No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (18 page)

‘Peaceful!' I said, as I returned to sit down. ‘It's like having tinnitus.'

‘No, they're those special chimes of peace,' said Penny. ‘You can hear … with little bells … they must be from Glastonbury or somewhere. They're meant to soothe and make you feel at one with nature.'

‘I feel perfectly at one with nature without having the sound of bells buggering up the whole experience,' I snapped back. ‘It's a vile racket, just as bad as having someone playing their blasted radio all the time.'

‘You'll get used to them,' said Penny. ‘Don't worry. It's just the effects of the anaesthetic that's making you so edgy. You won't notice them after a while.'

Curious how some people think that if you give someone cause for irritation for long enough they'll be able to blank it out eventually. Anyway, how dare she say it was the anaesthetic. It was as irritating as those men who used to tell you you were cross because it was ‘that time of the month'.

I shall have to think of a way to get rid of those chimes. Or move.

‘I could always superglue them together,' I said, brightly.

‘It would be politer just to ask them to take them down.'

‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘Because if they say “no” and
then they find something's happened to them, they'll know it was me. No, I'll have to be more devious than that.'

And suddenly I thought of Archie. He'd have found a way to get them down. He was such a charmer, he'd have got Sharmie and Brad eating out of his hand. I shook my head sadly.

Now I'll have to do it myself.

It's funny the strange bits of conversation you pick up while wandering about London. Because you don't hear all of it, they come across as completely surreal. On my way back from having my staples removed – it didn't hurt a bit and afterwards I felt far less a Creature from the Black Lagoon than I had – I passed a girl by my gate who was saying to her friend, with a chatty smile on her face, ‘So at least now I know what it's
like
to be raped …'

Finally got my act together to organise signatures for the petition against the hotel. Marion said she'd come with me and she arrived in a long denim skirt with a weird kind of crocheted top, and clutching a stick and a clipboard. It turned
out she'd fallen off a ladder yesterday. It was pouring with rain.

‘I don't expect you feel like walking very far, and as I'm still recovering from my op, I don't imagine we'll get a lot of signatures,' I said.

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Marion, gamely. ‘People will feel so sorry for us. We can play the “We're very old” card.'

Having just paid a small fortune for the facelift (or rather about to pay a small fortune when the money comes through from the auction) I wasn't very much in the mood for playing that particular card, but I didn't say anything and we set out.

Amazingly, within an hour and a half, we'd each got about fifty signatures – people were very keen to sign, particularly when they found out we weren't selling anything – and I was rather struck by the number of people far younger than me who were hanging around at home on a Monday afternoon; I thought they'd all be out at work. Maybe the
Rant
knows what it's talking about. We were both exhausted and finally returned for a cup of tea. Then Marion started. (She's such a kindly and warm-hearted woman, but my goodness, she could take a PhD in moaning.)

‘So many unemployed,' she sighed, as she sat down. ‘What is the world coming to? I despair. And did you know that there are over half a million out of work and on benefits and so many single parents? They get pregnant just to get a council house and the money, you know, no other reason. And they spend all their child benefit on drugs.'

I waited for the kettle to boil. She went on. ‘Honestly, they have such short attention spans these days, it's hopeless. I don't think anyone's going to read a book after we're dead. It's all this Facebook and Twitter – God knows what they are – no wonder they riot in the streets, they've got nothing to do and all they're interested in is material things …'

‘Let's count the signatures,' I said firmly. ‘And let's thank our lucky stars that three of them promised to collect signatures from their tower blocks …'

‘It's so sad no one wants to get involved these days, isn't it?' said Marian. ‘In the old days we were always marching and petitioning and trying to save the world, and now no one can be bothered even to put their signature to something right under their noses. Fear I suppose. When I think of how
we
were in the seventies, so full of optimism, hoping to change the world with peace and love, and now look …' She shook her head dolefully.

‘Oh, well, we'll all be dead soon,' I said reassuringly. I'm never comfortable with anyone, even sweet old Marion, droning on about the good old days. ‘Or we'll all be wiped out in a plague. Or a nuclear bomb will blow us all up. Or the internet will collapse and it'll be the end of civilisation as we know it … that would fix everything wouldn't it? We could start again from scratch. Look at the Ancient Egyptians. Not a trace of them now.'

