Besides which, the cost of storage seemed to mount in an iniquitous fashion almost every few months.
So one day, in a fit of browned-off and devil-may-care spontaneity, she had everything transported to the auction rooms; and then realized, when it was too late, that even that string of beads and the tramp’s outfit, together with a large box of photographs, nearly all the photographs that she possessed, had been included in the transfer.
But at least she gave the men at John Bayes half an hour of hell, which saved her feebly breaking down upon the spot.
And when some ten years later, in one of her innumerable moves, she lost the picture of Marie she always kept in a leather frame by her bedside, along with a couple of other almost equally precious snapshots tucked into the back of it, this was the one time she actually came nearest to performing the thing she would regularly mention, and even mime, but never seriously consider.
She thought it was an option only available to someone in acute physical pain—terminal, of course—or to someone both an ingrate and a moral coward.
21
“Shall I give you a hand, dear, with the washing up?”
“It’s all right, thank you. I can manage.”
“I thought you looked a trifle peaked.”
“Yes, I don’t feel at my best.”
“You try to do too much. They should have called you Martha—not Marsha. Shall I sit down and keep you company?”
“That’s up to you.”
Daisy pulled out a stool and perched herself uncomfortably. She didn’t feel her sister-in-law’s reply had been precisely gracious but for some time now Marsha had been showing signs of irritability. The poor old thing was running down, thought Daisy.
Going flat. Losing fizz.
Fading.
Also, she’d noticed, Marsha was beginning to repeat herself. And Dan was starting to do it too—it must be infectious! Of course, they had so little, both of them, to occupy their minds. You only had to listen to one of their conversations; it didn’t matter when. They were all identically pathetic.
“Forgive me for harping on it, dear, but you do appear a soupçon under par. Shall I go and get you some tonic? There’s quite a nice man at Boots. I’m sure he’d recommend something.”
“No, thank you, Daisy; it will pass, I daresay. It’s just that there doesn’t seem a lot to look forward to any more.”
“Yes, you’re right, dear. Oh, you’re so right. We should make up a little theatre party one of these evenings. That’s what we should do.”
“I can’t believe there’s anything worth seeing at the theatre. And it’s all so expensive anyway.”
“I’m not sure I agree with the first part of that but I certainly do with the second. That’s why I’m hoping to catch up with things in heaven—where you’ll get the best seats and it will all be free; I think I told you once.”
Daisy decided she must try to jolly her up a bit. “Daisy, you’re a tonic,” people had so often cried. “A real tonic!” They’d have been surprised, then, to hear her talking about buying some bottle of coloured water from Boots, when all she had to do was just pull out her own cork, up-end herself—and pour!
Yes. It wasn’t like her to be nearly letting the side down.
“Well, we must come up with something we can all do, that’s clear.”
But for the moment brainwaves seemed in short supply.
“In any case, Marsha, you’ve got to enjoy yourself!” she said firmly. “It’s later than you think. It’s later than anybody thinks—except anybody who does think! Tomorrow we could all be dead! That idiot Carter could have pressed the wrong button. That dolt in the Kremlin could have done the same thing. So before I walk out of here I’m going to make you laugh—somehow—if it’s the very last thing I do. Would you like me to topple off my stool?”
“Not very much.”
“Well, thank God for small mercies! I could throw a custard pie.”
“There aren’t any. And if there were you’d only make a mess.”
“All of life’s a mess—what difference to anything could one poor little custard pie effect? But you shouldn’t be afraid of mess. I’m not. I welcome it. I go out and dabble my hands in it and swirl it all about me.”
“That must be nice. I hope you wash them afterwards.”
Daisy said: “I know that was a joke, dear, but it’s symptomatic. You’re much too concerned with washing your hands. Not even Christ always washed his hands before breakfast, lunch and tea. And he knew something about the things that matter. Not pernicketiness—oh, dear me, no! Not washed floors which you’re frightened to death somebody will walk across about six hours after they’re done. Not rubbish tied up in neat little parcels which look good enough to give away for Christmas. No. Jesus Christ certainly wasn’t an old maid. Never in ten thousand years!”
“Are you saying that I am?”
“No, dear. Why should you think that? You shouldn’t be so ready to imagine criticism; it’s a definite fault. Nobody’s criticizing you.”
“Well, if you did say I was an old maid it would be perfectly true, anyway. I know that. But I can’t help thinking things may have been a little easier in those days.”
“How? Easier?”
“Possibly you didn’t have to worry so much. About maintaining standards.”
“Flying the flag?”
“I don’t enjoy having to be an old maid.”
“Nobody has to be anything, you know,” said Daisy consolingly.
“Oh, yes, they do. Life just pushes you into things, without you’re really noticing it’s happened.” She paused. “I don’t suppose that anyone ever sets out to be a nag.”
Yet she said this more to the washing-up water than to Daisy; and Daisy didn’t hear.
“I haven’t made you laugh yet, have I? At any rate, not properly.”
“But you’re certainly right about one thing, Daisy. It is later than you think.”
“And I’m right about another: however late it is it’s never too late.”
