The Life Situation

by Rosemary Friedman

  When he woke up Karen was at the sink doing the dishes. He seemed unable to raise his head from the table.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I had such a terrible headache. Couldn’t do them. Still got it. Ouch! Goes right through.” He wanted to be sympathized with, magicked into bed, tucked up.

  “Karen?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Don’t you care that I’ve got a headache?”

  “I find it difficult.”

  He couldn’t understand her.

  “You care about Rosy and Daisy.”

  “You do these things to yourself…”

  Funny. That’s what Dr Adler said.

  “…then expect me to sympathize. I’d possibly feel more kindly disposed if I hadn’t had to face these greasy dishes before going to work. Added to which the floor was absolutely flooded.”

  He squinted at it.

  “Looks all right to me.”

  “I’ve mopped it up.”

  “Look, Karen, I know I’m a lousy bastard. I’ll buy you something.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “What would you like?”

  “I told you I don’t want anything.”

  He looked out of the window at the lawn almost ready for its first cut. “I’ll buy you a lawn mower. I know where there’s a sale on.”

  No response.

  “Karen?”

  “Mm?”

  “Why are you punishing me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Why aren’t you talking then?”

  “I am. I’m in a hurry. I’ll be late.”

  “Don’t you want a lawn mower? I’ll buy one.” He looked at the daffodils.

  “Do you realise it’s spring?”

  She was untying her apron.

  “Don’t go.”

  She was wiping away the mascara which, diluted by her tears, had run down her face in grey rivulets.

  He heard her get her coat, slam the door. It wasn’t often she left without saying goodbye.

  He went to bed until it was time to go to Dr Adler. On the way back he bought flowers from an old woman with a stall on the corner of Finchley Road.

  He arranged them for her, splitting the stems as he had seen her do.

  Watching him, Rosy said: “Have you had a row or something?”

  Sometimes he hated his children.

  He laid the table but, not knowing what was for dinner, could do no more.

  She came back tired and took in the scene at a glance.

  “There wasn’t any need.”

  “I wanted to.”

  It did not mitigate his behaviour but it helped clear the air; the trucial flag accepted in the spirit in which it was given, as the vicar said to the gift of peaches in brandy.

  Fourteen

  He always enjoyed the drive down to Brighton. Karen did not, preferring to come on the train from Victoria at the end of the day. Rosy had elected to spend the weekend with Araminta who was going to take her to a ‘club’ on Saturday night.

  It was more than three months since Oscar had seen his parents. Sometimes they complained that they might as well have been living in Australia instead of fifty odd miles away. He rang them up from time to time but somehow the days and weeks seemed to go till a pang of conscience or Karen reminded him of their existence. He was very good at denial, as Dr Adler was fond of pointing out. Frequently he completely expunged both people and places from vast areas of his consciousness. He was fond of his parents, his father particularly, feeling a close bond with him. He liked his mother all right but she was inclined to irritate him, not seeming to have accepted the fact that he was no longer a child but a middle-aged man.

  Rosy and Daisy got on well with his parents who loved having them to stay. It was not just that Grandma had eiderdowns and roast beef on Sundays. There was a mutual respect between the two generations spoiled by none of the hang-ups of the too-close parents in between. Grandparents, freed of guilt and responsibility, could communicate with children as people. He wondered if he would enjoy the same relationship with his, then grew depressed at how old he would be when he would have a chance to find out. He opened a bag of cheese and onion crisps which, conditioned by the girls, he was accustomed to carrying on any journey longer than five miles.

  He decided to avoid Reigate on a busy Friday and after turning right at Burgh Heath to make for Box Hill and drive through the Sussex countryside. It was prettier anyway and quicker unless you got stuck behind a tractor or a farm lorry on the narrow roads.

  There was something about the drive to the sea that had to do with the shedding of care, of London and its stresses; of staggering lambs, newly born in the fields at either side of the road; of mis-spelt notices offering for sale tomatoes, free-range eggs, potatoes and bags of farmyard manure. His mother would have been truly delighted with a bag for her roses, but he did not stop.

  Once in Brighton he always followed the London Road right down to the promenade, enjoying his very first glimpse of the pier which seemed to have endured forever and the sea. Today the sun was shining and it was blue. One could almost kid oneself on days such as this that it was the Mediterranean, until one got out of the car and into the biting wind – his mother called it ‘keen’.

  The usual cars were parked along the seafront and outside the protected architecture of the once gracious Georgian houses, now hotels, flats and foreign language schools. He turned into the elegant crescent where his parents lived and noted as usual the green neatness of the communal lawn. He rang the bell and, looking at his watch, thought his father was probably home for lunch for which he hoped he was in time.

