No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (17 page)

Even Pouncer gave me an odd look, and only agreed to come near me after I'd put down a bowl of his favourite food. I probably even
smell
of hospital!

Last night I tried to sleep sitting up – but it's very difficult. Apparently the bruises are drawn by gravity down your face as they lessen. So that if you walk about a lot, you find your bruises end up round your ankles before disappearing into the ground beneath your feet. Isn't that a weird idea? Anyway, I've had no desire to go out at all, though did stagger to the corner shop to get some more milk, with a pair of dark glasses on and a big polo-necked jersey and a hood to hide the little bottles. The Indian who runs the shop (and who already thinks I'm mad after the incident with the paid-back penny) looked at me with desperate pity in his eyes, as if he thought I'd been beaten to a pulp by a jealous boyfriend the night before. Still, it did me good to realise that I can get out and about if I want to. Came back and
was absolutely shattered of course and had to spend the whole afternoon lying down. Or, rather, sitting up, if you see what I mean.

Thought I'd read some old classics to comfort me, but, as with
Anna K
, I couldn't get through either
Vile Bodies
or
Mansfield Park
, both favourites when I was young. I wonder what it is that happens when you're older? Does your perspective change? I think it's because when I read them as a young girl they seemed so new and fresh, but now they just seem dated and dull. Wonder if books I like now, if I could read them again in fifty years, would turn to dust as well? Probably. Actually, just after I'd thought this, I read a magazine and there was a quote in it from Muhammad Ali of all people, who once said: ‘The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.'

Good old Cassius Clay, say I.

I was complaining so much about books that Penny lent me an enormous fat thriller which she said was ‘rubbish'. But I don't think these books are rubbish, not if they keep you gripped. And gripped it certainly kept me. I was still reading it at two in the morning, could hardly keep my eyes open, but every time I said to myself I'd got far enough, something so frightful happened I had to pick it up again.

At one point the heroine was chained to a wall, about to be raped by a particularly insalubrious baddie, and our hero was chained to the wall opposite and couldn't do a thing about it except look on helplessly, and then at the last minute he made a huge effort, yanked the chain from the wall and knocked the baddie unconscious. I was just thinking what a good place that was to stop, now everything was okay, and the heroine was saved, when I made the mistake of turning the page.

‘“Not so fast, my friend,” said a sinister voice from the darkness.'

Or some such. Well, of course I couldn't go to sleep after that, and had to read another chapter, and so on. As every chapter ended with a cliffhanger I was still racing through the pages at four in the morning when all the goodies were tied together in a house stacked with dynamite and the baddie was outside with a match – when I realised I just
had
to sleep. After throwing the book across the room so it wasn't too easy to retrieve, I managed to nod off at last.

‘Eet weel be
magnifique!
' said Michelle when she saw me the following morning at the top of the stairs. She was just leaving to go to her English class. ‘You weel look
ravissante!
My muzair she 'av done ze leefteeng and she ees vair' much badder zan you. In few weeks you weel be
superbe
!'

‘I think you mean worse,' I said, ever the teacher, as I tottered downstairs in my dressing gown, clutching my
thriller. The
Rant
would have to wait this morning. I just had to find out what happened in the end.

Mowed the lawn for what seems the fifty-fourth time this year, and then went back to Mr P. who took off the plastic buckets, which was a relief, and handed me over to a nurse who gave me a good wipe-down and said I should return in a fortnight to have the staples taken out of my head.

‘Staples!' I said. ‘I'm not being held together with metal staples, am I?'

‘Don't worry. Everything will stay in place once it's all healed.'

When I spoke to Jack that night on Skype I pretended the camera had packed up, but it was good to hear him. I didn't say anything about the facelift because I'm sure he would have been worried or thought I was mad.

Rather worried that I'm missing June out of my Seasons of the Trees series, so snuck up in the evening, covered with scarves and dark glasses, and did a few sketches in the gloaming. Actually, it might be rather a good picture because it would be a contrast to the others.

