by stan graham
I spoke to the vicar Rev Colin Clarke about it but he just murmured a lot of clichés about loving ones neighbour and seeing the mote in ones own eye. However he did advise me to contact the Social Services to see if they could help.
The welfare woman from social services said we just have to live and let live but that’s my point, he won't let me live a smoke free life. She bucked up a bit when I told her my Jane was a social worker and that I would be telling her. She told me that the landlord could not chuck me out so I was not to worry. Finally she said that she would look into the smoking business and get back to me. I think they just see us as a nuisance and don’t care if we get killed off early through some else’s smoke, and I told her that. Of course she denied it. That was a week ago and she has not been in touch yet. Bloody social workers.
I saw Mr Oliver Jonson this morning as I was going out.
“Hello Mrs Bond,” he said, “I am not going out in my car today either,” and he giggled. Such a childish man, only girls giggle and I have my doubts about him.
I have written to the Prime Minister, Mr Whateverhisnameis. Of course I realise he doesn't understand people like us, better class folk. Unlike that Mrs Thatcher who understood what a days work was all about, being as she was a grocer’s daughter. Arthur had said he would give her a job any day, and although he could never expect me to vote for him Mr Whateverhisnameis is supposed to represent all of us. Haven't had a reply yet but expect one any day now. I invited him down to see the problem for himself. Don't expect he will come himself but he might send one of his minions down. I await his visit with interest.
I wanted to be an evacuee but Mum said that I wasn’t old enough and anyway you had to live in London to be one. We had about six evacuees in the school. I had seen them at the station where they arrived from the London train, with their brown paper parcels and cheap suitcases complete with gas masks slung round their necks. One of the boys from school, who was an evacuee, told me that he and his cousin used to stand on their air raid shelter watching the aeroplanes and doodlebugs come over. He said it wasn’t dangerous while you could hear them it was when they went quiet they were going to come down. He said it was brilliant like Guy Fawkes Night. His mother and his aunt would both get very frightened and would make them come into the shelter but he said it was safer outside.
I wish I had lived in London during the war it must have been a lot more exciting than our small midland village that even Adolf had never heard of. I asked mother if we should join the Home Guard but she said that guarding the place against all the ruffians that lived locally was enough. She wouldn’t even listen to my pleas that we adopt an evacuee even though I heard that you got paid for it
“Mum, mum can we have a refugee?”
“What on earth for.”
“Well it would be helping them wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t think so dear. We don’t want no nasty smelly London children here,” she had said in reply to my query.
I couldn’t understand why they had to be nasty and smelly, those at school weren’t, surely we could ask for a clean one. But Mums word was law and it was not to be.
Meanwhile the war rumbled on. Sweets were rationed but there was a man who would sell us some home made boiled sweets as long as we provided the sugar to make them.
Potato’s were halfpenny a pound, I remember because Mum would send me to Mr Medcrafts grocery shop which he had converted from someone’s garage. Oxo cubes were a favourite of mine, Mum would let me have one from the packet and I would suck it or have it in a cup of water. Another treat was Bread and Dripping sprinkled with salt, or Cocoa and sugar in a paper bag.
A German plane crashed in a field at the end of the village and everybody rushed to help. I asked my Mum why they wanted to help a German and she said that despite the war he was still somebody’s son.
Breakfast was always porridge oats dusted again with salt. There was a belief in them days that you couldn’t eat enough salt. Didn’t cows have salt licks and if it was good enough for them it was good enough for us. Every day we ate meat even if it was sausages. Mum tried whale meat sausages once that a man was selling door to door and which I liked but that she said tasted too fishy and never bought them again.
After the war a tally man used to call and Mum bought clothes for us on the weekly. Dad didn’t approve but Mum said that if he couldn’t earn enough to keep us fed and clothed then he would have to lump it. The tally man had called during the war a few times trying to drum up trade. Mum had refused to buy anything off of him saying that it was unpatriotic to buy on the black market, besides which it wouldn’t look right for him to be calling while her husband was away.
I don’t like it here. It’s lonely, I feel that I have been dumped here and abandoned. Most of the residents are left alone once they arrive. Delivered and then forgotten just like sacks of garbage. Excitement is reading the obituary column and finding you have not been listed. Not that I need other people mind you, I have always been independent. Give me a good book and I can be lost for hours. Mum said I was a proper bookworm.
“What’s a bookworm Mummy? Does it wiggle and wriggle all over the books.”
“No” she had laughed. “It’s somebody who always has their nose in a book.”
“What’s an improper bookworm mum?
“Don’t keep asking questions.”
