Reasons to Be Cheerful

by Nina Stibbe

Mr Holt carried my bag upstairs for me and checked everything was OK. We had a cup of tea while he rewired the plug on my hairdryer, although he was disappointed that I’d forgotten how to do it myself and ran through it with me. And then because he didn’t bring it up, nor did he seem to be peering at me for clues as to how I was coping, I found myself talking about Andy, and being honest about how I felt–as honest as I had been in my letter to Claire (Rayner) but more so, having no word limit.

  ‘I’m just someone whose boyfriend has died,’ I said, ‘and now I want time to fly by and for people to stop seeing me like that.’

  ‘It won’t stop, love,’ he said. ‘The only way is to get away.’

  ‘Get away? Where to?’

  ‘London, Glasgow, Dublin, Norwich…’ He listed big cities.

  ‘But can I just go?’ I asked him. ‘Doesn’t it seem callous to move on?’

  ‘Why would it be?’

  ‘Callous about Andy.’

  ‘No, you get on and live,’ he said. ‘That’s what he’d have wanted, without doubt.’

  Mr Holt was shy of the subject, and wasn’t the sort to blow his own trumpet, but there was a thing he was keen to share. He told me that Andy had been scared of the dark and had had to have the little light on all night; he’d asked for permission to do so, vis-à-vis the electricity bill. Mr Holt had found him a low-wattage plug-in one (7 watts, I believe)–enough light to ward off the fears but not so much as to stimulate his brain and keep him awake.

  ‘That little bit of light worked a treat for him,’ said Mr Holt, ‘and I felt like a hero giving it to him.’

  He got ready to leave and I admitted that I was worried about being lonely. He told me to ring any time and they’d come and get me. We hugged goodbye, he took my favourite spoon out of his pocket and then went. It felt horrible. I stood still for what seemed like an hour. And then the doorbell went and I glanced out of the window to see the Snowdrop van in the tram stop. I trotted down, pulled the door open and was about to say, ‘Hurrah, take me home,’ when I saw Angelo in Mr Holt’s arms.

  ‘Miss Smith says you can have him for the weekend–for company.’

  God, I hugged that dog.

  ‘What did you tell her?’ I asked him.

  ‘That your boyfriend died and you’re trying to get back to normal.’

  The weekend went OK and I delivered Angelo back on the Monday morning. And I decided Mr Holt was right. I needed to move on, and I should at least start thinking it through.

  I approached my father about the Massachusetts job and he told me they had hired a mature woman–an American–to go with them, who’d double as a secretary for him and help them settle in and know the American ways of doing things and save them weeks, if not months, of doing slightly the wrong thing. They needed someone who’d say ‘chips’ and ‘dairy’ in the right place and not accidentally say ‘vagina’ when they meant ‘envelope’. They wanted someone who could hit the sidewalk running and so forth; what they didn’t want was my sister and me and our confusing blend of familiarity and resentment. So Massachusetts was off the list.

  If I got a job in London I’d need accommodation.

  Which do you organize first: job or accommodation? I had assumed job, but what if you couldn’t find anywhere to live and you were working all day interviewing women for Woman’s Own and then having to pretend to be waiting for a late train at Waterloo but really sleeping on a bench? We’d recently visited my mother’s friends Aunt Josephine and Uncle Peter who lived in a sweet little flat in Kilburn, north London. Its garden was a whitewashed box, covered in vines that made it seem like a forest clearing, and it was so sheltered you could sit out under the moon, drink tea and smoke, even in winter. My mother had mentioned my ambition to move to London and Josephine immediately offered to put me up if I ever did. I didn’t take it seriously because I felt her a bit beyond me, intellectually, and anyway, according to my mother–who’d sneakily read her diary that evening–Josephine’s marriage was on the rocks. My mother had tried to get her to talk about it over our Spudulike supper but Josephine hadn’t been drawn. The problem, according to the diary, was a difference of opinion on cultural issues and that Uncle Peter wasn’t being offered enough protein at mealtimes (but this was according to the diary, which, of course, only gave Josephine’s side).