Marsha just proceeded, steadily, with the remainder of the lunch things. Daisy hated to see anyone unhappy.
“You can always turn over a new leaf.”
“What? At our age?”
“Oh, at any age! Any age! My giddy aunt! What has age got to do with it?”
She controlled herself with difficulty. And just as though she were being rewarded for this a piece of genuine inspiration occurred to her.
“In fact, the older you are, the more of an achievement! Anyone can do anything when they’re young. The whole world belongs to the young, didn’t you know that? We’re always having it thrust down our throats and have done indeed since time immemorial! But when you’re old you start collecting feathers in your cap. Real feathers. I know that I shall.”
As she said this Daisy slipped down from her stool—though somewhat awkwardly; even in the short while she’d been perching there one of her knees had stiffened. Nevertheless she left her stick lying where she had put it, on the tabletop…which afterwards Marsha would need to disinfect of course; particularly the part contaminated by the ferrule.
“We’ll just show ’em, dear, shall we? The two of us together? We’ll show ’em!”
“Show ’em what, Daisy?”
“That every time it rains, it rains…pennies from heaven.”
For the first half dozen words Marsha, with her attention still directed towards the sink and the draining board, didn’t even realize that Daisy was singing. She had missed both the stance—and the tune. Only that well-known phrase alerted her. She turned her head and gave Daisy a brief, apparently encouraging smile, but then continued with her work, hoping that she’d soon stop.
“Don’t you know each cloud contains…pennies from heaven?”
Now, along with the familiar melody which had, albeit rather flatly, finally caught up with its lyric, Marsha saw out of the corner of her eye that there was also movement to accompany the words. Good God, she w
as actually dancing! Or doing what from Daisy’s viewpoint must have passed for dancing. Why couldn’t she just leave her alone? Marsha felt herself extremely close to tears.
“You’ll find your fortune falling…all over town. Be sure that your umbrella…is upside down.”
Now Daisy was nearly at her elbow. Marsha purposely hadn’t looked round but she would have sensed it, anyway, even if she hadn’t heard.
And then she felt one of her sleeves being tugged—as if by a tiresomely persistent child.
Oh, this was too much. This was just too much. Really, Daisy! Go away! Please stop it!
“Now come on, dear. You’ve got to sing it too.”
“No, don’t be silly. I can’t. I don’t know the words.”
“Trade them for a package of…sunshine and flowers. If you want the things you love…you must have showers. So when you hear it thunder…don’t run under…a tree. There’ll be pennies from heaven for you…and…me!”
All the time, the importuning hand remained on Marsha’s sleeve—and plucked it, more or less in rhythm to the song. Marsha bit her lip; and felt her lunch gradually turning to lead.
Daisy said, “And it isn’t such very bad advice, dear, is it? Now then; your turn. Remember we’re in partnership! So every time it rains, it rains…”; a deluge of washing-up water caught her across the lower part of her face and heavily bespattered the front of her blouse.
There was a startled silence. Even a stunned one. Daisy regained her balance, blinked rapidly and rubbed her eyes.
“By Jove!” she cried. “For a moment I thought it really was raining pennies from heaven! But they wouldn’t taste like soapsuds; at least I expect not, would they? When you do enter into a part, dear, you certainly give it everything you’ve got! Well done, Mrs Siddons! A very fine achievement.”
Marsha—now thoroughly contrite and appalled—was already busy with a tea towel. Her exasperation had gone. Indeed, because Daisy was chuckling she couldn’t help laughing a little herself.
“There! I told you I’d make you laugh.”
“I just can’t think how it happened. Somehow my hand must have slipped.”
“Now you mustn’t detract from your achievements!” Daisy pretended to be stern. “Anybody else’s. Never your own.”
“Oh, I think you’ve got achievements on the brain, Daisy.”
“Yes, I have! So now tell me what you consider to be your greatest achievement. Apart from this.”
Of course, she was quite sure of the answer; and if she hadn’t wanted so much to cheer her up—consolidate that progress already made—she would never have put the question. “My children,” Marsha would say. All these fond complacent mothers were exactly the same. As though there was anything to be proud of in doing what the rabbits did oftener and with a good deal less fuss. But Daisy felt in sufficiently high spirits this afternoon to encourage even the smallest display of positivity.
“My greatest achievement?” Marsha scarcely hesitated; three seconds at most. “Snipping the condoms,” she said.
“What was that, dear?” Yet this time Daisy actually had heard.
“Yes. Didn’t you know? Andrew never wanted a second child. And I was quite determined we should have one. After all, there’d been nothing much else to salvage from the marriage.”
“And so you…?”
“Yes. One day when he was out at work. He had two or three packets in his drawer. I just took my scissors and very carefully—”
Daisy suddenly raised her hands above her head and produced a triumphal clap. “So Malcolm really is your greatest achievement! He really is! Does he know?”
“Of course he does. I thought everybody did. Except—possibly—Andrew.” Here she was alluding to her former husband; not to her son.
But Daisy’s amusement was first-time genuine.
“Whatever did he say?” she asked.