My energy levels seem to have dive bombed since arriving here. When I told Jane, she said that I needed to find things to occupy myself, that I have too much time on my hands. She suggested that I do some jigsaws but I don’t like them, I always nearly finish and then find that there is a piece missing. Besides they are of such dull subjects fluffy cats or bright-eyed children that never exist in real life or cute puppies. Anyway what’s the point in finding things to do if I don’t have the energy to do them. This place drains me; it is like a vampire is sapping my life spirit. No wonder they don’t live long here. There is an air of gloom everywhere. It always seems to be bloody well raining. The trees don’t help either, dark gloomy things, overshadowing the buildings, they should be cut down to let a bit more air into the place.
When I was young you could always tell the widows because they used to be clothed completely in black. At least everybody knew their place, and they were proud of it. The widow Jenkins or whatever her name happened to be was respected and treated with the courtesy that she deserved. Unlike nowadays when you can’t tell even if a woman is married or not because they wear their wedding rings on any finger they like or don’t even wear one at all. I suppose the war spoilt all that, creating so many widows like. Just as well I suppose or this place would look like a rookery.
Why does everything have to change? All right we had some hard times but on the whole things were so much better. People supported each other. There was a Russian woman who moved into our street after the war and we made her very welcome. She had some funny sounding name but we called her Rosa the Russian, just to make her feel at home. She looked just like one of those dolls that fit inside each other. Short and dumpy, with brown hair hanging down her back in one thick braid.
I remember how Stalin, Uncle Joe, had helped our Winston win the war and so we felt that she was one of us. I later heard that she had fled Russia when it became obvious that Germany was defeated as it seems she had married a German officer during the occupation and was on a wanted list for collaborating with the enemy. But love doesn’t recognise boundary’s I always say. Anyway they eventually took her away and I heard that she had been sent back to Russia. She probably felt more at home with her own kind speaking gobbledegook. Why everyone just doesn’t speak English is beyond me, I’m sure they could if they tried after all even little children can speak it. It’s the same with money, if everyone used Pound Shillings and Pence we would not have all this mess with kilograms and new pence, and dollars, don’t get me started, why the Americans want to be different beats me they just make a mess of everything. A dollar was always five shillings that is why
a half crown was called half a dollar. How the oldies manage I just do not know.
Today is St George’s Day. Nobody seems to have any pride in it nowadays. We used to have a talk on St George at school assembly and everyone was given a flag with the Cross-of St George. The only people who take any pride in it now are the football fans.
I am feeling depressed again it just came over me, I realise that we have been left here to die. Don’t understand why, summer is nearly upon us but I just feel down. I can feel one of my heads coming on. Nobody understands me. I haven’t made any real friends since I got here. Okay there are people I can pass the time of day with if I meet them in the street but there isn’t anybody that I would call a friend. Not that I have ever had many friends apart from June Piper. Acquaintances yes plenty of those although they were mainly Arthur’s friends and the people that I met in the shops or at the bus stop, bit like now really, people that you nod too or smile at.
Arthur and I had each other so we didn’t need anybody else but now that he has gone I don’t know how to make new friends. What we need is another war to get everybody pulling together. Arthur said that doing away with National Service was the worst thing this country had ever done. It instilled a backbone into young lads. He said he couldn’t get the right kind of staff any more, everyone wanted to be bosses and nobody wanted to do any hard work.
I never actually said that, although I might have made some comment about all Chiefs and no Indians. People can get you hung. Janice certainly could. I’d say something and weeks later she would come out with a totally different version which she swore I had said. Women!
I got ever such a nice letter from Mr Whateverhisnameis saying that he was sorry to hear about my problem and that he had passed my letter to one of his ministers who had told him that come July nobody will be allowed to smoke anywhere in public areas. I think that was nice of him to pass a law just for me.
I’m sure it can’t be healthy living among a load of old people. It must be dreadful in some of those towns in America where everybody is retired. A whole town waiting to die.
Start a revolution my Jan would. I remember when she organised an anti litter
campaign. Stood outside the chippy and ordered people to put their chip papers into the litter-bins or get a clip round the ear. One yob that told her he would sue if she hit him got grabbed by his ear and taken home. They behaved a lot better after that. She had got street cared I was told. It wasn't easy giving up the old pipe but Janice was worth it.
I suppose people thought that I was henpecked but our relationship wasn’t like that at all. We had strict rules as to how far either of us could go.
The cooker has broken down, I tried replacing the fuses but to no avow so I called in an electrician, that cost a lot, a £45 call out charge, only to be told that it was so old that it needed replacing. I don’t know what I am going to do until I get a new one. I had a look in the town but the prices are just outrageous. I was offered a second hand one for £50 but you can’t rely on them, besides it looked all greasy as if it hadn’t been cleaned properly. I always treat my cookers with respect. Somebody recommended Argos so I went and had a look there.
They don’t actually display a lot. It is all in a catalogue that you look through and choose from. I finally decided to buy a Microwave oven for £40 and for another £4.95 they agreed to deliver it for me. Talk about a performance.
