No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (27 page)

That's the problem with Americans. They first of all make you feel like wise old olive-growers, like Chrissie said, but before you know it their good humour and kindness makes you feel like some uptight, stony-faced repressed caricature of an English person. ‘New best friend!' Well, I was quite bowled over.

Louis was funny, charming and flattering. Of course the age difference wouldn't be too bad if I were a twenty-year-old
girl and he were forty, but then there's no getting away from it. It's different for men. If women are older than men in a relationship, then there's always something creepy about it. I know there is. I remember how I felt when Penny went out with Gavin, the man she met on the internet who was so much younger than her. It was quite pathetic to see her so besotted. But the awful thing is that I can feel it happening to me. I know Louis fancies me, too, because when one gets to my age (not a phrase I'd ever say in front of Louis, of course) one has had so much experience of relationships that one knows instantly. He catches my eye, puts his arm round my shoulder to steer me towards a picture he wants to show me, whenever a movie's mentioned (you see even I'm getting into the swing of New York lingo, now) he murmurs to me ‘We must go see that' – it's clear as day. No doubt if we were ever together on a starlit night, he'd start showing me where the Great Bear was – always a sign of someone, in my experience, who fancies you rotten. He charmingly managed to get my mobile number by saying we both needed to swap them in case we lost each other among the Jackson Pollocks, and now I'm certain he'll be in touch.

So it was with a spring in my step that I left him to go to pick Gene up from school. I was standing there, surrounded by Puerto Rican nannies and New York mothers double-parked on the street in big jeeps, waiting for the kids, when my mobile beeped. I had two texts.

One was from Louis, whom I'd left only half an hour before, which read,
When can I c u again?

The other was from Sylvie:
Daddy dying. Asking for you
.

For one awful disloyal moment I toyed with the idea of pretending to Sylvie that I'd left my mobile at home and had never got the message, but then I knew there was nothing for it.

I have to go back.

‘But you've only just arrived!' said Jack, when I told him the news. ‘You can't go back now! As you said, Archie barely recognises you … do you have to?'

‘But you promised we'd make my Hallowe'en costume!' said Gene, pulling at me and making a sad face.

‘There's nothing I can do,' I said. ‘I'm furious, and I feel like screaming, but I just must. I would never forgive myself if he died when I was away. And particularly if he's asking for me.'

‘Well, I think you're mad, Mum,' said Jack. ‘You've spent all this money coming here, we've made all these plans, and now you just go back. You've barely got over the jet lag.'

But I knew I had to go. There was no getting out of it. After changing my flight back I went into my bedroom to start packing. I couldn't help but cry – tears of frustration, really. I'd just met a nice guy, I was having this lovely time with Gene and the family, I'd got a new American best friend. And now this.

When I went to say goodnight to Gene he looked a bit sad. The sight of him in his aeroplane pyjamas, holding his teddy tightly made my heart break. ‘When are you going away?' he asked, rather plaintively.

‘As soon as I can get a flight,' I said. ‘The thing is,' I explained, ‘I have to. Archie's not at all well. There's nothing I can do. I'd give anything to stay.'

There was a pause while Gene sat staring down at the duvet. Then he looked up, a bit brighter. ‘I know you have to go back, Granny,' he said. ‘I just wish you weren't, that's all.'

There was something so grown-up about his simple, serious tone, that I felt like a child myself. But there was no changing my mind, I had to return. And I knew that, knowing he understood why I had to, I was actually setting him a good example for his later life. That sometimes there are just Things You Have To Do, whether you like them or not.

Jack and Chrissie and I had a rather silent, gloomy supper – I could tell they were disappointed too. But in the end, Jack put his arm round me and said, ‘Sorry to be so snappy before, Mum. I was just upset you were going. We do know you've got to go. And look, in a couple of months, we'll see if we can come over or if we can scrape up some money for you to come back here. Perhaps for a much longer time.'