“When he discovered I was pregnant?” Marsha’s smile was speedily displaced. “Oh, he wasn’t pleased at all. No, not at all. His first reaction was—well, hardly that of a gentleman, to say the least.”
“He swore?”
“Yes, but he did a lot more than that.”
“He hit you?”
“No, but he implied—”
“What did he imply, dear?”
“That Malcolm wasn’t his baby.”
“Oh! What a brute! How like a man! Always so ready to think he’s been deceived. My word, though—he must have worked himself into a real old-fashioned lather!”
“Yes.”
“And you had always known he would. Yes, I’ll be jiggered! You obviously had guts.”
Marsha shrugged.
“How lucky that Malcolm proved to be the spit and image.”
“I suppose so.”
“Oh, but what a hoot!” Daisy’s enjoyment of the joke was irresistible. Soon the two of them were laughing again. Unrestrainedly. It set them on very good terms with one another; and even as much as two days later Daisy was still intermittently chortling. “Yes, that was quite an achievement! I never knew you had it in you. We’ll have to christen you Miss Snip—Miss Snip the Barber’s Daughter. How do you do, Miss Snip? Well done! I think they’ll really have to include you in next year’s Honours List. I’ll notify the Queen.”
22
“Hello, Andrew. Turned up again like the bad penny, I see. How are you? Where’s Myra?”
“Hello, Aunt Daisy. I’m all right.” When she came into the lounge he quickly folded his paper and stood up but seemed uncertain whether just to take her hand or kiss her cheek or do both. In the end he did neither. He merely waited for her to sit down and then did so himself. “Unfortunately, Myra couldn’t make it. She’s not up to much at the moment.”
“She wasn’t up to much last time if I remember rightly. I haven’t seen her in donkey’s years.”
“Myra’s always been a bit on the sickly side.”
“She enjoys bad health—as people used to say. Yes. Poor Myra. She’s never been up to much, has she? Where are the boys then? In the garden?”
“No, they haven’t come today. You know how it is with young people now—always off somewhere with their friends. Once they’ve turned sixteen they’re very seldom at home. You hardly see them.”
“Nor does their grandmother.”
“Yes, I know. We keep inviting her to come and stay. Always tells us that she can’t leave you and Uncle Dan!”
“Hmm. Probably can’t see the huge advantage of Harrow over Hendon, more like! Even Hendon, perhaps I ought to say. You should take her off to the sea with you for a few days. Must be aeons since she had a break.”
“Well, yes, but unhappily that’s easier said than done… Excuse me, Aunt Daisy. Perhaps I’ll go and see if she needs some assistance.”
“No, sit down again. Finish your cigarette. And maybe you’d like to offer me one? I seem to have left my own upstairs. No, if I know your mother, the last thing she’ll want is for someone to be getting under her feet in the kitchen.” She chuckled. “What’s the matter, though? Scared of a few minutes alone with your mad Aunt Daisy—mad, bad, and dangerous to know? You suddenly remind me of your father.”
Andrew, uncertain how to answer this, perhaps wisely didn’t try to. He lit her cigarette, passed her an ashtray and then resumed his seat.
“Be brave. Dan will be back quite shortly, I daresay. At least I hope he will! Trust him not to have known there wasn’t any sherry in the house! I could have told him, if he’d only asked. I don’t think, dear, your children are awfully good to their grandmother, if you want the honest truth.”
“She doesn’t bother very much with them, either. It’s reciprocal.”
“I don’t think you’re so very marvellous yourself, come to that. And as for Myra…well, she’s a complete write-off if ever I saw one. I hope you don’t mind my mentioning these things?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I don’t feel it’s any of your business.”
“Just whose b
usiness is it, would you say?”
“No one’s but Mother’s and our own.”
“And will you and she be conducting it this afternoon…despite the absence of those other board members? Over lunch would you like me to raise certain items for the agenda and then leave you to discuss them as you do the washing up?”
“No, thank you. And would you mind changing the subject please?”
“Yes, if you like. I suppose you think this Thatcher woman is the bee’s knees? I shouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“I like Margaret Thatcher, yes. I think she’s highly admirable. She’ll do a good job.”
“Pish!”
There was a long silence. Daisy drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair.
“You know I had to sell my car, I suppose? That was over a year ago.”
“I did hear something to that effect,” he said.
“You could do with selling your own car if you ask me. Why didn’t you walk with Dan to the off-licence?”
“I offered him a lift but he said it wasn’t worth it. And as a matter of fact… I had a bit of a stitch for some reason.”
“Ah. I thought so. You’re very overweight.”
“What’s that book you brought down with you? Is it any good?”
“Don Quixote. It’s my bible. One of them! How old are you now—forty-five? Not that it matters, of course. Except that it does, you know. In one sense.”
“I happen to have just turned forty-four. Well, no more than a month or two ago,” he amended, defensively.
She received this news with a raising of the eyebrows and a pursing of the lips. She stubbed out her cigarette.
“I thought your birthday was in March. Like Dan’s.”
“The very end of it,” he said.
When I Was Otherwise Page 12