I hung up. I couldn’t draw the breath for a reply in case it encouraged any more; before I could stop him we would be on to greenfly and the lawn sprinkler. But in the end, Jeremy proved helpful. A conversation with him that I hadn’t wanted to have at all had shown me my way forward. I had not realized before I said it that I even wanted to go away, let alone that I intended to. But of course I did. It was the natural and only possible next step.
As per
Dear Ruth
Developments. As I’d got it off the wall and had no further use for it, I was aiming to put Della’s memorial effort out for the bin men. That should have been that. Only did I stumble or did I drop it (or was it shoddy goods to start with) but the glass in the frame broke. I managed to nick my hand and I’ve written a note to remind myself to avoid the hall in bare feet from now on. You never get every last shard up. Less floor room in hall now, anyway, as I’ve got a lot of stuff stored there, got it down from the attic where it’s no use to anyone, and I’m not undoing all my good work just because of a little broken glass.
But mindful that it was broken glass, I didn’t stick the memorial in the actual dustbin. I can just imagine the hoo-hah if one of the bloody bin men got so much as a scratch. They don’t seem to wear gloves anymore. So I just placed it carefully against the wall next to bin. Next day, bin’s been emptied, a minor miracle-AND left on its side halfway up the drive. That’s happened before, they just FLING it down and seem to expect thanks for it. Anyway, damn tribute’s still there against the wall, not even touched. That’s wilful dereliction. No doubt they’ll find some red tape or small print to justify yet more atrocious service, as per.
Damned if I’m giving in was my first thought, you’ll be pleased to hear. A sure sign I’m getting back to normal. Standing up for myself visà-vis obstinacy of bin men instead of going down in welter of self-pity. They are NOT getting away with it and I’ll damn well leave it there till they DO pick it up, we’ll see who prevails. I’m the taxpayer, as I’ll remind them. I’m staying at home these days, as it suits me to, but I certainly intend to be on the lookout and I’ll make my feelings known next time they deign to call.
So I left the bloody thing-and left also wheelie bin on its side because there’s a principle involved. Next thing is Mrs. M’s at the door with a bunch of freesias. She starts spouting some notion that you were fond of them. I couldn’t shed any light on that possibility, I said.
Then she asks, did she get me out of the bath and have I mislaid dressing gown-did I grab raincoat as first thing to come to hand? Mind your own business, I said.
Then she waved freesias and said she thought she should ask first, was it all right with me. Floral expressions of sympathy are all very well, she goes on, but she’s sensitive to the fact that somebody’s got to clear up in the end and she’ll never forget those sordid scenes at Kensington Palace post-Diana. They had to bring in those diggers you use after avalanches.
And they’re piling up already, she said, waving down the drive. Give it a week and it’ll be a nasty heap of compost obstructing the thoroughfare and encroaching onto the pavement (her very words). Not at all welcome, not very Cardigan Avenue. She says, if somebody slipped you could be liable. Maybe she should ask The Great Tony to tidy it up. I stood and let her go on. Maybe she thought she was making sense or she was expecting me to say something back. I was completely at sea.
Though clearly, she said, sniffing the freesias, others haven’t had the courtesy to check first. I was still baffled and said so. Then she said, you know, your poem out on the drive, the poem you left out for people to read. She’s got an excited look about her now.
So out we go (she insisted I get my slippers on first) and there at the end of the drive in front of Della’s tribute there are at least a dozen bunches of flowers including a handful of dead daisies tied with a bit of tinsel, “From Amy Watson (aged 5) at No. 48.” Just lying there where the wall of the drive curves out. Still baffled. Mrs. M says people like to leave a marker. She says people are just showing support in the best way they know. Showing support.
Ruth, you’re the one with the words-what does that mean? SHOWING SUPPORT? I’m not talking about the word itself, that’s plain enough, I mean, what does it MEAN? SUPPORT? A prop for a leaning wall? What’s the use of that if bricks have been pulled out from the bottom? It’s collapsing anyhow. Support will only put off the inevitable, it’ll end up a pile of rubble eventually.
So Mrs. M puts her flowers down with the rest and blows her nose, peers at my face and says now she sees me in daylight she wonders if I need a dermatologist. Then she launches into the usual-importance of eating properly etc and it’s no bother at all if she’s cooking for herself anyway, and later on she’ll just pop over with something.
See what’s going on? Freesia business was a ruse to get me out of the house and agreeing to all kinds of things, more hot dinners etc.
I am beginning to understand her motives. Probably been waiting to pounce for years and now with you gone she’s making her move. Think of the kerfuffle that would create. There’s no way to deal with that sort of thing except walk away, it’s the only language her kind understand. Which is exactly what I did.
Wish you were here.
Won’t you come again?
That’s all.
Arthur.
THE COLD AND THE BEAUTY AND THE DARK
Chapter 10: The Ravages of War
Little Grace Ashworth had her mother’s dimples and her father’s dark hair, and at the age of eight was by all accounts a strikingly pretty girl. Evelyn brushed and plaited her soft hair every morning, marvelling at its silkiness, and she stroked her daughter’s smooth face and gave a gentle prod where the dimples would appear on each cheek. “Let’s be putting those dimples on show today, eh?” she would say. “Be a happy good lass for your Mam.”
But she herself would never see those dimples. And Grace had already acquired something of her father’s brooding and taciturn nature, so that for days on end very few other people did, either. Sometimes Evelyn worried that in her daughter’s silences there was a reproach meant for her, as if it were Evelyn’s own fault that she was blind. A mood would settle on the little girl for days at a time and Evelyn would fret to herself that she would never be forgiven for the fact that Grace had been born to a mother who was unable to see her.
If only Stan had taken more trouble and time with his daughter, but he only noticed Grace on the very few occasions on which she was naughty. He had as little to do with her, or with Evelyn, as possible. She never had found out any more about the girl in blue and yellow. When it occurred to her, weeks after the day on Kinder Scout, that she would be quite within her rights as a wife to insist on knowing, it had no longer seemed important. Then Grace had been born and it seemed less important still.
Now, whenever he wasn’t at work he would be out somewhere. He had long since stopped saying where he was going and Evelyn had long ago stopped asking. After all these years, whether Stan was at a meeting or drinking with Alan O’Reilly, or carrying on with some girl or another, it made little difference to her. All she knew was that with the passing of time her own heart seemed to grow smaller.