One thing I
can
do in the day, even if I can't go out, is knit. But, unfortunately, as I was thundering up the back I
got stuck on an armhole and couldn't make head nor tail of the pattern, so I had to ask Marion over.

Of course I had to go through all the ‘I
still
can't understand why you had a facelift. You didn't need it! You looked wonderful! Waste of money!' stuff, but eventually we got down to knitting. ‘It's all on the internet,' she said, and I thought how silly of me. I always forget to look. But it was nice to see her, even though she did beg me to see
Bitter Quinces, Poisoned Souls
again and stay till the end this time.

‘Quite simply,' she said, ‘it's a masterpiece.'

‘And there's a little boy in it, I hear?' I said. ‘We left before that bit.'

‘The little boy!' she said. She raised her eyes to heaven and sighed, her face a picture of compassion and agony. ‘The little boy!'

Was just about to get off to sleep at about midnight when Michelle knocked on my door and, looking very tear-stained, sat at the end of my bed. Pouncer was looking at her in a very irritated way as if to say ‘For God's sake! I was just in the middle of an excellent dream about mice, and now you've woken me up!'

‘What's up?' I asked, pulling myself up to a sitting position. I'm now at the lying-down stage. There's only so long you can spend sleeping sitting up, as anyone who's flown to Australia knows.

‘Eet ees Maciej,' she said, sobbing. ‘'E
'as
got new girlfriend,
c'est certain, absolument!
'E say 'e 'as not, but when I call eem last night 'e ees out. 'Ees cellphone ees off and ees flat mate say 'e 'as not been back for some days. 'E ees aizair die or wiz girlfriend.'

‘I'm sure there's a good explanation,' I said reassuringly, knowing perfectly well there wouldn't be. ‘Perhaps his mobile's broken. Perhaps … er … he's had an accident … perhaps he had to go off somewhere suddenly. Don't panic. He's probably, um, visiting his parents and forgot to tell you … here,' I said, because I couldn't think of anything else to say that wouldn't sound as if I were lying through my teeth. ‘Have a pill.'

I handed her a temazepam and saw to it that she swallowed it in front of me. ‘Everything will look different in the morning, I promise you.'

After spending a couple of hours downstairs this morning, I started to feel worried. There was no sign of Michelle. Oh Lord – perhaps she's committed suicide, I thought, my heart racing. I noticed she hadn't had her breakfast – usually evident by the vast array of crumbs around the toaster – and her coat was still hanging up in the hall. But this was surely her early classes day, so God knows what had happened.

I called to her up the stairs, but no reply. Finally I went up to her room and knocked at the door. As there still wasn't
a reply, I turned the handle and went in. Piles of clothes, open suitcases, open drawers overflowing with tights and undies, books, a television still on … How can people live in such squalor? And in the corner, there was her bed. And she was in it, lying completely still, her face deathly pale under her yellow duvet cover.

Oh Christ! I thought, as I picked a path through the heaps of old clothes to examine her. She's a goner. The pill was far too much for her and she's died in her sleep. I almost prayed to the God that I don't believe in for her to be alive. What had I done? I'd be accused of murder and I'd go to prison and never see Gene, or Jack or Chrissie again. I should
never
have given her that pill. It always says on the bottle ‘Not to be taken by anyone except the person for whom it is prescribed' or something. Why had I been such a fool?

My heart was racing and, feeling quite sick with panic, I sat on the edge of her bed and called her name softly. Nothing. Next, I shook her shoulder. Nothing. But at least I noticed she was still breathing. Thank goodness. That meant I'd only be had up for attempted manslaughter, if there is such a thing. I went on shaking her and then, amazingly, she slowly started coming to life.

I was so overcome with emotion that I took her in my arms, held her tight, and burst into tears, surprising myself with my relief.

