No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (29 page)

I took my place again opposite Archie's room and finally the nurse came out, bearing a chart.

‘You can go in now, Mrs Ship,' she said. Thank God, everything was back to normal.

I tiptoed in. Archie was lying in bed, absolutely white-faced, haggard, just skin and bones, with eyes like dark hollow saucers. There were drips attached to his fragile arms. He was staring at the ceiling. Through the claustrophobic heat wafted the stifling smell of Dettol. I tried to open a window to let in some fresh air, but found it was completely sealed. In the end I opened the door to the garden, and for a moment the sharp air cut in, giving the room a breath of life. I left it slightly ajar and turned.

‘Hello darling,' I said, gently.

He turned to me and gave a kind of throttled gasp. I could see him shifting himself, as if he wanted to get up.

‘Hello.' he said, through a dry mouth. ‘Lovely.'

I gave him some water and plumped the pillows up behind him. Then I sat beside him and stroked his hand, not knowing quite what to say. Occasionally he groaned and shifted or tried to form a word. In the end I just drivelled on. I told him about New York and about the family, the flight, the
fall, James's dotty installation … with no idea how much of this he understood.

Then I thought: this is ridiculous. I'm being just like those stupid nurses who pulled him through when he was ill, trying to pretend everything's all right. So I plucked up my courage. I remembered what had happened the last time I'd been with Hughie, and I knew this was no time to be polite or cheerful. Outside it was already starting to get darker.

‘Darling,' I said, ‘I want you to know everything's going to be fine this time. Sylvie and I are going to make sure you'll be able to go to sleep soon and there'll be oblivion. We know what you want, darling. It's too much for you, all this, I know. It's painful and hard work, and soon everything will be peace, endless peace. I promise …'

I put my hand on his dry, cold forehead and through my palm I could sense his whole body relaxing. The tension just drained out of it. His cheeks, so drawn, when I came in, softened, and he slowly drew my hand up to his lips and tried to give it a kiss. Then I said, ‘You know, darling, I do love you. We had the happiest time ever. I don't think I was ever so happy with anyone as I was with you. In fact I know I wasn't. I do hope you know that.'

And for a moment our eyes locked, and I felt there was some strange connection. Even though he could hardly speak, he had got the drift of what I was saying, and he squeezed my hand for the first time.

‘Marie,' he said. ‘Are you Marie?'

‘Yes, it's me, Marie,' I said. ‘And I love you.'

He gave a faint smile, closed his eyes and then appeared to drift off to sleep. I waited a while and eventually tiptoed out of the room.

I sat down on the chair in the corridor. For some reason I felt desperate for a cigarette. I'd stopped smoking years ago, but felt so drained and exhausted. I put my head in my hands. But my reverie was interrupted.

‘Visiting Mr Archie?' said a nurse, bustling up. ‘That's nice for him! And for you, too. You know he was very ill recently, don't you? But he pulled through. Oh yes, he pulled through! We're not going to let him go so easily! He's a fighter Mr Archie, make no mistake!'

I looked her straight in the eye, a cold fury stealing over my body. I could feel my heart starting to race with anger. ‘To be quite frank,' I said, trying to control my voice, ‘I think it would have been kinder if you'd allowed the poor man to die. What you did last month was little short of criminal. And I speak as one who loves him very much.'

She looked shocked and hurried on her way. For my part, I stood up and strode out of the overheated nursing home into the cool air outside. I walked around the grounds in the dusk, my mind in a whirl. I couldn't get my thoughts in order. I could feel the sharp air, hear the roar of cars in the distance, smell the supper cooking from Eventide's kitchens. But all I could see was Archie's hollow face, staring at me from the pillow. I couldn't cry. I felt too overcome with emotion for that. I so longed … longed for what?
Longed for him to be reassured. Longed for him to be at peace. Longed, so longed, for him to die and be free from all this suffering. My heart felt full of longing and love.

As I blundered back to the car park, I bumped into Mrs Evans, who'd come all the way by two buses to visit.

