No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (4 page)

The science master at the school where I used to teach has just emailed me, which was very decent of him (makes up for the disgusting brew he rustled up at the retirement party), an old school friend remembered as well, and I got another card from Angie, Bella, Perry, Jim and Squeaks, saying, ‘Have a good one! Come soon! Xxxxx'

Hunted in the bin for the envelope and found the postmark too blurred to read. So again: ????

After the postman had been, I counted and I'd got twelve cards. Penny sent me one with a picture of a birthday cake on it covered with candles which read: ‘The more candles on my cake, the hotter I am!' But my favourite was of a rabbit lying on its back, surrounded by little bunnies scampering all over her. ‘Too old to carry on, too young to stop', it read. I got a card from Gene, too. He'd done a picture of a rocket going into space, with a small circle with an arrow at the bottom and writing which read ‘WERLD'. And I got a telephone call from him saying ‘Happy birthday, Granny, I love you! Have you got my card? We made you some peppermint creams and I've saved one for you.'

Jack took the phone from him and asked if I was okay and I lied through my teeth and said I was absolutely fine. (I realise now that though mothering appears to stop when children leave home, what one's actually required to do, for the rest of one's life, is to reassure one's grown-up children that one is ‘absolutely fine! … incredibly busy!' and end every phone conversation with the words, ‘Must dash!' This is what makes them feel okay. Frightfully tiring of course, to keep up this ridiculous front, but essential.)

Penny had asked James and me round for a birthday supper and James dropped round first to have a cup of tea so we could catch up. James – oh, it's so complicated. He's my ex-brother-in-law and he's gay, and years ago he got together with a very old friend of mine, Hughie, who was
a great mate of Archie's – and Hughie died six years ago, as I just said, and James hasn't found anyone else and it's all very sad. But it's always lovely to see him. He's tall, dark, and not bad looking for his age and only fifty-four. You wouldn't know he was gay until he opens his mouth, when he's quite the shrieking queen, all ‘darling' and ‘angel' and very emotional. Quite lovely. I wish straight men were more like that, screams and all.

‘You're looking just lovely, queen of my heart!' he said, with a broad smile on his face as he came in, bearing a large bunch of flowers. ‘How do you do it? Have you had any work done? I bet you have, you naughty thing, and you haven't told me about it.' He brushed a piece of hair from behind my ear and peered behind it. ‘Looking for tell-tale scars, sweetie,' he said.

‘How dare you!' I said, glowing with pleasure. Isn't it funny how it doesn't matter how insincere someone is, and even if you know they're born liars, it's just lovely to be told you're looking great? I'm a sucker for compliments. The woman in the corner bakery just has to call me ‘love' and I think, ‘Oh, you're so kind and wonderful, let me come and live as your friend in your warm, accepting home.' I feel that way even when she calls the next customer ‘love'. Strange.

‘Now, let me take my shoes off,' he said. ‘They're all muddy.' But as he bent down to take them off I stopped him. ‘Don't take them off!' I snapped, not very kindly, I'm afraid. ‘I keep telling you, my house is designed for shoes. Mud will brush off. I don't mind.'

The truth behind my not-wanting-people-to-take-their-shoes-off-in-my-house is two-fold. Firstly, it's because
I
hate being asked to take my shoes off when I go to other people's houses. I mean, what's the point of dressing up to the nines, and adding, as a final touch, a pair of achingly painful but beautiful high-heeled shoes, only to have someone order me to remove them at the door, meaning I have to pad around on my flat feet everywhere? I feel like those prisoners in the States who are forced to take off their belts by guards, in order to humiliate them. Not being allowed to wear shoes is somehow demeaning. That's why it's so horrible when you have to take them off in airports. Suddenly, you're reduced to feeling like a child.

The other reason I'm not too keen on people taking their shoes off in
my
house is that I don't want their smelly, sweaty feet imprinting themselves in my carpet and leaving damp and pongy footprints everywhere. But of course I don't
say
that.

James came into the kitchen with his shoes on, and I made him a cup of tea.

