Getting The Picture (24 page)

Dear Mo,

Well, I didn't get my second visit to George after all. Steve came up while I was waiting for Brenda in reception, my shoebox carefully wrapped up in a carrier bag.

‘Brenda's not coming,' he said. He started shuffling through some papers, but I could tell he was watching for my reaction. Things have been a bit difficult between us since the dancing although I don't see why it should be him who is aggrieved. He pocketed my £20 sharp enough. I can't help wondering if Robyn has said something.

‘But we were going to the hospital,' I told him. ‘George is wanting to see me.'

‘Apparently he's not anymore,' Steve said. He looked up, his finger keeping place in a sheaf of expense forms. I couldn't help thinking how George would have itched to sort them out. Do one of his magic filing thingies on them. ‘Nell asked particularly that he has no visitors apart from family.'

‘And Brenda agreed?'

‘Yes. She had a long conversation with Nell this morning. Apparently, Mrs. Baker was very upset.'

It didn't make sense. Nell has always been on my side, and I thought of Brenda's tears in the car on our last visit. I should have known better than to trust women.

‘And Florence? Is she allowed to go to the hospital?' I knew I was sounding sarcastic, but I was annoyed. I'd got her photograph in my bag, love, along with yours. It was going to be my moment. First I'd told George about Trisha, and then I was going to show him Florence, and then finally you. I thought I might even say something about Angie, if the time was right.

‘Mrs. Oliver? No, she's in her room. She's very upset.'

‘We all are.' I shifted the bag I was holding from one hand to the other. I had a sudden vision of all the photographs tumbling out over the reception floor. Yours on top. ‘Oh,' I was going to say to George when I passed it over to him, almost as if I'd forgotten it was in there, ‘that was taken at the same shoot as Trisha's.'

But Steve had gone back to his paperwork, and there was nothing for me to do but to go back to my room.

I stopped at the doorway, though. ‘He will be all right, won't he?' I asked.

‘We're all going to die eventually, Martin,' Steve said. And I caught a flash of his knuckles as he turned a page over. Was it the hand with love or hate on it? I couldn't make it out.

I stopped in at George's room on the way up to mine. Stood there for a few minutes, looking for something I could take, but the picture of you had gone. Nell must have taken it to the hospital. Also the ones of her and Angie. I would have liked another one of Angie.

I caught sight of a bottle of whisky that Nell had given him once, and pocketed that instead. The strange thing was that George hadn't minded about Trisha's photographs. He was more worried about me telling the girls about the shopping trip. As if that mattered.

And now here I am back in my room, writing this letter to you and preparing to wait all over again. I should be good at this, but somehow it gets harder and harder. The whisky bottle keeps looking back at me. One small drink won't hurt.

M

185.
letter from dr. croft to brenda lewis

Dear Brenda,

I went to visit Martin Morris in hospital today. His reaction to our concern about him coming back to Pilgrim House made me think we need a bit more time before we can make a full recommendation. I've arranged for him to move to a nursing home nearer to my office until we know exactly what the position is.

Personally, I'm convinced that his abuse of alcohol was a one-off, but I can see it upset the other residents and understand your reservations. I do think, however, that it would be an act of kindness to keep his room open for him until a final decision is reached.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Croft

186.
letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn

Dear Lizzie,

Do you remember when, at one of those military dinners, there was a red-faced officer who told us a story from his schooldays about how a teacher had, for some reason, lent him a book. The officer had loved it so much that he scribbled in the margins by accident. He knew that when he got into class the next day, his crime would be discovered and he'd have a whipping at the least. So he prayed. He was only a little boy, but he got on his knees and prayed and prayed that there would be a miracle and something would happen so he wouldn't be found out.

In the morning, he checked the book and the scribbles were still there. Disaster. He pretended he was ill at breakfast, but his mother said he had to go to school. She even drove him there to make sure he was all right. Double disaster. Sitting in the front seat of her car, feeling the book like a ticking bomb in his satchel, he looked out for the smoke that would let him know his school had burned down. The sky was clear. Double double disaster.

And when he walked into the classroom, the headmaster was waiting. This was worse than the boy feared. He was sure everyone knew what he had done. ‘I have some very distressing news,' the headmaster said when the class were all seated. The boy slumped down on his desk. ‘Mrs. Campbell passed away in the night.'

There was an excited commotion in the classroom. The boy found it hard to understand. Passed away. Passed where. And then he realised. The teacher had died. He burst out crying. Everyone stopped talking and stared at him but he couldn't say how his prayers were responsible for her murder because then he'd have to go to prison. He ran out of the classroom and all the way home, stopping only to throw the wretched book into the river. When he got home, his mother was there. She took one look at his face and put him to bed, apologizing all the time for not believing him when he said he was ill.

That's what I feel like now, Lizzie.

You see, Martin has been taken away. No one is sure whether he is coming back or not. They found him drunk in George's empty room, covering the walls with the photographs of naked women.

‘You were up there,' Annabel said at breakfast, pointing at me. Susan smiled at me and shook her head slightly so I tried to smile back. ‘You're a saucy lady like the four and twenty virgins.'

Helen squeezed my arm. ‘Just humour her,' she said. ‘It's a kindness.' So in the brightest voice I could muster, I said, ‘Yes, Annabel, Martin took my photograph with no clothes too', and she nodded, satisfied. As well she might. Helen winked at me, and God help me, I winked back.

I crept into Martin's room this afternoon. I was looking for my envelope and I found it eventually, tucked under some library books. It had hardly been opened but it wasn't the same envelope Martin had in his hand when he left George's room. So if Martin hadn't shown George my photographs, then what had he shown him? Whose photograph could be so bad that it would put George in the hospital?

