by Pat Rosier
“Nice day.” An elderly woman with a loaded trundler, moves onto the road so they can pass each other.
“Lovely babies.” A woman of indeterminate age, walking a dog.
“Good on you, dear.” A woman pauses, as though she would stop and talk, but Ann smiles and walks on, keeping up a steady pace, turning away from Suzanna's street. What made her stay away last night? She couldn't get her mind around that, the morning was …
“Oi! Hey, mother!” She turns around, and sees an elderly man holding up a mitten. He hurries up to her, puffing slightly.
“You'll be wanting this.”
“Oh. Thanks. I didn't notice.”
She puts it back on Jo's bare hand and decides to put on the cover.
There are leaves banked up in the gutters and huddled at the bottom of fences, but none remaining on the trees. She likes the bareness of the unclothed branches against the sky, the traceries they make, reminding her of a Rita Angus painting, the one with a bare tree and tiny birds. Scattered on the footpath are shapes where leaves have stuck, disintegrated and left their mark; ghosts of leaves. She wishes she had her camera to photograph these echoes of the leaves' decay, there was a painting there, too, she can't think what it is, but there is one.
“How are you two doing?” She can see the tops of their heads through a clear window in the hood. But confined as they are they don’t hear her. Pushchairs used to be made so the occupants faced the person pushing, didn’t they? She'd prefer that.
The house they return to is immaculate. Two chickens are roasting, ham is carved, several salads made and a pot of potatoes ready for boiling. Joshua is in charge in the kitchen, wanting to know how to cut the christmas cake, wedges don't seem right. Ann shows him how her mother does it, straight across the middle, one half back in the tin, the other half cut into slices, and then into fingers. They had decided against icing.
Three families are coming, all from a play-group that ended for the year before Ann arrived. Seven adults—one mother is working Sundays at the Brixton Christmas Store—and five more children under five are expected. A bean-bag sits in a corner of the living room, where you can see it from the kitchen and dining areas, with a pile of books and some toys. Ann will do her best, from the bean-bag, to mitigate against child mayhem, as long as she isn't expected to discipline anyone or cope with tears. Joshua runs through the names with her.
“Honestly, it's okay, I won't remember, I'll work them out as I go,” she says. “You go and get ready, you'll presumably want to change.” Joshua looks at the hand-wipings on his t-shirt and nods. “Off you go, I'll test drive the bean-bag.”
Jo insists on helping her mother get dressed, while Chris joins Ann for some stories and songs. She has some new tunes from the twins, with a bit of help from an embarrassed Chloe, who “never sings in front of adults.”
“The wheels of the bus go roun’ and roun’” is Chris's current favourite. He especially likes the “The wipers on the bus go swish swish swish,” and wipes his forearm vigorously through the air, ending the verse with a triumphant, “a' t'rough the TOWN.”
People arrive. Ann joins Chloe at the front door and helps with shoes and coats. The alcohol content of the mulled wine has been reduced with grape juice because of the early hour Joshua explains to each new arrival. Juice watered with a dash of lemonade provides some bubbles for the children. There is one “lap baby,” a phrase that jumps into Ann’s mind in her mother’s voice, who is not yet sitting unaided or crawling.
“New Zealand? I've always wanted to go there.” Several times. Conversations about the weather, housing, jobs, children's eating patterns, toilet habits, foibles and achievements, some sports talk from both women and men. Soon enough, Ann is ready to retreat to the bean-bag. At first the children ignore her and hang around their parents. Once Jo climbs on her lap and they start Green Eggs and Ham together, others appear.
They all want to sit next to Ann, or on her, as though she is a talking extension of the bean bag. A four-year-old squeezes the others out of her way to get close to Ann, who suspects it’s her pinching that sends one littlely off crying to his mother. Some suck their thumbs, two chew their collars and one little boy appears to be rubbing his penis through his trousers. Oh well, thinks Ann, looking around the group. They all, whatever their skin colour, speak like English children; one dark-skinned boy who Ann guesses is Indian, doesn't speak at all. He is one of the collar-chewers. A hand tugs at the book, wanting her to turn the page. She’s been saying the words from memory.