  So really, I needed a job which came with accommodation–nanny or au pair or housekeeper. I wasn’t in a hurry so I could be quite fussy. I kept an eye on the Lady magazine but never saw anything that one hundred per cent agreed with me. Either there were too many children (three), or they flitted between A and B (I didn’t want to flit), or the home was Knightsbridge (I didn’t fancy it), or in Surrey (was that even London?), or they wanted a non-smoker (I might want to smoke).

  I did make one application–to be au pair to a small baby whose parents worked for the Parker Pen Company; the situation seemed almost perfect. They flitted between London and Geneva (I hadn’t yet ruled flitting out entirely), and I was invited to an interview. It didn’t work out though because I over-prepared and talked too much about the company’s trademark quick-drying ink, Quink, which I was all for and knew to be a favourite among writers. And in my admiration for the product, I failed to make enough of the baby (a boy called Zebedee or similar). It was good practice though, and my mother and I had a marvellous time in London, taking in the Wallace Collection and the Tate and, at one point, a distant view across the river of King’s Reach Tower, where Woman’s Own was published. And then we went over to Kilburn for the Spudulike supper with Aunt Josephine.

  30. The Wheels of Justice

  Early one morning, some weeks after I’d moved back into the flat, Priti appeared at the surgery door with a middle-aged man.

  ‘This is my uncle,’ she said and the uncle nodded sternly at me.

  ‘Pritiben needs to get her treatment finished before she goes to university,’ he said. ‘Her tooth keeps falling out–she’s very worried.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, opening the door, ‘come in. I think we can squeeze you in this morning, if you don’t mind waiting.’ I supposed the game was up, but I was too weary to care. I’d taken one of the little pills–my last one, actually–and so things seemed slightly unreal. I had every intention of sorting out Priti’s bridge, but not like this, with the uncle looking all cross and accusatory.

  Soon JP arrived. No Tammy, though; she was apparently visiting a fertility specialist with Jossy Turner.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘let’s have the first patient, nurse.’

  I ushered Priti through. She sat in the chair and her uncle took the low office seat.

  Priti told JP she needed a bridge–the denture was beginning to droop. She had important exams looming, she’d be starting university in September, and she wanted the treatment completed well in advance.

  JP told Priti he didn’t do that kind of work on the NHS and she’d be looking at upwards of £300 for a three-tooth bridge.

  Her uncle explained that she had been promised–when she had her extraction and the denture was made–that the next step would be a bridge.

  ‘The denture no longer fits,’ he said.

  JP agreed–a bridge would be an obvious next step–but he was sorry, he did not do bridge or crown work on the NHS.

  ‘The best thing for you to do is go back to the practice that did the original work,’ he said, looking at the uncle.

  I held my breath.

  ‘The original work was here, at this practice,’ said Priti.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said JP with a slight and sarcastic laugh. ‘I remember seeing you and telling you I couldn’t treat you on the NHS.’

  ‘Your colleague did it,’ said the uncle.

  ‘My colleague? Well, that’s where you’re completely out of line–I don’t have a colleague.’

  ‘Your daughter,’ said the uncle.

  ‘I don’t have a daughter,’ said JP, turning to Priti, ‘and you’re not a patient here, so I’m going to ask you to leave.’
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  ‘She’s a friend of mine. Couldn’t you make an exception?’ I interrupted.

  ‘What?’ JP scowled at me. ‘No, I can’t do work like that on the NHS.’

  ‘If you refuse to complete the treatment I shall report you to the Family Practitioners Association,’ said the uncle.

  ‘Fine by me,’ said JP. ‘Goodbye.’

  And after mentioning legal proceedings and the Citizens’ Advice, they were gone. A wave of panic so strong washed over me that I thought I might collapse. It was worse than the time I was left in charge of the donkey derby and a kid got dragged.

  JP was shaken too. He needed a cigarette. So we went up to the staffroom where he lit one and passed it to me to feed him.

