No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (10 page)

I thought this was going a bit far, even for the
Rant
, but looking up at the date I saw that it was April Fool's Day. So I was quite prepared, when I went over to Jack and Chrissie's today for Saturday lunch, to be thoroughly fooled.

There is nothing a little boy likes to do more, particularly on April 1st, than make his granny look like a complete idiot. Indeed, there is nothing anyone likes to do more than to make some powerful figure in their lives fall flat on a banana skin. Never have I seen Jack, aged about ten, laugh quite so much as when I tripped backwards into our tiny garden pond in my dressing gown. I can't remind him of it now without reducing him to helpless giggles.

When I arrived, Gene opened the door. He was wearing an enormous piece of plastic body armour with a Star Wars logo on it. I went through to the kitchen and there was barely time for me to put my bag down before he said, almost unable to contain his laughter, ‘Sit on
this
chair, Granny.' He pointed to a chair with a pad on it, underneath which was a very obvious pink rubber whoopee cushion. I duly sat and pronounced myself astonished and embarrassed at the resulting fart. Then he got hold of the whoopee cushion and stuck it on another chair, and I was invited to sit down again. Interestingly, although he knew I knew all along what was going on, he still found my reaction hilarious. I spent twenty minutes sitting on farting cushions and pretending to be amazed and then mortified by my noisy flatulence, and the response was always the same. Helpless laughter. Endless cries of ‘April Foo–ool!'

‘Shake, Granny?' asked Gene, extending his hand when the farting orgy had petered out. On his finger was an enormous ring, far too big for him, the metal buzzer quite obvious in his palm. We shook hands and there was a faint buzzing sensation. And then: ‘April Fooo–ool!' Moments later: ‘I did fool you, didn't I, Granny? Did you think that was a real ring I was wearing? Did you? Did you?'

And after I'd been duly shocked by that slapstick masterpiece, he wandered off to the sink and then returned, saying: ‘Smell this!' displaying a very wet plastic flower through a hole in his body armour, that I'd just seen him fiddling with under the tap. ‘April Fooo–ool!' he cried joyously as
my face was squirted with water from the bulb he was pressing inside his armour. I spluttered and waved my arms about and gasped for a towel, as if I'd been completely drenched by the faint trickle that had emerged from the petals.

Finally: ‘Are you hungry? Would you like a peanut?' he said, almost wetting himself at the prospect of my unscrewing the lid of a tin marked Peanuts and being sent into complete disarray by a caterpillar on a spring that jumped out at me. ‘APRIL FOO–OOOL! HAHAHAHA!!!'

Whether you play along with such jokes or not is, I think, a sign of being a mature adult. When Gene insisted on playing his tricks on Tim, Marion's stuffy old husband, he, on being offered the tin of peanuts last year, had declared pompously that as it was April 1st he knew it was a joke, and no, he wouldn't like a peanut, thank you. At that point he sank down so many points in my estimation that I could barely bring myself to talk to him for weeks.

Of course when I was small, I too found all the April Fool pranks hilarious. Marion and I used to glue half-crowns to the pavement outside my house, and then fall about when we saw innocent passers-by ruin their fingernails as they scrabbled to pick them up. We constructed false parcels and left them on the pavement, beside ourselves if anyone came along and took one away. (I suppose today, if an unattended parcel were found on the street, the whole area would be cordoned off by machine-gun toting police, and helicopters brought in to monitor the situation.)

And of course it was
always
hilarious, at school, to pass another girl a half-empty water jug, pretending it was extremely heavy, with the result that when she took it, the water splattered all over her clothes.

Anyway, I spent a nice day with them. One of Gene's front teeth is wobbly. How strange it is to think that only the other day I was so excited to see it poking through his gums! Came back feeling very cosy and contented.

Oh, I do dread the idea of them going next month. I wish I could just up sticks and buy a flat in the same block as them in New York without them knowing, and then Gene could pop downstairs without anyone looking and we could make origami paper boats together or muck about on the piano. I shall miss them
so
much. Putting a brave face on it all is such an enormous effort. Every time I see them I can feel myself dragging on this cheery persona, slapping my hands together, roaring with laughter, and saying things like ‘Well, of course I'll miss you, but I've got so much to do, I don't know if I'll ever have time to come and visit you all!' just so they don't worry about me.