After a couple more books they do “Itsy wintsy spider,” which the children know from play group, then one of the older girls starts something from a children's television show that Ann hasn’t seen and then they are all called to lunch. In New Zealand the kids would be eating on an outside deck or a patch of lawn where they wouldn't have to be fussed over. At least Josh and Chloe have kept it informal, with all the adults helping themselves and their own children and sitting where they can to eat.
“You must have had your children really young, if they are grown-up.” Now there's a bunch of assumptions, thinks Ann. She smiles as genuinely as she can at the Indian man who has spoken.
“No. Not grown up. I don't have children.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.”
“That's all right.”
They're all nice people, Ann tells herself, it's just that I live in a different world. She’s glad she didn’t take up Joshua's suggestion that she invite Suzanna, who probably wouldn’t have come anyway.
When one of the visiting children takes her hand, pulling her back to the bean-bag, she is pleased enough to go. Some of the children are more scratchy, there are tears, squabbles, parental interventions.
The older children want to teach her, so she learns “Head, shoulder, knees and toes,” with appropriate actions and much hilarity when she gets “eyes and ears and mouth and nose” muddled. She’s impressed by the persistence and determination of some of the younger ones trying to keep up. Children wander in and out of her orbit.
She tires of being climbed all over, but it isn't long before there is a whole bunch of adults sitting around and christmas carols are being sung. A father with a lovely voice knows the words and the tunes. Children jump about and join in and a woman harmonises Away In a Manger and then Silent Night. Ann has never enjoyed carols so much. Cups of tea and coffee are going on in the background, but there seem to be enough people helping so Ann stays with her bean-bag, turning down a hot drink.
By four o’clock everyone has gone. She joins Joshua and Chloe in a cuppa before they begin the cleanup and enjoys their pleasure that everything has gone well, with just one rush to the toilet for Chloe when the smell of hot chicken got to her. She waves away Ann's concern.
“I went, I did what I had to, hardly anybody noticed, just Surina, and she knows what it's like. It's definitely lessening, I can even think it might be over soon.”
Joshua rubs his wife's shoulder. “Before the twins we were world famous in Kennington for our dinner parties,” he says. “This is our first entertaining since they were born, and it's thanks to you, Ann, we were brave enough to give it a go.” Chloe nods. She looks almost emotional.
“My family, my sister and mother,” she says, “either criticise or fight or both. They’re hard work, and they think I've got above myself or something. I just want to live my life thoughtfully and, you know, without snitch, snitch, snitch.” She makes pecking motions with one hand. Joshua takes it and strokes it. “Their chief pleasure,” she went on, “is knocking someone down, including each other, and I can't bear it, I never have been able to bear it. When I was a kid I used to think I must have been born into the wrong family.”
Ann wants to give her a hug. Instead, she leans forward and touches her arm briefly. “Sometimes when people have to struggle —,” she begins, then stops herself. What does she know about struggle? “I do admire the way you, both of you are with Jo and Chris,” she says instead, “they are so easy t
o be around and such fun for an aunty. My mother—Shirley—says bringing up good kids is sixty percent luck and forty percent good management and I think you’ve managed both.”
Joshua and Ann persuade Chloe to lie down with the children while they finish off the dishes and the clearing away.
“We've done okay without family, but Chloe really feels it,” he says as they wash and dry things that won't go in the dishwasher. “It's great for her, you being family and being here. And for me. I've asked Shirley and Keith if they'd like to personally deliver that stuff of my Dad's, you know, come and visit. They're thinking about it.”
“Well, how about that, they haven't even told me yet. They’d adore to have grandchildren and yours are close enough. Don't get your hopes up, though, they're not much for traveling overseas.” And she tells him about some of their family trips around New Zealand. They finish tidying and agree that everyone will graze on leftovers as they feel like it rather than having a sit-down supper and Joshua holds out his arms and says, “Come on then, a cuzzie hug.”