‘Oh, don't say that!' said Marion.

She was so distressed at the idea of Armageddon that she shut up, clutching on to the table. Felt a bit mean, so I
thanked her profusely, let her out of the door and watched her as she pottered down the street with her stick and clipboard, and then I crawled upstairs to have a rest.

Though I still look pretty peculiar, I decided to go with Sylvie to look at a nursing home she thinks might be suitable for Archie. Mrs Evans said she'd spend the day with him, so Sylvie is free, and Harry, her husband, is away on business. So I was really touched that she wanted me to go and help her.

Even though I'd warned her I'd be covered in scarves and dark glasses to cover up my bruises, Sylvie still looked a bit shocked when she opened the door to me. But she politely said she was sure I would look wonderful in a few weeks. Then she showed me some brochures and said all the homes she'd visited so far were hopeless. There were only two more to see, one of which we were going to visit now. It was called Eventide – part of an American chain – and set in the kind of Devon countryside that's always described as ‘rolling'.

It turned out that Eventide was frightfully posh and impressive. There was a lake and a wood, and a very large car park for all the visitors' cars (mostly urban jeeps), and even a cafe and playroom in the reception area for families who visited with children. It looked like one of those country house spas that were so popular in the seventies – I once won a week in one in a raffle and Penny had jokingly said,
‘First prize, one week in luxury spa. Second prize, two weeks.' Anyway, Eventide consisted of three buildings. One was called Afternoon where there were lots of people pottering about in proper clothes. You felt you could even strike up a worthwhile conversation with them. At least I think you could. I have to say that neither Sylvie nor I tried, feeling too ashamed, nervous and generally appalled by the whole setup to dare to speak to anyone.

Next was Evening, a long two-storey building overlooking the lake. And finally, Sunset – which was more like palliative care. This was a gloomy building with very few windows and surrounded by pines, all on one floor just in case any of the inhabitants had the sudden urge to leap from their windows. Not that many were, of course, capable of leaping.

Once inside, what struck us was how suffocatingly hot it was in all the rooms.

‘Why do you keep it at tropical temperatures?' we asked a nurse.

‘Our guests often lose their temperature thermostat,' said the nurse. ‘Hypothermia.'

Sylvie and I looked at each other. There was nowhere colder, as I've said, than Archie's house.

We looked at the sort of room that Archie might be in, and I suppose it could have been worse. It was light. There was a very high bed with lots of levers on it, presumably for the day when he becomes bedridden and needs to be able to tip it up and down himself to make it more comfortable. There was a very nice-looking armchair for him to sit
in and an upright chair for visitors. A television. And even double doors leading out onto a small walled garden full of alternately red and cream plants that looked as if a gardener had only just stuck them in that morning. Obviously not Calibans from the banks-of-foaming-colours nursery.

‘What do you think, Marie?' said Sylvie, as we left. ‘I know it's grim, but at least it's in the country. And it's very luxurious. And the staff seem nice.'

‘It
is
grim,' I said, ‘but it's a whole lot better than most old people's homes I've been in.' I remembered when I'd been to visit my aunt. The whole place had smelt of pee and it was full of tragic old gentlemen strapped to their chairs and screaming for their mothers. ‘If you can afford it, I don't think you could do much better. At least there are lovely views.'

‘I don't think we need look at the other one. It's far nicer than anything I've seen. And I've seen some grisly places, I can tell you!' she said.

I agreed. The truth was that I suddenly felt so absolutely knackered – as one does after an operation – that the idea of going to visit anywhere else was quite beyond me. I thought I was going to faint.

‘I'll book him in. Oh Marie, isn't it sad!'

It is sad, but I'm afraid that, since Archie won't really
know
where he is, it won't
matter
so much to him where he is.

Spent most of the day in bed, having driven back last night after an emotional day.