‘Oh, Mrs Marie … oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, isn't it sad?' she said. ‘I keep thinking about that poem Mr Archie wrote.' She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘You're staying with Mrs Sylvie tonight are you? You'll be very comfortable there. I go over now and help her out on Tuesdays. I like to stay in the family.'

And she bustled off down the path to the house.

What a trooper. Even though she'd been accused time and time again of being a thief, she's still loyal. (It says something not just for her, but for the great love that Archie inspired, and still inspires, in everyone.)

Briefly, an image of Louis came into my mind. But no. However I feel about him, nothing comes near to my feelings about dear old Archie.

Email from Louis saying ‘Only another week and I'll be in London. It'll be great to see you again. xxL'

Hmm. I'd gone up an ‘x'.

Skyped the family tonight. Gene looked rather cross. Apparently the Dutch girl thinks he's stupid to have a cuddly and calls him a baby.

‘You're not a baby!' I said, angrily. ‘You're a big boy! You're almost a man, like Dad. Dad,' I added, ‘had a cuddly, a stuffed dog called Arno, until he was ten years old, and I used to suck my thumb till I was twelve and your granddad David
still
bites his nails sometimes, so don't let anyone tell you you're a baby because you've got a cuddly.'

‘Did Dad
really
have a cuddly till he was ten?' said Gene, barely supressing a slightly contemptuous smile. ‘That's
very
old to have a cuddly!'

I didn't like to go into all the props that everyone leans on when they get older – cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, the ones that adults need to replace their innocent cuddlies – but I was outraged that this dreadful girl was jeering at Gene's old Ted.

‘But she's going tomorrow,' said Gene, looking at me in rather a cheeky, victorious way. ‘Mum's told her to go away.'

Well, that was something.

Oh, how I wished I were there or they were here!

Just back from Sylvie's. She lives in this very sumptuous converted farmhouse, not far from Archie's place. Every room looks as if she's had an interior decorator in to do it over, and there's not a cushion unplumped nor a curtain not held back by an embroidered tie. Even the National Trust tea towels in her kitchen have been ironed, and every cupboard is spotless, inside and out, crammed with sparkling arrays of glass and china. In the bathrooms she even has separate little hand-towels you dry your hands on and then throw into a bin in the corner, swank hotel-style.

That Saturday we spent a lot of time in her cosy kitchen as she prepared supper. Sylvie, thank goodness, does not take after her father. She believes in keeping warm, with a huge state-of-the-art Aga in one corner and central heating roaring away even in the corridors. We talked a lot, mainly wringing our hands about the Archie situation.

‘Do feel free to have a bath before dinner,' she said, rather pointedly, I thought, as she wiped her hands on a piece of kitchen-roll. ‘We're not changing, though.'

Changing? Baths before dinner? I realised that Sylvie lived in the same social circles as her father. I immediately went upstairs and had a bath, and, naturally changed, knowing that the translation of ‘we're not changing' means ‘we
are
changing, but not very much'.

Checking I hadn't got any clothes on back to front or inside out this time, and spraying myself extravagantly with Chanel No. 5 just in case any of the funny antiseptic smell of the nursing home still clung to me even after a bath, I made my way gingerly down the back stairs. (I‘m still a bit shaky after the fall.) In the sitting room, I found Harry, Sylvie's husband, standing in front of the fire drinking sherry. Hardy lay on the hearthrug, having made himself completely at home in his new surroundings. I bet he appreciates being in the warm, after a lifetime of bracing temperatures.

Over supper I told them about the problems with the council over the common, and mentioned the appalling prospect of my going up the tree as a last resort, and at this point Harry suddenly became very enthusiastic. He's got quite a bit of land which involves forestry, so apparently he's got masses of tree-shinning-up equipment and he said if we needed something to help in this escapade he'd be happy to lend it to us. I said I hoped it wouldn't come to that, but it was very nice of him. Then, refusing coffee, I
staggered up to bed. They were so kind and understanding. I think we are all quite exhausted by the situation.

Bonfire night! For the last few days fireworks have been going off everywhere, exploding into the cold, dark nights. I've been trying to keep Pouncer in because he's scared stiff of explosions. Who isn't? (Once, a few years ago, Pouncer actually rushed off when he heard a banger and didn't return for three weeks.)