‘Funny you should mention “work”, as you so politely put it,' I said, as he leaned over me to choose a green-tea bag from my assortment rather than the Indian I was going to give him (‘More antioxidants, darling,' he said), ‘I was thinking about having a facelift as a special birthday present to myself. What do you think? I know you're very sweet about my looks, but have you noticed my eyelids? I look like a basset hound. And as for this lizardy bit of neck under
my chin … it doesn't serve a purpose, does it? I mean it's not as if I can carry my Waitrose shopping in it, like a pelican.'

James stood back, narrowed his eyes, and appraised my face. ‘The problem is, my angel,' he said, at last, ‘that although you look utterly gorgeous, no one wouldn't look even better with a nip and a tuck, even you. If you've got the money and could stand the pain, I'd go for it. But get someone good, won't you? You don't want to end up looking like those California freaks. When I was last in LA, I met some old movie star whose skin was actually splitting down the middle of her nose, it had been stretched so much.'

He pulled back his skin to look like a cosmonaut taking off, and gave a ghoulish laugh.

‘I wouldn't dream of having it done in California!' I said, rather shocked. ‘I don't want to look like Joan Rivers. No, I want an English facelift, all understated and resulting in people just saying how well I look.'

‘But don't you want people to tell you how young you're looking, as well?' said James. ‘Don't you want to get the young men slavering?'

‘The last thing I want is a young man slavering,' I said, shuddering. Then I thought again. ‘Well, I wouldn't mind one slavering as long as that's all he was doing. No, I just want it done so when I look in the mirror I don't see something that looks like a suicidal maniac. I want to see someone bright and perky.'

‘Someone who says “yes” to life!'

‘I wouldn't go that far, James,' I replied, pursing my lips as I added the milk. ‘Don't let's go mad. But someone who at least says, in the mornings, “Don't you think it's worth giving today a chance?” before throwing in the towel. Anyway, if I do have one, will you come and pick me up and put a bag over my head while you drive me home?'

James says I want to chase a lost youth. I said that's rubbish. He said he wouldn't mind chasing a lost youth himself, the more lost and youthful the better.

‘But hurrah to the facelift,' he added. ‘I think you'd look more cheerful, too. And that would make other people feel more cheerful when they looked at you, and then you'd feel more cheerful back … it would be like perpetual motion. Or do I mean a vicious circle?'

‘Perhaps not vicious,' I said. ‘But you've got the drift.'

Despite my moaning and groaning and all the sadness about the family flight to the States, I'm actually quite chirpy inside, but whenever I look in the mirror these days, everything's sagged. The skin has just lost its elasticity. I discovered this the other day when I was putting on my eye make-up and was making that kind of grimace that you always do to make it easier to put on the liner at the bottom. However many weird faces I pulled, nothing made the slightest bit of difference to the skin around my eyes.

Before we left to go round to Penny's, James handed me an envelope. ‘This is from Marion,' he said. ‘I saw her yesterday at this charitable do for the latest disaster – you know, some earthquake. She's the patron of it or something.
Honestly, that woman, she's so noble! Anyway, this is your birthday present. But don't open it,' he added suddenly. ‘I want Penny to see your face when you find out what it is.'

And with that he snatched it back with a mysterious smile.

Penny had cooked us a delicious supper and I'd brought some champagne, but when Penny asked how Jack was I burst into tears again as I told them the news. They were both absolutely sweet and said I mustn't be upset, and James said, ‘Don't worry, I'll come over every weekend with some plasticine and we can make little people out of it and you can pretend I'm Gene,' and Penny said, ‘And you can take me to the park … and read me bedtime stories,' and James added, ‘And we'll all go over to New York and Penny and I can go and find some gorgeous men, while you make gingerbread men and play the elephant game with Gene and we'll all have a brilliant time.'

‘I might meet a tall dark stranger,' said Penny, giggling slightly.

‘The only tall dark stranger any of us is going to meet is the Grim Reaper,' I said, mopping my eyes and putting my glasses back on. I felt a bit better.