  ‘Thank you for your intervention, nurse,’ he said sarcastically, between puffs. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’

  ‘She can’t afford the fees,’ I said. ‘She’s my friend, and I just don’t see why you can’t treat her.’

  ‘If she doesn’t want to go back to the practice that started the treatment she must find the money to pay for private treatment. Couldn’t she sell her hair–isn’t that what they do?’

  And that was when I accidentally turned the cigarette around and JP closed his lips on the red-hot end. He shrieked, ran to the sink and splashed his mouth with water.

  ‘You lunatic,’ he cried.

  ‘I treated her,’ I said. ‘I drained the abscess months ago but the tooth flared up again–well, you saw it–and then she turned up at the emergency clinic.’ I paused.

  He stared at me, damp-haired, from the sink.

  ‘And then you refused to see her because it was your golf afternoon, and then–I don’t know–no one would treat her on the NHS and so I asked Andy to make her the denture and then I extracted the tooth and fitted the denture as an immediate restoration and it was perfect.’

  I paused for emphasis, but JP still didn’t say anything.

  ‘And I would have done the bridge prep with Andy,’ I continued breathlessly, ‘except Andy died –’ I was crying–‘and now Priti’s uncle’s threatening to get a solicitor from the Citizens’ Advice Bureau and if you weren’t such a xenophobe then none of this would have happened.’

  JP blinked and wiped his face with a tea towel.

  ‘Nice try, nurse,’ he said, attempting to leave the room.

  ‘Everything I just told you is true,’ I said and I leaned on the door to prevent him opening it.

  ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me you extracted that girl’s tooth and fitted a denture?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe you. Now please get out of my way.’

  He yanked at the door and left the room.

  Priti came to see me that evening. I was making animal biscuits again. This time I cut more rabbits because she disliked dogs, even shortbread ones (even Angelo), and I baked them for less time to keep them softer, and then iced them.

  She told me her uncle was going to see a solicitor on Friday. And once that happened, she said, wheels would apparently begin turning that could not be stopped until justice had been served.

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone that I did the treatment,’ I said.

  ‘But that’s what I’m saying,’ she replied. ‘Once the solicitor gets involved, the truth is bound to come out.’

  I couldn’t tell whether Priti understood the trouble I’d be in if/when the truth did come out. If she did, she didn’t care and actually, I admired her for it. We ate the biscuits and then I called my mother. I told her everything on the phone. She didn’t say much but an hour later she had arrived, with Abe. They listened carefully and Abe said he’d speak to Bill Turner, and I begged him not to tell Bill the whole truth, and Abe said Bill would most likely help without needing to know the details–that was the great thing about the Freemasons.

  Early the following day Rhona, Bill Turner’s nurse, appeared and asked if we had any dental records or open forms for a Pritiben Mistry.

  I found the dental record which, as I knew, contained no details other than her name and address.

  ‘We have a blank card. JP wouldn’t treat her,’ I said. ‘Do you need it?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Rhona.

  ‘Why, what’s going on?’

  ‘Bill’s just booked her in to do a bridge prep later this week and wondered if you had any paperwork.’

  ‘NHS?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rhona. ‘As a favour for one of his Freemason pals, I should think.’

  Later, Priti called in to thank me for fixing things, and to ask me if I’d go to the appointment with her. She was nervous. I told her that it was Abe who’d arranged everything and she looked puzzled.

  ‘The one who ate your bread at the party,’ I reminded her.

  Exactly two weeks later Bill fitted Priti’s bridge and it was perfect and smart.

  Bill had done a first-class job for Priti. My mother came to see it. Priti thanked her and asked her to thank Abe. She said she would.

  My mother had other news. She couldn’t afford Curious Minds any more so Danny would go to a local playgroup until he started at the infant school in the village after the summer holidays. My mother was concerned that I’d feel lonely but I’d been ready for it. It seemed right and I was pleased for Danny to have classmates he could play with close to home.