I was hoping James had forgotten about the installation, but unfortunately when he rang asking if he could bring me an early supper – always nice, even though by now I can make supper perfectly well myself – he asked if he could also bring over a collection of ‘found objects'. He wanted me to sit in the garden, while he assembled these bits and decided how to put them together to make an ‘impression' of me. It was one of those rather depressingly grey, humid summer days and I didn't really feel like going out, particularly as yesterday I'd done so much weeding I thought my back would break.

But he is such a sweetie. The first thing he did as he came in was to take a long look at me and say, ‘Well, my darling! Shaping up nicely! The swelling is really going down isn't it? You're still a bit puffy round the eyes, but that'll soon go. Hasn't it all been a huge success? Aren't you thrilled?'

Now James has put the seal of approval on the facelift I think I can turn the camera back on Skype without Jack or Chrissie knowing anything's been done. Particularly if I sit a bit further away from the camera than usual. On Skype everyone looks as if they've just had a facelift anyway, all distorted, so I doubt anyone will notice I've actually had one.

‘And how's Ned?' I asked.

‘He's fine!' said James enthusiastically. ‘And do you know what? I actually managed to persuade him to eat some butter yesterday! Isn't that brilliant! I think I might be turning him into a vegetarian rather than a vegan. And after that, who knows … lamb chops, steaks …'

‘Boiled babies … lightly grilled!' I said.

James unloaded all his stuff into the garden, and looked a bit nervous when I showed such shock and horror when he unrolled a lumpy old bedspread and laid out a few clothes pegs, some rusty razor blades, half a bicycle, the skull of a fox and a rusty old walking frame.

‘I hope you don't think any of that looks like me!' I said.

‘No, no, it'll be quite different,' said James hastily. ‘I just brought these round for inspiration.'

‘Well, I was expecting you'd bring round a jug of sparkling water, a bunch of flowers, a piece of moss and a bird's nest, or something romantic, not this old crap,' I said tartly.

‘Oh, no, there'll be plenty of moss and charm,' said James anxiously, as he fiddled around. ‘It's all just to give me ideas about the basic structure. This walking frame isn't there to “say” anything. I just thought it would help prop the whole thing up.'

I sat – staring suspiciously at the pile of old junk – in a rickety garden chair, with Pouncer jumping on flies around me, listening to the tinkle tinkle tinkle of the neighbour's chimes.

‘Aren't they frightful?' I said.

‘What?' said James.

‘The chimes!' I said, and felt like adding, ‘Are you deaf?'

He cocked his head, coyly. Then he said, ‘Funny – I didn't hear them till you drew my attention to them. Now you point them out, aren't they lovely – so soothing!'

‘
Soothing!
I can't get them out of my head,' I said. ‘Honestly, these new neighbours! They're so nice, but that racket's not very neighbourly of them, is it? Sometimes I swear I can even hear them tinkling away in the middle of the night when there's not a breath of wind. I may have to move house.'

James said nothing as he fiddled with bits of wire, then broke a few small twigs from a nearby bush, and stuck them at odd angles around the fox's skull.

‘You wouldn't pop over the wall and take them down, would you, angel?' I said. ‘And that's not meant to be my hair, is it?'

James looked shocked. ‘I'll do no such thing!' he said. ‘Not even for you, my heart of hearts. I'd be had up for trespassing. You take them down yourself if you don't like them!'

Which gave me an idea.

At about midnight, having fortified myself with three large glasses of Pinot Grigio and played
The Best of Aretha Franklin
at full volume on my CD player to give me Dutch courage, and done a bit of dancing round the room to get up my
courage even more, rather like those Maori rugby players, I went out into the garden with a pair of scissors and the rickety garden chair. I took the chair to the end of the garden, stood on it, clambered up on to the wall, dragged the chair up after me, placed it in my neighbour's garden, tiptoed down on to it, and then crept, my heart in my mouth, to the tree where the chimes were hanging, and cut them down. Of course I should have brought wads of cotton wool to muffle the sound, but as the whole escapade had been a spur-of-the-moment thing and I'd had one glass too many, I'd forgotten, so I had to place the chimes carefully in my skirt to prevent any sound, put my foot on the chair and promptly stepped on Pouncer who had followed me, keen to be in on the act. I screamed, Pouncer let out an almighty ‘Miaaow! and my foot went through the seat of the chair with a great crash.