To cheer myself up I ordered some plants from a catalogue that for some reason had been sent to me through the post. The picture showed huge foaming banks of flowers in vibrant colours, blues, pinks, yellows, all screaming to be seen and singing with scent and sunshine. So I hope they'll deliver. Caliban … Calibrach … something.

Archie was meant to be coming this weekend, but never turned up. I rang him to ask where he was, but it was clear he had no idea he was meant to be coming, so I didn't press it. He said he was in the middle of lunch.

‘I'm worried about Mrs Evans,' he said. ‘She's stolen Philippa's brooch.'

‘It's not Philippa's, it's mine,' I said. ‘I've got it.' This was starting to sound like a stuck record.

‘
You've
got it?' he said. ‘But I didn't give it to you. You didn't steal it, did you?'

‘I've got it, darling. You
did
give it to me. Philippa never had it. Don't worry. I told you, I said I was going to sell it to get the money for the facelift, and you said fine.'

‘Oh,' he said, as if the light were dawning, but I could tell by his voice that he didn't understand anything I was saying. He was trying to pretend he hadn't made a terrible mistake. ‘You've got it. Oh yes, I remember now. That's fine.'

We chattered on, but then he said he'd got to go. ‘When are you coming, darling?' he asked. ‘I haven't seen you for months. Everything's looking wonderful here. The bluebells will be out soon. And I'd like to talk to you before I sack Mrs Evans. We can't have a thief around can we? Who knows what she might steal next.'

On a complete whim, I thought, ‘Why don't I pop down now?' He clearly wasn't doing anything, and I know if I'd suggested it in advance he would have become anxious and made an excuse, so I just said, in a no-nonsense way, ‘I'm
coming down right away. I'll be there in a couple of hours!' And I didn't give him time to change his mind.

Leaving a note for Michelle to feed Pouncer, I hurled a few things into a case and drove like a mad thing to Devon, all the time feeling choked with sadness and emotion about Archie. I realised that I'd never be going down to see him again without feeling concern. That my dear old Archie was starting to disappear slowly, and that one of the happiest periods in my life was starting to come to an end.

It was beginning to get dark when I arrived, and, much to my pleasure, it seemed as if he were expecting me! The moment my car crunched up the drive, he opened the door, and I could see a welcoming expression on his face.

‘Philippa!' he said, as I got out of the car. ‘How lovely! I haven't seen you for so long! Darling!' And he enfolded me in a big hug.

Was it that he thought I was Philippa? Or was it just a matter of his muddling our names? I didn't know, and I didn't really care. He took my holdall out of the car, and led me inside the house. But just before his bedroom, he stopped. ‘Here you are!' he said, opening the door of one of the spare rooms next to his. ‘I hope this room will suit you!'

‘But darling, we usually … I mean … I usually sleep in your room …' I said, nervously.

‘I know you do, darling,' he said, suddenly like the old Archie. ‘But, sweetheart, I'm afraid I find myself wandering in the night. I don't know why. But I've woken up in some funny places recently! I don't want to disturb you,' he added,
rather plaintively, ‘but sometimes I feel I'm in such a muddle, darling.'

I took both his hands in mine and looked into his eyes. Then I drew near to him, kissing him.

‘If it makes you feel happier,' I said. ‘That's fine.'

It wasn't fine, of course, but what could I do? I could hardly badger my way into his bed. And there was something so serious and ‘old Archie' about the way he spoke, that I felt he was aware that something was deeply wrong, and he knew that I knew, too.

Just got back! Oh, it's all so agonising! I
do
so hope Sylvie gets him to the doctor. If it were just me in charge I'd have had him down the surgery the first moment that he lost his glasses. But I can't steam in when I know that he's really Sylvie's responsibility, and if I did anything like that she'd be terribly upset.

Popped into my local shop to buy some frozen peas. Because I didn't have the right money, they undercharged me, letting me off 1p. Very decent of them, but I know this debt will drive me mad. What's 1p, you may say? But to me one pence still has the same sort of value as it did in the days when it bought a bag of sweets, so I
must
remember to pay it.