Her mother's email refers to Joshua’s invitation. He’s written about the children, and encourages them to come in summer and attaches photos. There’ll be a baby, then, Ann thinks, and they’re more likely to come if they think they can be useful.
There are a number of messages from her friends, and one from Ex, subject line, Please Talk. It’s long, full of pleadings, reminders of good times, hopes for the future. Ann skims it, clicks “reply,” changes the subject line to NO, inserts a row of “no” above the original message, and stares at the screen. Does she really mean she will never talk to Paula again? Of course not, that’s fourteen years of her life. What she means is she is not going to go back into that relationship. Ex had struck the fatal blow. “No we will not be getting back together,” she adds to her reply, “I will talk with you when I get home in January if you wish, but please stop emailing me.” That's clear, she thinks. Mind you, Paula’s ignored “don't email me” before. Ann clicks “send”.
Her friends tell her that Paula has been doing the rounds, asking for information about what Ann is doing and mostly they haven't given it. “She wants to know whether I think there’s a chance of you getting back together,” wrote Mo, “and I refused to have an opinion.” Good on you, Mo. Frances reports telling Paula she won’t talk about Ann to her or to Ann about her, “and that's the last you'll be hearing from me on the subject.” Terrific. Athena thought Ann should at least listen to Paula, she seemed so genuine in her remorse and she really did love Ann. Rewa wrote, “Up to you and her, not my business and I said so.” Julie (the other Julie) didn't mention Paula. They all want to hear more about “your librarian” mostly with ribald comments.
Athena, a librarian herself, wants to know what kind of librarian Ann is getting to know. A limited sort of knowing, Ann thinks; more biblical, as it were, than life in the round. She considers responding to each message separately, and that seems too difficult, so she starts an email to them all.
“My dear, dear friends,” she begins, and writes about missing them at two very different parties, the one with Suzanna and the one today. “I’m so glad to know that you are there, that you will be my friends when I get home, that I am blessed with such friends as you.” Is that too much? Mo will snort for sure. She leaves it and goes on to telling them about her new career idea.
“Do you think I am barking, to be thinking like this?” she writes. “I really am done with the Romantics. I don't know much about kids, but I do know about books and language and heritage. And I've got a bit of a money cushion, and over twenty more years of working life to do something with.” She tells them about the Hodgkin painting, urges them to go the National Portrait Gallery website and look at it. “I want to care about what I am doing as much as Dorothy Hodgkin did.” She thinks about describing one of her art events but decides against it.
She’s about to sign off when she realises how little she has said about Suzanna. “This is already an extremely long email,” she types, “I know you’re all wanting to hear about, ‘my librarian.’ That's another email. I'll write it tomorrow, I promise.”
Ann closes her laptop and lies down, hands behind her head. Suzanna is going in a separate email, she muses, apart from the rest of my life. I really am doing what she suggested, creating an incident, an episode, something apart, with her. She sits up and opens her laptop and starts typing her thoughts into a new message.
“I love her company when we are together and the sex is blushingly good. She won't talk about her family or what she does when she goes ‘up north’ or what calls her there or any of that. But the last time we were together, the party I told you about, she said I had gotten under her skin in a way she doesn't usually let happen, and I think she was really hurt that I wouldn't go home with her that night. Am I going to break her heart, whatever that means? Have I turned into a heartless wretch - cf my imperviousness to Paula's pleas? You'd tell me, wouldn't you if I was becoming a horrible, nasty person. I think I'll sign off as ‘confused of Tunbridge Wells.’ Or Kennington Green. All thoughts and comments welcome, especially ones that say you still want to be my friend. (A little neurosis creeping in there.)”
Your friends can't sort this for you, she tells herself as she lies down again, but it felt good to have told them. Then it occurs to her that at least one friend might tell Paula about it all, perhaps to convince …. No matter, they don't need instructions from me, they can tell or not as they please and I will deal with whatever has to be dealt with when I get home. That makes her smile at herself; when has she ever been sanguine about dealing with tensions, discord and the like?