Then Penny turned out the lights and produced a scrumptious cake decorated with enough candles to heat Archie's kitchen. And then James said, ‘Marie's going to get herself a facelift for her birthday!' and Penny said, ‘You're not! But how could you possibly afford it?' and I said I thought I could sell the two Vivien Pitchforths I had, and James said
who the hell was he, and I said he was a painter who'd taught me at art school and he'd given them to me, and actually I could probably get about £2,000 each for them, and then that I was thinking of selling the brooch Archie had given me—

‘You can't sell Archie's brooch!' said Penny, choking, shocked, on a piece of cake she was cramming into her mouth.

‘Oh yes I can,' I said. ‘It's worth about £3,000. And it's hideous. And I don't dare wear it in the streets of Shepherd's Bush, anyway.'

‘But what will Archie think?' asked James.

‘I don't think he'll mind,' I said. ‘Partly because he can't remember anything these days.'

‘Marie's convinced he's got Alzheimer's,' said Penny, explaining my apparent heartlessness.

‘Well, he's got
something
,' I said. ‘You know he rang me up this morning to wish me happy birthday, and called me Philippa! His dead wife! But that's not why I'm selling the brooch. It's because I lost it a couple of years ago, and when I told him he said it didn't matter, and it was silly of him to have given it to me because it was far too valuable to wear, and if I ever found it again, I'd be better off selling it and getting something I really wanted. And I did find it again.'

‘Where did you find it?' asked Penny.

‘In my jewellery box,' I said, rather shamefacedly. ‘You know, you look and look, and can't find it and then a year later you look again and there it is. It's weird.'

‘Oooh … I forgot … do open Marion's present,' said James, pulling it out of his pocket.

I took the envelope and checked it. ‘James wants you to see my face when I open it,' I said to Penny. I turned to James. ‘It isn't some kind of boxing glove on a spring, is it?'

‘No, no, go on open it,' he said, leaning forward expectantly and pouring us all some more champagne.

I opened it. It was a card. And inside there was a piece of paper. Which I read out. ‘This is to certify that a goat has been bought by Marion Parker on behalf of Maire Charp for the African community of Ngawa, Swaziland. Thank you Maire and happy birthday!'

‘A goat!' I said. My face fell.

‘Well, isn't that
sweet!
' said Penny, looking all dear-little-goatishly at me. ‘What a lovely present!'

James looked at me slyly.

‘It's not a lovely present, it's vile!' I said sharply. ‘Not only do I not want to give a goat to Africa, I actually
disapprove
of giving goats to Africa! It's Marion who wants to give a goat to Africa! I've read all about it. They end up either eating all the villagers' vegetables or the villagers just eat the wretched animal themselves. And anyway, the person who gets the bloody goat is hated by all the other villagers because they haven't got one … it's loathsome! Why couldn't she give
me
the goat and then at least I could decide who to give it to?'

‘But it's for charity,' said Penny. ‘How can you be so ungrateful? And to be honest, Marie, you don't
need
a goat.' She got up to look for something.

‘I can just imagine the whole of Africa swarming with goats given to them by soft-hearted liberals like Marion,' I said. ‘They don't want bloody goats! They want fast cars and computers and iPods or pads or whatever they are, and football strips and plasma screens! Goats! It's as if Africans were to give us crystal sets, or tape-recorders or old manual typewriters. No thanks! Anyway,' I added, warming to my theme, ‘I've got my own charities I give to – like Romanian orphans. And the whole thing's so patronising, too. It's like offering a child a fiver and then snatching it from his hand and saying he must give it to the poor.

‘God, Marion! She hasn't changed has she? I do love her to pieces, but I remember at school when we were moaning about our teachers, she'd always remind us that we were very lucky to be getting an education at all, compared to all the poor children in the world. What am I expected to say? “Dear Marion, Thank you for including me as an involuntary middleman in your kind gift to Africa. I am glad you could kill two birds with one stone. When it's your birthday, I will make a contribution on your behalf to … to … to—” what's some outfit that would drive her insane with rage?'

‘The Conservative Party?' suggested James.

‘The Conservative Party, and see how
she
likes it! Then when it's her birthday you can both watch her face fall and report back to me. Bloody goat!'