‘NATIONAL DEATH SERVICE!' yells the
Daily Rant. ‘More people killed in hospitals than in the Blitz! The message is: if you're ill, don't see a doctor!
'

As she was making her speedy kitchen visit for her breakfast of Yakult, Michelle looked at the headline in horror. ‘I 'ave to ze doctaire zis afternoon! I 'ope I will not die!' she said.

‘Of course not!' I said reassuringly, stuffing the paper out of sight. ‘It's all a load of rubbish.'

Honestly, I must stop getting this ghastly newspaper. I'm certain it's not true. And all it does is scare the living daylights out of people.

Penny came round to lunch to plan the Residents' Meeting. She'd brought with her huge maps of the area, plus the council's plans, and laid them out on the table. I couldn't make head nor tail of them, but she seemed to understand everything.

‘This is a big project,' she said, ‘and we can't afford to lose. I'm worried that there aren't enough of us to make a credible case against the plans. We need more people on the committee.'

‘There's you, me, James, Marion and Tim,' I said, doubtfully
… ‘No, you're right.' Then I was hit by a thought. ‘Why don't we ask Father Emmanuel if he'd like to be on the committee?' I asked. He's the preacher at the evangelical church on the corner. ‘He'd be good.'

‘You mean Praise the Lord! Inc? Where the Kwit-Fit garage used to be?' said Penny. ‘Do you know him? It'd be great if you could get him along. Will you ask him?'

‘And what about Sheila the Dealer? I don't know her last name, but she's lived here for thirty years,' I said. She's a nightmare of a woman, a complete racist, and mad as a bucket of frogs, but she packs a good punch and when it comes to yelling she can be heard all the way down the street. She's a good person to have on your side because she's probably the longest-serving drug dealer in the borough. No doubt highly respected by all the other drug dealers around.

‘Sheila what's-her-name?'

‘Sheila the Dealer,' I said. ‘No idea what she's really called. Presumably she has a name. You know her, always got a fag on the go.'

‘And what about the man at the mosque … the imam? He'd be good, too. These religious leaders go down very well. They can get away with murder at the council because no one wants to offend them.'

‘I'll try,' I said. ‘But I think he's a bit shy. Not sure how much English he speaks.'

‘Oh, do get him along. It would be so cool.'

Funny, those expressions like ‘cool'. They seem to be coming back into fashion. And it must be very peculiar for
young people to hear what they think of as today's slang being used by people of their grandmother's age. I gave the right change to some slip of a thing recently over the counter and she said, as she took it, ‘Fab'. Now that's not a word I've heard used since the sixties. Though no doubt if you look into it, the people who originally coined the word were the ancient Greeks, or Druids or somebody.

As I was leaving to go to the acupuncturist, I looked up the road at the patch of green the council's planning to ruin. And then it occurred to me: instead of painting the garden every month, why not paint the trees every month? Like David Hockney. The trees in every season. And there'd be more
point
to it, too. We could have an exhibition of the Seasons of the Doomed Trees and get some publicity for our campaign.

Saw the acupuncturist and as I went in I told her that she was actually on the north side of Oxford Street, west of Oxford Circus. She looked completely baffled. She really should know this stuff. She wasn't much younger than me.

But she was full of enthusiasm. She was called Vishna, but she didn't look like a Vishna, being a plump, white, middle-aged woman. However, she'd done her best to look the part, having swathed herself in Indian shawls and smelling of patchouli. There were dim red lights placed all over the floor, acupuncture charts on the walls, an enormous
golden Buddha squatting on a low, highly varnished table and floating candles in bowls of water placed around the room. Mingled with the patchouli was the sickly smell of joss sticks.

She looked a bit astounded when I told her that first I wanted her to do something for my rusting joints and second I wanted to relax so I could make a decision about having a facelift. But fair play to her, she just said how brave I was and that not only was I looking wonderful, but that after the operation, if I had it, I would look even more wonderful. Naturally I liked her immediately after that, despite her total ignorance about the points of the compass.