  Also, my mother had sent Patience Tidy more chapters of ‘The Waiting Room’, featuring Calipastra and Jim. Patience had responded immediately, thanking my mother but saying that she felt the book was too episodic and lacking texture. And that because Faber & Faber had lots of authors who could do story and texture and humour, they would not be able to offer her a contract.

  My mother was terribly upset and surprised. She wrote straight back to Patience with what was basically a begging letter:

  Dear Patience,

  Please agree to a short meeting so that I can explain the aims and scope of my book. It is imperative that I get a chance to discuss this with you. Face to face.

  Yours, etc.

  Mildred Quietly

  (Elizabeth Benson-Holt)

  ‘So we’ll see,’ she said.

  And finally a letter had come for me from King’s Reach Tower–from the Woman’s Own counselling team:

  Dear Miss Vogel,

  Thank you for your letter. I am so sorry to hear about the death of your boyfriend. What a terribly tragic thing to happen and especially to someone so young. Of course it is only natural that you will feel sad for a while. However, you are not being selfish in not wanting to be defined by this event, and you most certainly shouldn’t mourn for a year.

  My advice to you is to be ambitious for yourself, follow your dreams and become whoever you want to be. I know this is what your boyfriend would have wanted for you.

  Yours sincerely,

  It was signed with two squiggles on behalf of the team but I felt sure it was Claire Rayner–I could just about make out the word ‘Rayner’ in the second squiggle, and I smiled at how similar her response was to that of Mr Holt.

  I read it over and over, and felt bolstered by it. I started looking for new jobs and applying, in earnest.

  Suddenly it was August and Priti was getting ready to leave for university. She’d done well in her A levels, as had my brother Jack, who’d taken them a year early, much to my mother’s delight. Priti had narrowly avoided having to live with a second cousin in Bethnal Green; there’d been much drama on this subject, but finally she’d arranged a flat share with three other students, and her uncle had unhappily accepted it. Jack was going into halls of residence in Camden Town and I warned him that the Tube often stopped in between Camden and Mornington Crescent stations, and not to be afraid.

  My mother had offered Priti a lift up to London, since she’d be taking Jack, and this worked out well as it meant that Priti’s uncle could keep the restaurant open. I offered to go along too, to keep my mother company on the journey home, but she’d planned to collect her friend Josephin
e and bring her back for a visit so there was no need. I’d be more help at home, looking after Danny.

  When the day came–a gloomy Saturday–my mother came in to town to collect Priti and her belongings and me. We went back for Jack, who was looking after Danny until I arrived. Priti had a whole boxful of books for her course already and masses of discounted kitchen equipment from Patel’s. She’d had a haircut at La Croix and a medical check-up at the Regent’s Road clinic and was in tip-top form. My brother only had an Anglepoise lamp and the proceeds of the sale of his moped. I’d made them each a tin of biscuits and told them they could keep the tin. I also gave Priti an oven glove, and Jack the St Christopher pendant.

  ‘I’ll make biscuits every week and that way I’ll remember you,’ said Priti.

  ‘But I’ll be in London myself soon. We can meet up.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Priti, ‘we can.’

  It was horribly emotional seeing them go. My mouth quivered so much I could barely speak, so I just clung on to my littlest brother. Priti and Jack were happy and excited, though, and I felt briefly like their mother. I watched as they drove away and stared into the distance for a while as if they might come back.

  Finally Danny took his thumb out of his mouth to ask, ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘For ever?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Less than a week later, it was a golf afternoon and Bill Turner arrived to have a quick scale and polish. JP’s name had been up for nomination at the Masonic Lodge the night before. Once he’d got Bill in the chair he asked how the vote had gone. He’d been ringing him all morning and was by now impatient to know the result. Bill tried to put him off until they’d got away from the surgery, but JP mithered him like a child.

  Bill said he was sorry but JP had been blackballed again.

  ‘Damn them,’ said JP. ‘Damn them.’

  ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘What is their ruddy problem?’

  ‘They don’t consider you a worthy candidate, for some reason.’

  ‘What reason?’ asked Tammy.