you working at now, Alice?’ Samantha asks.

  ‘I’m a journalist.’ As I say this I am aware that a slight frisson has gone around the room. ‘But I’m not here to write an article about this workshop,’ I add quickly. ‘Honestly I’m not. It’s a personal thing.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Samantha agrees calmly, but her gaze does linger on me cautiously for a moment before she smiles at the woman in the blue kaftan.

  After everyone has spoken Samantha announces that she’s been looking for some common threads amongst our answers, and one of them appears to be ‘passion’. I’m not quite sure how she arrived at this conclusion. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she’s written a book called Passion: Honouring the Flame Within. A heap of copies were on a table in the hallway. The back of the jacket claims that it can ‘Change Your Life’. So many things are supposed to change your life these days. There seems to be a deep seam of unrest running through the first part of the twenty-first century.

  ‘I want to share something from Kahlil Gibran with you before we break for tea,’ Samantha says. Everyone looks more chirpy as she mentions ‘tea’. There is a definite shift in mood. Samantha picks up a small book, which I see is entitled The Prophet and which I have in my own bookcase. I haven’t read it since I was in my twenties. She explains that she wants to read out an extract from the section on reason and passion.