‘Marie, ees okay!' she said, alarmed at my reaction. ‘I am sleeping in. No classes today. No worries! Don't cry. Ze tears … eez not right for your leefteeng …'

Crikey. I'm certainly fragile at the moment. Probably still the result of the anaesthetic. Went downstairs and made myself a strong cup of tea and took one up to Michelle, who was astonished at this outburst of attentiveness.

Oh dear. The new neighbours have moved in. They appear to own a Range Rover and if I go down to the end of the garden and look back I can see they are busy installing some enormous cinema in their kitchen, presumably so they can watch DVDs or baseball all through what Americans laughingly call their meals – i.e. cheeseburgers and waffles and corn cobs and hot dogs and doughnuts and more doughnuts. Washed down with Coke. Or am I just prejudiced?

As I was walking back to the house – the garden is looking brilliant even without the banks of foaming Calibans I was promised – a head popped over the wall and said, ‘Hi there!'

‘How lovely to meet you!' I said, turning on the charm. ‘I was just spying on you – but much nicer to say hello directly! I'm Marie Sharp, oldest resident of the street. In more ways than one.'

‘Hi, Marie! We're Sharmie and my husband is Brad! So glad to make your acquaintance. And don't spy! You must come see what we're doing to the house.' This charming woman had a strong East Coast accent and was about forty-five, with red hair and a lively, confident face. ‘We can't get over how quaint it all is. There's even a chimney with what
you call a fireplace. It's got no central heating! Can you imagine, Marie? It's like a time-warp!'

‘You must first come over to see me,' I said, not to be outpolited. ‘I was going to put a card through your door to ask you to drinks to welcome you to the street.'

It turns out they have a little girl, Alice, a little younger than Gene, and are only here for a year, but they've bought the house as an investment, determined to do it up and sell it for more than they paid. I immediately told them about Jack and Chrissie and Gene in New York.

‘And do you leave a grieving granny behind?' I asked.

‘And how!' said Sharmie. At least that's what her name sounded like. I have no idea what it was short for. ‘My mom's in Florida, crying her eyes out. She's in bits over there. Still she'll be over, Marie. You two will get on, I know it … And, hey, there's always Skype.'

We were just making a date for them to come over when she hesitated, and then said, ‘You okay, Marie? You look as if maybe you've been in an auto accident?'

‘No, I've just had a facelift,' I said, boldly. I mean there was no point in pretending, it must have been obvious.

‘Holy Moses, Marie, are you brave!' said Sharmie, pushing away a branch and getting closer to the wall so she could see me better. ‘I'm having a lift when I start to sag. Does it hurt? I can't wait to see what you look like when it's all healed up! Good for you, Marie! You've sure got some balls!'

I was very touched by her enthusiasm and when Brad popped out into the garden, overhearing our friendly conversation,
he seemed a jolly enough chap, too. I immediately asked if he knew anything about planning law and apparently he does. I expect he's over here advising some dreadful American billionaire about how to ruin the English countryside with strings of casinos or wind farms or something. And she designs kitchens, apparently.

They're coming over next week, with Alice.

Penny came over for a drink in the garden with a couple of petunias she didn't want and didn't think were too late to plant, which she couldn't fit into her garden. I didn't like to tell her about my failure with the Calibans. She also brought some shopping, and a bowl of soup with some cling-film over the top, which was very sweet of her.

We were sitting there chatting away when suddenly Penny said: ‘What a lovely tinkling sound! So peaceful.'

I hadn't, frankly, noticed it until she'd pointed it out. But once she'd drawn my attention to them, I could hear them at once – deafening things, the sound of permanent jangling. I'd wondered why Pouncer had been looking so unnerved … probably freaked out by the sound. I got up, peered over the wall and saw the source of my anxiety. Sharmie and Brad had installed chimes in their garden.

Odd, isn't it, about chimes? The owners never put the wretched things near their own house, where they can hear them. They go down to the end of the garden and hang
them as far away as possible from their own bedroom in order to insulate themselves from the sound, at the same time maddening everyone in the entire neighbourhood with their beastly tinkling.