A snowstorm arrives and Ann discovers she can get tired of snow. It creates transport havoc, lurks in shady corners, goes brown and slushy, and keeps everyone indoors. Television is full of it, the worst snowstorm in decades, transport disrupted, arrangements made and cancelled, even walking to Suzanna’s is impossible at times. Chloe is tired, the twins are full of energy and the days pass in a blur. Ann and Suzanna talk on the phone, but meet only twice, and briefly, then not at all over the weekend.
She hasn't heard from Suzanna by lunchtime Monday so Ann sends her a text—let's get tgr b4 u go nth. It’s two hours before she gets a reply—luv 2 tue mine 6ish?—and she sends back “yes”.
There is still the question of a present for Chloe. She doesn't want to fall back on F&M chocolates. So, one more trip into Central London. Three days before Christmas day Oxford St is truly crowded, even in the late morning. At Josh's urging, Ann takes special care to keep her handbag closed and under her arm. A book isn't what she had had in mind, but after an expensive coffee and a browse through the advertising brochures from the morning paper, and having run out of other ideas, she heads for Barnes and Noble.
Novels are definitely not for Chloe. There are some beautiful cosmology tomes but her own ignorance, both of the subject and Chloe’s level of knowledge, make it impossible to choose one. She wanders into the maths section. In here are books full of complicated equations, beautiful to look at, meaningless to Ann, and others about famous mathematicians. Nothing about famous accountants. Then she sees, in a pile on a table, The Book of the Abacus. Written over 800 years ago, Ann discovers, by Leonardo of Pisa, better known as Fibonacci of the famous number sequence. It’s a weighty book, nicely produced. She buys it, slightly shocked at the price. If it turns out to be a silly choice, well what the hell.
Soon after that, she gives up on the city. No gallery appeals to her, the crowds are thickening. She ends up walking past New Zealand House and buys a pretty box of manuka honey balls in the shop, then catches the tube.
No further preparation is necessary for Christmas day, all the shopping for the children is long done. There will be just the five of them, and a Skype chat with her parents; Chris has been emailing instructions. Shirley and Keith will be called Gran and Grandpa by the children. Ann feels a little sad and a little guilty for her parents' lack of actual grandchildren. Thi
nk of yourself as giving them some via us, consoles Josh. Ann doesn't point out that it had been altogether her mother's idea that she make this visit.
Ann walks in to Chris with his head in a rubbish basket saying, “Mummy sick, Chris sick,” and finds Chloe having her worst afternoon in weeks, so sends her off to lie down and rounds up the twins for some bean-bag time.
Later, she sets off for Suzanna’s, leaving a pot of hearty vegetable soup simmering and garlic bread ready to go in the oven. She has a bottle of red wine. She is greeted at the downstairs door and kissed on several of the steps on the way up. The wine is not dropped on the floor, not quite, neither is it opened. Have the sheets on the bed been ironed? No wrinkles and they smell fresh and lovely. The room is warm, they don’t need covers and wallow in each others' bodies, curves and skin, bones and flesh.
Emily Dickinson’s “Wild Nights” [5] flashes through Ann's mind but she has no breath to say it. Eventually Suzanna gets out of bed..
“Tonight I assemble,” she says, producing gourmet pumpkin soup in a large plastic sachet and foil-wrapped garlic bread. She takes an apple and blackberry crumble out of a packet and slides it into the tiny oven. Ann opens and pours the wine and lights the candle on the table.
Suzanna sits opposite her, takes a small sip of wine and says, “Talk to me while the food heats. No questions.” So Ann tells her about the bean-bag and the children and finding the abacus book. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Shitty day at work. The big boss came and threw her weight around and picked holes in things. Next year we have to meet targets. So many people, so many books out per week, per month, per year. Christ, some people come in and pretend to read the papers because it's warm. We could do with more borrowers like you!”
She gets the food. They eat, chatting about nothing much. It feels odd to Ann to not be talking about christmas plans, next year. After the crumble, accompanied by vanilla ice-cream, they go back to bed.