by Ben Aitken
My last supper is nothing like the tapestry in the church. I’m on my own for a start, and there’s chicken wings and cheesecake. I watch Basia and Zoltan arrive and rearrange things so they’re perpendicular, not opposite. I can see what they’re after. They want to see each other and the world. Zoltan shakes hands with the Hungarian staff, shares a few words with them in his mother tongue. He can’t help it. He can’t resist. Sure, he can speak English brilliantly with a Welsh accent, and sure, he bore tunnels in Nottingham for 45 years, but when Zoltan dreams of heaven, the angels speak Hungarian. Mary and Flicker come in nattering. Mary gives one of her gemstones to Malcolm the driver, then goes out of her way to pass my table and say, ‘Okay?’
Kitty is alone in the lounge. I sit next to her. She looks at the people doing the puzzle, and then at me, and says:
‘You learn about people when you’re away, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, you do.’
‘I had no idea Monica finds it so hard. Getting around, I mean. And I had no idea – well, I had some idea that Alice was suffering but not the way she is. Monica says you’re a carer?’
‘Was.’
‘I did care work for ten years. But then one day, I couldn’t get a man out of the bath, so I quit.’
‘So he’s still in there, is he?’
‘I knew you were going to say that. I had to get the neighbour in.’
There’s silence for a bit. Which is okay. We both look at the puzzle.
‘I used to help a guy called Anthony,’ I say.
‘Help as in care for?’
‘Yeah. He’s one of my best friends now. He’s got cerebral palsy, which means he hasn’t—’
‘I know what cerebral palsy is, love.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You’re alright.’
‘So one time, I was trying to get him out of the bath, by sort of getting my arms around him with one foot in the bath and then sort of lifting and – well he’s a strong lad and he convulsed suddenly and my foot in the bath slipped and I ended up in there with him.’
‘God, was he alright?’
‘Alright? He laughed his tits off.’
She sighs, but in a nice way, a fond way, and then says, ‘You’d better go, hadn’t you?’
‘I had.’
‘What are you seeing?’
‘Blithe Spirit.’
‘I know that one.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Generally Noël Coward avoids Liverpool, but I know that one.’
‘Want to come?’
‘No, you’re alright. I’m going to get a drink and help with that puzzle, I think. But thanks. You can tell me about it tomorrow.’
Wisdom is a slippery thing. Confucius felt it was doing to others as one would be done by. Buddha felt it was about not fixating on oneself. Socrates felt it was about being curious and doubtful. Whatever wisdom is or isn’t, we probably get more of it as we go through life, whether we want to or not. As a result – and allowing for huge, laughable exceptions – wisdom is older than us. Which means it is some places more than others. We should visit those places when we can. That’s what I think.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not prescribing pensioners. I’m not saying that age is only and at all times a virtue, and I’m not making any great, indisputable claims for cross-generational encounters. What I am saying – and I’m pitching this to my peers, really – is that the next time you find yourself next to a person the right side of 80, on a bus or in a jacuzzi, consider asking them what they do for a living. If nothing else, it might give the pair of you something to do until the bubbles come back on.
The past few months have left a mark on me. There’s no doubt about that. At times it has felt like I’ve been standing on the shoulders of giants and taking in the view. I can say without qualification that I’ve been touched by my elders (in the right way), and moved by their example. Only a small amount – of touching, of moving – but an amount nonetheless.
If I had to look closer at that amount, and at that movement, and perhaps take all its warnings and cautions and wise words and bon mots, and then convert the sum into a simple learning or slogan or souvenir, then that simple learning or slogan or souvenir would probably sound something like this: if you want to fling your bra into someone else’s garden, then fling it.
The sun is out. It’s golden hour. Photographers love the length of shadow. Walking to the theatre, I wonder if there will be something deep and hopeful and playful and joyous in Blithe Spirit that will echo the music of these travels; a final, fitting sound, on which to end, on which to start.
There’s no such sound, and no such thing. The play concerns a writer called Charles, which is probably its first mistake. He’s writing a book about the occult and invites a local medium to one of his dinner parties. The medium accepts the invite and accidently returns Charlie’s first wife from beyond the grave, which doesn’t go down well with the second. The whole thing’s much ado about nothing really – which is fine by me, and fine by the rest of the audience by the sound of it.
The drama up and the curtain down, I turn for home. Crossing the River Tummel by an unsteady bridge, I stop in the middle. I didn’t mean to. I look upstream to the theatre and the mountains. It’s 11pm. Just after. There’s a slim moon in a still blue sky, and I can see my breath. Beneath my feet is the calm drift of the river. If this were a film, I’d hear Neil Young from a car radio: come a little bit closer, hear what I have to say. And there would be a montage of cherished faces – Carole and Chris, Kieran and Imelda, Gary and Janet and Graham and Frank. But this isn’t a film, this is mere life, which is fine by me because I don’t mind mere life. I lean on the bridge and am struck by how much light there is so late in the day.
39 He said: ‘My wife was an incessant tea-maker. Whenever she doubted whether she’d done the right thing in marrying me, she’d make a pot of tea.’
40 Jokes aren’t funny if you have to explain that influential Presbyterians are called Elders because in old Greek presbyteros means elder.