Again, I couldn't help but reminisce over the old days. When Jack was small we'd let off a box of fireworks in the garden, little treats in coloured tubes with lovely names like Golden Fountain, Roman Candle or Erupting Vesuvius. There were bangers and rockets and squibs, and Catherine wheels that never managed to go round but remained motionless, shooting their sparks into the ground … and potatoes put in the fire to bake … and there was a wonderful smell of cordite afterwards and all the children had sparklers. The whole intense atmosphere of it came roaring back. And then, the morning after, there was that eerie moment when I had to go and clear the grass of all those damp, blackened shells and dirty, gritty, spent sparkler sticks.

I haven't heard from Louis. Surely he'll be over any day now? I feel like emailing but have to resist. I don't want to make a fool of myself. However, I do keep checking my mobile for messages. He's never far from my mind. Oh dear.

Yesterday I had supper with James and Ned. It was James's birthday and Ned and I treated him. I'd told the restaurant – one of those jolly gastropubs – in advance that there was a birthday at our table, and one of the waiters brought in a tiny cake covered in candles, singing ‘Happy Birthday' and the whole dining room joined in while James grinned, went bright scarlet, pointed his finger at me and mouthed, ‘You naughty girl!'

Though most eyes were on the cake, I noticed James's look was directed at the waiter, a young chap who was so cool it was ridiculous. He was wearing daringly short trousers – the fashionable Oliver Twist look – a wonderful spiky haircut, a shirt that looked as if it was from Paul Smith, and great purple socks. He looked the last word in camp. (Though James was fixated on him, I noticed Ned was eyeing up one of the waitresses. I wonder if all's going well with that pair? There's certainly no slobbering over each other these days, that's for sure. Thank God.)

As we left, I said to the young waiter, ‘I absolutely adore your get-up!'

He looked very pleased. ‘I try to make an impression,' he said.

‘You've certainly succeeded!' we said. And we left. But then I wondered. It must be rather awful if you're very young, as he was, to have ancient people telling you how stylish and wonderful you look. I mean it's hardly a compliment, is it? Sadly, young people are too shy to dish out random compliments to strangers, so if we, the oldies, didn't go round telling people how great they looked, no one would ever get any compliments at all.

When I got back I skyped the family. Gene had somehow solved the metal puzzle we'd been fiddling over for hours back in New York, and he insisted on showing me several times how he'd managed it. First, the two rings were together – and then, with a twist of his little hands, they were apart. It was baffling. I was so touched and proud.

The Dutch girl has gone, thank goodness, and Gene looked triumphant. ‘She talked to her friends on the phone all the time when Mum and Dad were out' (did he say ‘mum' and dad or ‘mom' and dad? I couldn't be quite sure, even though I was listening like a hawk), ‘and Dad got cross …'

As I've been knitting with a vengeance since I got back – I managed to salvage most of the stitches, having bought yet
another
new pair of needles – I was delighted to be able to show Gene my progress and even tried to fit the new version on him via the computer screen. It didn't work very well, of course. But I'm really glad I've started again. I realise
I made dozens of mistakes the first time, which I have now put right. The elephants look exactly like elephants.

Gene was absolutely disgusted to find that his school had sent out a note to parents asking them to discourage their children from wearing monster outfits at Hallowe'en. Having always been a big fan of Stephen King films, in which, as far as I remember, there is always a compulsory Hallowe'en scene just to build up the tension, I was most surprised. But no, things have changed, apparently.

‘I wanted to wear my monster zombie outfit,' he said, sadly. ‘It's got big hands with cuts on, and hair on the back, and I've got these special vampire teeth with blood on, not real blood, just paint … but mum said they wouldn't like it. And we wouldn't get any candy.'

‘What did you go as?' I asked.

‘I went as Snoopy,' he said, rather dejectedly. ‘Snoopy's nice but not scary. But,' he added, cheering up, ‘we got lots of candy.'

Later, Jack said Hallowe'en had been a fiasco and they'd ended up by handing out about fifty dollars'-worth of sweets to children who came calling. Not only that, he said, but the whole family was dismayed to find there were no Guy Fawkes celebrations at all.