  His father opened the door, an expression of enquiry on his face which quickly changed to one of unmitigated joy.

  “Oscar!”

  “Hullo, Father,” Oscar tried to smile, to hide his horror at the fact that his father’s collar had become several sizes too big and his suit lapped round his once ample figure as if it belonged to another man.

  His first reaction was one of anger. How dare his father, so short a while ago, solid, rotund, look like that? He swallowed the anger and attempted to mask what he thought must be evident on his face.

  “How’s tricks?” The old familiar question.

  “Fine, boy, fine.” He closed the door and Oscar watched him drag his leg through the hall.

  “Sciatica still bothering you?”

  “Just a touch. We’re having lunch. Your mother guessed you’d be down in time. Mother! It’s Oscar. Bangers and mash, Daisy’s favourite, she’s keeping some hot for you.”

  His mother came out of the kitchen untying her apron.

  Oscar kissed her. “Sausage and mash! Your special fried onions too, I hope.”

  “Of course…”

  “Daddy!” Daisy with her mouth full flung her arms round his neck.

  He picked her up and swung her round.

  “Mind my scar! It might burst!”

  He put her down. “Sorry. I forgot you were a wounded soldier. How are you?”

  “Fit as a fiddle and as neurotic as they come,” his father said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the young people these days.”

  “I’ve been helping Grandpa in the surgery,” Daisy said, a sausage suspended in mid-air, “testing the wee-wees.”

  “She insisted,” his father said, resuming his place at the head of the table and tucking his napkin into the waistcoat he always wore.

  “They wouldn’t give me any more money for the slot machines. I had to do something.”

  “Plenty of nice walks,” his mother brought Oscar’s lunch in on the plate.

  “They don’t understand walking for the sheer pleasure of it; not any more. I’m surprised they still have the use of their legs.”

  Oscar sympathized silently. Daisy looked better for her stay by the sea. She’d put on weight and her face was tanned.

  “The people here are about a hundred,” Daisy said. “You and Mummy should retire to Brighton. You’d la
st for ever.”

  Oscar wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

  “Lovely to see you, dear,” his mother said, “I’d almost forgotten what you look like.”

  He ignored the implied criticism.

  “What do I look like?”

  “Could do with a shave; and a haircut.”

  “Just had it cut.”

  “Oscar!”

  “He has,” Daisy said. “He thinks he’s Robert Redford. Costs five pounds and he wears a blue and white striped pinny. I have to blow-dry it for him when he’s going out.”

  “My God,” his father said.

  “Got to keep abreast of things. Move with the times.”

  “How’s the book going?”

  “Fine; fine.”

  “You never told us you were going to France. Lucky you weren’t hi-jacked. It can be quite dangerous you know. I’m glad you’re taking the car with the children in the summer.”

  “What about Daddy’s driving?” Daisy said. “Sometimes Rosy and I have to close our eyes when he overtakes. There’s about that much,” she indicated about a centimetre with her thumb and forefinger, “to spare.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Daisy.”

  “You know perfectly well…you can ask Mummy!”

  “Haven’t you got some wee-wees you ought to be testing?”

  “No. I’m sorting your records. Grandma let me; and your junk. She wants you to take it all away. I found your old diaries. You seemed to do nothing but go to the pictures with Arthur. Who’s Arthur?”

  “A cousin. He was killed in the war.”

  “You weren’t in the war.”

  “Arthur was older than I. You aren’t supposed to read other people’s diaries.”

  “Old ones you are.”

  “Not till I’m dead.”

  “I might die first and then I’d never get a chance. I nearly died when they took my appendix out…”

  “You’re not still dining out on that?”

  “Grandpa thinks it’s very interesting. Don’t you, Grandpa? He’s got your appendix in a bottle and a ‘feet-us’; it’s pickled. He’s going to give it to me for my window-sill. I can’t wait to show Araminta. Can I take an apple and leave the table, Grandma?”

  “Yes,” Oscar said.

  After his marriage, in the furnished flat, there had been no room to take the accumulation of records, books, old school magazines and papers he had amassed during his youth. He had been an avid collector. Newspapers with headlines announcing world-shattering events; Neville Chamberlain returning from Munich waving his piece of paper; the invasion of Poland, the declaration of war; he even had the Silver Jubilee of King George V and the very first number of Picture Post, long since defunct. His mother had kept them, first in store, then when they settled in Brighton in the large attic.