‘I've got all these Air Miles, or whatever you call them these days, from flying with the company,' said Chrissie.
‘I'm sure I could transfer them for a flight. We'll sort something out. Of course you've got to go now. We'll miss you. But don't worry.'

I couldn't help thinking, while I was packing, that none of this would be happening if they were living in England. I could just pop down and see Archie and still be back to pick Gene up from school the next day. But there we are. Funny phrase that: there we are. One much used by oldies everywhere, I suspect. It's a phrase that signifies resigned acceptance of the status quo. Nothing you can do about it.

I was so choked up about it all, that I almost forgot to text Louis. But I did, and got a lovely text back:
c u in London then! over next month to see mom. Till then. xL
, which made me feel better. There we are.

Absolutely HORRENDOUS flight back from New York. First of all, they actually had the nerve to confiscate my knitting needles when I went through security AGAIN! I mean I know it was my fault, forgetting they'd been confiscated the first time round, but I'd already knitted half of the new back. I was so fed up, I was tempted to give them the wool and everything and simply abandon the whole project. But I didn't. I slid my New York needles out of the stitches very carefully –
again
– so that at least I could salvage something of the knitting when I got back to London and could buy
yet more
needles. I handed them over to the burly, blankfaced
security man with an evil leer. I hope he fell on them and they poked him up the bottom. Or in the eye.

I mean
honestly
– how on earth could anybody possibly hijack a plane with a couple of size eight knitting needles? The whole thing is too preposterous. And when I turned to the queue behind me for support they all looked determinedly in front of them. I could see that none of them wanted to get involved in a wrangle at security in case they were carted off to Guantanamo Bay.

Then
– when I got to Heathrow, cross-eyed with jet-lag, I hauled my suitcases off the luggage carousel, but just as I was turning a corner with one of the bags, it got kind of twisted – it's one of those suitcases on wheels – and I fell over. I felt so utterly ridiculous. Luckily, lots of people came rushing up, asking if I was okay. Though I'm sure most of them thought I was sozzled on in-flight hospitality.

Since the age of fourteen, when I remember flying off my bike on a country lane in Gloucestershire, I've never fallen over, and I was surprised how the first thing one wants to do is to jump up and pretend one's perfectly okay, even though one has probably broken one's spine and cracked one's skull and dislocated one's hips. Anyway, I managed to stagger upright, and because my tights were torn and my knees were bleeding I indulged in a taxi to get me home rather than hobbling onto the train to Victoria. Anyway, it was one of those grey, drizzling October days, and I didn't fancy going by train.

The taxi driver asked what had happened to me, and I
explained. ‘I think I might have done my back in,' I groaned, pitifully.

‘These days my back goes out more often than I do,' said the taxi driver. ‘Geddit?' He was one of
those
taxi drivers. Later in the journey his mobile rang, and even though it's against the law he picked it up and started gabbling into it. ‘So you done, it, eh? Did you just stand there or did you do a runner? Did you stamp on his 'ead when he was bleedin' and lyin' on the ground or did you call a ham bulence? I know what you done. You done a runner, innit? Heh, heh!'

So I was extra pleased to get home. And thrilled to see dear old Pouncer, who was so delighted he seemed to shed all his hair over me as if he'd been saving it up specially for my return. But then my blood ran cold as I noticed a dreadful thing in the middle of my sitting room.

It gave me a real fright. The object – which looked some pagan ritual totem – featured a glaring white sheep's skull, festooned with barbed wire, on top of a broom handle, with piles of rusty cans at the bottom. It was mounted on an old dustbin lid, which had been squashed to turn it into a base. A sort of toga had been constructed around it, out of bubble wrap, luckily disguising the walking frame, held in place with metal clamps, and a garish plastic orange rose had been carefully placed in one of the eye-sockets of the skull, sticking up like an antenna. There were some pliers, a hammer and a pair of thick gloves on the carpet and I then realised that this was James's installation, based on me, and he was in the middle of perfecting it.

After the initial shock, I was so weary that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so, dazed, I rang Penny and explained everything to her.