There was a file with Robyn's name on it. I took that too, and the box of letters. Remember the mystery envelopes the home help told us about? Mo, that was the name of the woman Martin's been writing to. Poor sod. I wonder if she ever wished Martin dead. Somehow I guessed so.

That officer, at the dinner table, the one who killed his teacher, what he said after, during coffee, when I asked him, was that he never regretted his prayers. And it was this that he was the most ashamed of. Not the scribbling, or the death. He was so relieved at his escape after the initial shock that he even wished he'd kept the book.

There was something cold about Martin's room. I was glad to shut the door.

Yours aye,

Flo

187.
letter to claude bichourie to angie griffiths

Dear Angela,

I have been to see your photographer. It took some time to discover who he was, but you should know by now I nearly always get what I want.

He gave me your photographs. He is little more than a child, Angela, but I have to applaud you on your choice. He is an artist. The shots are beautiful. I paid him in full, fuller than full because I wanted him to know he was selling more than just a negative.

‘Mrs. Griffiths would like to have no more contact with you,' I told him, and he nodded. ‘No more contact at all, whatever happens,' I repeated, just to make sure he got the message.

He nodded again. And I added some more notes on the pile just for good measure.

So that's that. The child is now all mine.

Go to England, and then come back home to me. We will talk properly. I promise.

Claude

188.
note from florence oliver to robyn baker

Dear Robyn,

Come and see me in my room after you've seen your granddaddy, love. I have something of yours and I'd rather give it to you in person. Besides, I could do with a break. Your granddaddy is a demanding patient now that he is getting better. He had Steve bring in his tango music the other day. You will have to come and dance for us. Steve said you knew all the steps now.

Yours,

Florence

189.
letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis

Dear Brenda,

I am still at a loss to understand why you painted my room without consulting me during my brief stay in the hospital.

Nell tells me I should be grateful and I am trying to be, and indeed it is true that Magnolia is a colour that does not offend. However, I did take the liberty while in the hospital of drafting a Residents Charter, and it feels that this might be an appropriate time to discuss this with you.

I have asked Nell to type it, as Mrs. Oliver tells me that you had difficulty reading the minutes from our inaugural committee meeting, and it would be a shame for this not to get a proper consultation.

And lest you think I am always complaining, I would like to say it is good to be back.

Yours sincerely,

George Griffiths

190.
email from nell baker to angie griffiths (with letter 191 scanned and attached)

Dear Angie,

You'll be here tomorrow, but I wanted you to know before that Martin has left Pilgrim House. I'd already told Brenda we didn't want him seeing Dad anymore. It got a bit awkward because she kept gushing on about what nice friends they were, so I said Dad was upset about the photographs.

‘What photographs?' she asked, so I told her how Martin had been showing Dad photographs of nude women and upsetting him.

She didn't believe me at first but then, apparently Martin got drunk and posted the pictures all around Dad's room. Mrs. Oliver said Steve had called it a shrine to women. How strange is that? In Dad's room too. It messed up the walls, so Steve had to paint them, which of course Dad's complaining about.

Brenda keeps apologizing now. ‘Your father is the ticking heart of Pilgrim House,' she says, so I don't mention all the times she complained about him interfering. Robyn's been going to his room to read him Mum's poems, and because Dad can't move he's had to listen to them. Serves him right for not listening to Mum first time around.

Do you want to see Martin? I'll come with you if you do. You don't have to do anything on your own anymore. I promise you that.

Here's the letter I picked up in his room that time. I wasn't sure whether to show it to you or not. It's pretty grim reading because it looks as if Mum hid the baby (you) from him. Still, I thought if there was the chance he was my dad and I'd had so many secrets kept from me, then I'd want to know everything. There's a whole box of other letters from him to Mum, you know. I'll go and get them. I feel so sorry for her. And you, of course.

Nell

191.
letter from martin morris to mo griffiths (dated 16 may 1975)

Dear Mo,

You'll be tired after your picnic in the park today. Did you see me? You kept looking over at the trees as if you were hoping I'd come out but I was enjoying just being able to watch you without anyone bothering us.

It was restful with the sun on my face. Some days when I'm stuck in the shop I don't get to feel the weather much at all. Mahad has a fan on the counter that he switches on, and it used to swing from side to side, but he's fixed it so it just blows where he's standing now. I don't mind. When he's there, I don't do much. He prefers to deal with customers himself.

I'll venture out if there's a chance I might see you, but there's no point otherwise. I'll go back up to the studio if it gets awkward. Sometimes Mahad has business associates he wants to talk to without me. The studio is just the same as it was the first time you came. A few more photographs of different women all curling up at the edges now, and you'll probably find it dustier because it doesn't get the regular cleanup the girls would do, but there's still a mattress in the corner, and the table with two chairs around it. I lie on the bed and look up at the ceiling and wait until I hear Mahad calling back up for me.

‘Don't you have any friends?' he asks me. ‘What's happened to the big ladies' man you used to be? Don't tell me you've got a heart to get broken.'

I smile. We don't really talk, Mahad and me, although he gets a cruel streak about him sometimes. He'll ask why I've no backbone, no gumption, what it is about English men that makes them so weak. I ignore him when he's in those moods because just as quickly it will blow over. Then I'll go back behind the counter and take my seat and he'll turn the fan back to him, and another day will pass.

So today, getting the chance to be watch you for so long, was a red-letter day. Did you have a baby with you? I thought I saw you scoop one up at some stage, but then Nell came running up to the trees and I had to turn around briefly. You looked well, though. I should like to take your photograph like that. So happy and carefree, and waiting for me.

Yours,

M

192.
letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn

Dear Lizzie,

You and I may be two useless old women, but we still have the power in us to make good things happen.