Acknowledgements
So many people, for so many things. It’s been a pleasure to add up my debt. My elders for a start, and especially the ones I met on my travels. My nan, Janet, for coming along. My other grandparents – Anne, Annie, Shaun, Ted and Thomas – for your affection and example. Mum and Dad and Ian for only ever being kind. My siblings, for giving me people to look up to, and producing children I adore. Their better halves for assisting in the latter. Megan, for everything. Everyone at Shearings (who were laid off en masse in May 2020, and have my best wishes). Ellen Conlon, for being a brilliant editor and cutting 60 per cent of what I wrote with a smile on your face. Ed Wilson and Helene Butler and Liz Dennis at Johnson & Alcock. Icon Books, for the opportunity in the first place and then excellent support. Lizz Duffy and Kaye Mitchell, for helping me love words and ideas. Booksellers, for what you do. The Society of Authors, for an emergency grant. Uncles Mike and Jim and Matt and John and Peter. Aunties Jo and Pat and Linda and Christine and Shirley. All my nieces and nephews and cousins and second cousins, and all my family in America, Jenny Campion especially. Friends that have done much to inspire and support me over the years, and to make life enjoyable – Richie, Charlie, Jenny, Andy, Russ Hickman, Ken and Amy Daniels, Tom Rees (and bros), Tim Hague (and your mum and dad), Paul and Stacey, Merle, Henok, Cheesy and your siblings, Vicky and Fraser, Meg and Ben, James and Susanna, Nicki, Dinita, Gabriella, Milly, Zahra, Kirty, Usha, Patrick Ney, Davy and Bea, Greg and Shaheen, Jonny Rodgers and Amy, Lucy Burns, Danny M, George W and family, Vardy, Shelly Williams, Gentle Bren, Sandy, Thea, Rachel, Diana, Chloe, Hannah, Becky, Wilma, Nicole, Danny C, Matty James and Dicky Brember and the rest of the Boxing Day mob, Inese Zepa, Nadia Jogee, Anna, Scotty and Rach, Sam, Chris Chappell and family, Santiago Lemoine (the best bookseller in Spain), Camilla Williamson (the best thing in Spain), Peter, Davy, Lucie Wright, Debra Birch, Monia, Tall Chris, Tall Jamie, Small Natalie, Lauren M, Annabel, Josie Ryan, Jo Ba
rret, Jane Fletcher, Liv Elbirk, Mick and Nicola, Margherita, Macarena, Mirek, Gosia, Ewa, Asia, Ola, Laura, Andrzej, Paulina, Tessa, Dominic, Marietta, Tony, Ania, Czesiu, Anita, Kuba, Marta, Kasia, Wiktoria, Alicia Payne, Jenny Harvey, Jesse Klein, John Baldwin, Lorna Wilson, Anna Topczewska, Carolina S, Caroline Phillips, all of Megan’s mates (Ellie, Albie, Annie, Izzy …), Clara Schramm, Leah Sassoon and family, Lauren Abend, Anthony Ford-Shubrook of course, Giulia, Xavi, the German, Frank, Salvatore, Cath (and the rest of your keep fit class), Tony, Brian H, Kim and Steph and Jo (+Penny), Ashley Allen and family, Fi, Moe, Julia Trummer, Matt Whelan, Naomi C, Lee P, Jo E, Karl, Jackson, Matt B, Nathan G, the Aspex crew, Sarah Tate and Richard Hill, Paul Tate, Carole Edgeworth, James G and Holly, Baxter, Dunc, Luke F and Tara, Nat and Paul Smith, Maxine Patterson, Diana Patient, Pat McCubbin, the Weilers, Jo West, Tom Sykes and Amanda Garrie and Richard P and Paul V and all those with a mind to write in fair old Pompey town, Claire Hix, Liz Hix, Chris Hix, Sophie Hicks, Tess Hickish, Sophie VC, Iga K, John and Dom Currie, Lucie BF, Mike W, Iona, Katie Carleton, Thos, Terry, Flora, Octavia H, Linda F, Sylvia W, Karolina, Kate M, Kate P, Katie Lundstrom, Katie Blackpool, Dominique Lucas and family, Mike Bonsall, Craig and Jade Sweenie, Hywel, Howard H, Mark Dredge, Kenny Hedges, MHG, Doug Thorp, all the Nortons in Victoria, Gizem, Joel Jackson, Nathan P, Nat R, Jay Cunnington, Elizabeth Newman, Liz Slade, everyone at CERN, Matt Ryan, Sylvia Hewlett, John Gleadall, Emily LW, Chris White, Pat B and Charlotte, Michelle Douglas, Dave and Becky Morrison, all my mum’s lovely friends, all my dad’s lovely friends, Agnes Stow, Ivana, Sara W, Lauren S, Chris Phillips, Johny Katz, Lucy Hutchinson, Chris Hunter, Chris CG, Shane Rich, Rachel Oldroyd, Ed Wight, Iris and Mor, Suchi and James, Anita Lewis, Tom M, Tom K, Tom H, Joel M, Connell from Normal People … I do hope to see you all in the same room one day. That would be one hell of a party. I would collapse with love and gratitude, and then dance and talk and laugh for weeks.
Also by Ben Aitken
Dear Bill Bryson: Footnotes from a Small Island
A Chip Shop in Poznań: My Unlikely Year in Poland
Copyright
Published in the UK in 2020 Distributed in Australia and
by Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus New Zealand
Business Centre, by Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd,
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ISBN: 978–178578–648–8
eISBN: 978–178578–649–5
Text copyright © 2020 Ben Aitken
The author has asserted his moral rights.
Text from Somewhere Towards the End © Diana Athill,
Granta, 2018. Reprinted with permission of the publisher.
‘In a Bath Teashop’ from John Betjeman Collected Poems,
© 2006 John Betjeman. Reproduced by permission of John Murray
Publishers, an imprint of Hodder and Stoughton Limited.
‘Sentenced to Life’ from Sentenced to Life by Clive James, Picador © Clive James, 2016. Reproduced with permission of the Licensor through PLSclear.
Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of the material reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher will be pleased to make acknowledgement on future editions if notified.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
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by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.