‘Oh, poor you!' she said. ‘Well, come over and have some supper this evening … you'll be exhausted! Or shall I bring something over and we can look at this dreadful thing together?'

‘Come over tomorrow,' I said. ‘I'm going to bed right now. I'm shattered.'

I left my suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. I simply couldn't manage to drag it up. I'll unpack everything at the bottom of the stairs and take my things up piece by piece to my room tomorrow.

An old person's trick.

Got up at noon, not sure what day it was or what, indeed, my name was, feeling dreadful. As I'd got back earlier than planned, my
Daily Rant
hadn't been delivered, but Penny had kindly pushed a copy through my door on her way past, which was very sweet of her.

‘ANNIE NOONA FOUND DEAD BY ADDICT BOYFRIEND!' I was informed. Then, further down: ‘
Twenty killed in high-school massacre!
'

Poor old Annie. And poor old students. Still it makes a welcome change from the end of the world stuff.

The first thing I'd done before falling into bed last night was, of course, to ring Sylvie. Unfortunately her mobile just rang and rang, too. I tried Eventide, but they refused to tell me anything about Archie because I wasn't a relative, but at least I assume he's still alive.

So this morning, naturally, after glancing at the
Rant
, I rang Sylvie again. And I couldn't believe what she said. Though still very ill, Archie had pulled through! Emergency alert completely over! So I'd rushed all the way back home to see him and instead of catching him on his deathbed, he's still with us.

‘Oh Marie,' she said, ‘it was dreadful. You know how he's made a Living Will and everything, and I'd told them not to resuscitate him, but some new doctor was on one night and he refused to listen to any of that and pumped him full of antibiotics and he's still alive! Oh, I know it sounds so awful to say this about one's own father, but I can't bear to see him like this, so confused and unhappy! And instead of just letting him drift off, they drag him screaming back for God knows how many years! I've rung up the Matron and I've been absolutely furious and I've got a copy of the Living Will and I enlarged it and pinned it up above his bed, so everyone knows next time … it should never have happened! It was the one day I'd left my mobile at the office and I'd always said they should ring me on my landline, but they didn't so I didn't get the call … I can't forgive myself.'

I must say it was all very depressing.

‘When can I come and see him?' I asked.

‘They're not very keen on him having visitors at the moment,' she said. ‘Except very close family. Basically only me, but I'll let you know the
minute
they say it's okay. They're scared stiff of the risk of infection.'

‘Well, just say the word and I'll be there,' I said. ‘I flew back from New York specially to …'

‘Oh, you didn't!' she wailed. ‘Oh, I'm so sorry!'

‘Ah well,' I said. ‘Nothing to be done about it. There we are.'

‘Well, do at least come and stay, won't you?'

‘Of course I will,' I said. ‘Thanks so much.' At least I wouldn't have to endure the frightful B & B again.

And it's given me a chance to catch up on all the emails and bills that wait for you when you get back home. Not to mention, of course, the Seasons of the Doomed Trees. The leaves are turning yellowish-brown, and beginning to shed. Amazing how the things change over the months, particularly when you're really looking.

Penny came over today bringing a really delicious
salade niçoise
without any tuna in it. When she saw the installation, she screamed and nearly dropped the salad, but luckily I just prevented it. After she'd yelped with horror, we both got the giggles.

‘If he thinks that's you, one of his best friends, God knows what he'd make of his enemies,' said Penny, sitting down,
and wiping her eyes. ‘Is that bubble wrap meant to be your dress? Is that rose your eye? Why is it sticking out on a stalk like an alien?'

Eventually we settled down with a drink, and because it was one of those peculiarly balmy, warm October evenings we had a very early supper in the garden, surrounded by late scented tobacco plants. The Calibans have completely disappeared, never to be seen again: £36.50 down the drain.

I always thought the whole point of
salade niçoise
was the tuna, but also its biggest drawback (and Penny said she quite agreed). Tuna is disgusting, so she'd substituted a million anchovies and black olives and hard-boiled eggs and it was completely scrummy.