  “I thought it would amuse Daisy,” his mother said. “Not much fun for her with two old people. She’s thoroughly enjoying it.”

  “Chip off the old block,” Oscar said. “I’ll join her later. Must have a breath of sea air. Coming Dad?”

  “Not too far,” his mother said. “He gets tired. The sciatica.”

  “Where’s Raffles?” Oscar said, looking round for the dog.

  “We had to have him put down. Too old; like us.”

  He ignored the plea for sympathy, hating himself for doing so. He looked at the enormous Chippendale dining table his mother was clearing, the dozen lyre-backed chairs. They were the last of a dying generation. People would never live like that again. He doubted his father had ever had a meal in the kitchen.

  “I’ll take you round the garden later,” she said. “It’s coming along very nicely. We need some rain.”

  “I nearly bought you some manure.”

  Her face lit up.

  “Nearly?”

  “Too smelly.”

  “I’ve put some new roses in. Would have given them a lovely start. By next year they should be absolutely splendid. Take your scarf,” she said to his father. “The wind’s very keen.”

  He put his scarf round his neck obediently.

  “If Miss Cartwright phones, I’m on my way. It’s only about her knee.”

  “What’s the matter with it?” Oscar said.

  “A little rheumatism.”

  “Can’t she come here?”

  “She lives alone. It means her son coming over from Rottingdean. Hardly worth it when I can just pop round.”

  “You don’t change.”

  “Too late.”

  His father had always out-walked him, leaving him puffing along behind on the way to Black Rock. Now he found it difficult to adjust his pace to the old man’s slow limp.

  They crossed on the zebra.

  “Don’t wait for you,” his father said. “Never do on this road. Always in such a hurry. Where are they rushing to?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” He had to restrain himself from taking his father’s arm. “Seen anybody about that sciatica?” He tried to keep his voice light.

  “Old bones; couple of X-rays; how’s Karen?”

  “Fine; should be down about six. I’ll pick her up from the station. Didn’t you have an opinion?”

  “Ever heard of a cure for sciatica? Lucky to have escaped till now.”

  “Isn’t it painful?”

  “Jabs a bit. When are they going to make a film of one of your books?”

  He’d always been the same when it came to his own health. Making little of any ache or pain he happened to have. A kind of denial that he too was mortal, subject to mortal ills. They turned along the seafront in the direction of the marina but it was obvious they were never going to make it. If they walked as far as the green-domed Madeira lift (October to March 10 – 4.30 daily) it would be a lot. Although he felt close to his father, they had little, when the trivialities were dispensed with, to talk about.

  “Karen all right?”

  “You’ve already asked me that.”

  “Old age.”

  It had nothing to do with old age. His father’s mind was still as sharp, if not sharper than it had ever been. He wanted suddenly to tell him everything. About Dr Adler; about Marie-Céleste; above all about Marie-Céleste.

  “Lovely girl!” his father said.

  “Who?”

  “Karen.”

  He wondered what the reaction would be.

  “I’m selling the house,” his father said.

  “What on earth for?”

  “I’ve seen a nice flat in Hove with central heating. Your mother would be comfortable…”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to retire?”

  “I’ll keep the practice on. I’ve a young chappie helping me now…it’s too much for your mother…all those stairs.”

  He ignored the writing on the wall. His father’s obviously failing heath, the sorting of his junk; signs and symptoms of the old order changing.

  “Mother will miss the garden.”

  “You’ll have to get her a window box. Geraniums do quite well. Daisy is a sweet child. A breath of fresh air around the house. Send Rosy down. Haven’t seen Rosy…”

  They sat in the shelter in front of the pale green railings above the Pebbly beach with two old men and an old woman all appearing to he held together by string, and the sticks they clutched.

  “Lovely girls,” his father said. “Two lovely girls.” He closed his eyes and put his face up to the sun. “Five minutes and I’d better nip along to Miss Cartwright.”

  “Let her wait.” Oscar said.

  “You have never understood.”

  He’d never wanted to understand how the patients always came first. F— Miss Cartwright and her f— knee. Why shouldn’t his father sit on the seafront with him? He was sitting only because he had to. Never known him sit before. It was not a pastime he enjoyed nor one at which he felt at ease. For as long as Oscar could remember he had been in constant motion. He wondered how much money his father had and whether he had left it all to his mother. He despised
himself for his thoughts. Probably was sciatica anyway; he was after all not getting any younger and probably hadn’t been eating too well because of the pain which was obviously more than he admitted to.

  “Why don’t you retire?”