I am feeling quite ill, I tested my temperature and it is high, 103 degrees, I am coughing and bringing up lots of yellow stuff. I haven’t been well for days and am thinking of phoning for a doctor, the only problem is that I don’t know of any as I haven’t got around to registering with a new one since arriving and I can’t see old Dr Taylor from Stripford coming all this way. I will sweat it out for a few more days and see how I feel. Arthur always used to say that most things cured themselves in a week or two and if they hadn’t, then was the time to bother the doctor. Though when he felt ill he was round to the doctors first thing. Can’t afford to go to work and infect everybody he would say. Then he would take to his bed until he felt better with yours truly fetching and carrying for him. Cups of tea and the papers so he didn’t get bored. By the time he went back to work I needed a rest myself. Worn to a frazzle I would be.
To tell the truth I haven’t felt all that good since I arrived here, I think this place has a negative effect on me. Still what would I know? I’m just a foolish old woman. I must go and register with a doctor once I am feeling better. In the meantime I shall just have a few more aspirins, a lemon drink and go back to bed with my hot water bottle. Don’t think I ate all day, I must have fallen asleep soon after going back to bed. I remember waking and seeing that it was dark, then I just drifted off again.
Woke up this morning and I feel as right as rain. Must have just been a touch of 24-hour flu.
Now that I feel better it seems a shame to waste my time bothering the doctors surgery and registering. They give you an interview to see if you are healthy enough for them. If they think you are likely to be sick very often they tell you that they can’t take you on. That’s what I was told by Mrs Trundle up at Stripford. She was always changing her doctor so she would know. I think I will wait a while and see how things pan out.
In the meantime I must get some shopping, my cupboard is like old Mother Hubbards. I asked Captain Smythe who had lived in my flat before me and why had they left.
“It was a nice old couple called Brown, George and Freda, Mrs Bond. She died of something or other, I’m not sure what and he moved away back up North somewhere, Manchester I think. Why do you ask?”
“I have had a letter delivered addressed to a Mr Peter Lloyd.”
“Oh him, he lived there about three years ago. Give it to me and I will see that it is dealt with.”
“You have a forwarding address for him then?”
“No he’s dead, no relatives. I shall just shred it.”
“There seem to be a lot of people dying here Captain Smythe.”
“Well you must realise they are all old folk, most of them on their last legs when they get here.”
“You don’t seem to being a very good job at keeping them alive do you.”
“That is totally uncalled for. It’s not my responsibility to keep them alive. They have doctors to do that."
“How many have died on a Wednesday, Mr Smythe?”
“I’m not sure, why Wednesday Mrs Bond? Oh you are not still harping on about the fire alarm are you. I have told you that is regulations. I have no say in the matter. Could you possibly imagine I enjoy testing it every week?”
“Yes I do actually. That is the kind of mean spirited person you are. Anyway you aren’t going to kill me off.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“You nasty old man, just wait you’ll be old one day.”
***********
Chapter 3. MAY
It’s the first day of the month and I have nobody to White Rabbit with. Arthur always used to wake me with a grin on his face and his finger on his lips to do White Rabbit with me. Of course I haven’t had anyone to do it with for years now but I still miss the little ritual he made of it each month. I do so miss him.
Today is a holiday. Arthur was always grumbling about the number of public holidays there were. He would say that a bit more work and they wouldn’t need so much time off. After all there are no holidays for mothers and housewives. Apparently it’s an American thing, over there they call it Labour Day or some such thing. Silly idea as if they don’t get enough time off as it is. Any excuse to slack, as Arthur would say, people just don’t want to work nowadays. Now if it had been called Winston’s Day I could have understood that. Still it did pour with rain all day so that should teach them.
It turns out that according to Captain Smythe they don’t have the day off on the first of May but on the first Monday of the month so all that rain was wasted. I do hope He is taking note of all this.
That bloody man scared the life out
of me with his fire alarm. Seems to leave his finger on the button for ages. Time doesn’t accustom you to it. Even when you expect it he catches you unaware. I dread to think what its effect must be on some of the older residents.
Finally I have got a result. The social worker person came and told me that they had sent Mr Harness a letter stating that while he could continue to smoke in his flat he was not to smoke on the landing. Hee, hee, hee. As a good Christian woman I try not to but to tell the truth I can feel a tiny smirk coming on.
Talk about counting ones chickens. You would have thought I would have known that nothing comes easy in this world. I rejoiced too soon. The nasty little man has taken to smoking in his flat with his front door open.
"While you might be abiding by the letter of the law you are not abiding by the spirit of it," I told him. He laughed. “I don’t like to be selfish, I like to share my pleasures with the rest of the world,” he said.
Smythe and Mr Tontine, both heavy smokers seem to have taken his side. I saw them looking up at my window with big grins on their faces.