The needles clicked. “He takes you for granted, does your Stan.”
Evelyn sighed again.“All right,” she said.“I’ll catch my death like as not, but I’m going.”
Dear Ruth
I know it’s been a while but I’m not myself in some ways. Hand bandaged. Plus I’m very busy plus leg ulcers-no fun I can tell you.
Also no fun-bloody nurse, two of them now and you never know which, meddling with legs, now interfering with hand on almost daily basis and they don’t care how much they hurt me. Plus Carole and Mrs. M barging in.
And NOW that woman from your little writing group keeps coming. They’re working on a memorial, she says. Della, that’s her name-she seems to be the ringleader.
I haven’t mentioned your story to her, that’s between you and me. You put in Kinder Scout! I have to correct you though, on that bit about it being cold up there. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. You get the shelter of the hill if the wind’s in the right direction. Overdale Lodge itself I grant you could be on the Spartan side but you have to admit it was quite cosy after the storage heaters went in. 1978 or thereabouts.
Had a few photos down to look at. Happy days.
Anyway back to these women turning up on doorstep. They’ve all got a look in their eye. They’re all in it together, they think I can’t see that. Usually they wake me up-on top of that they bully me about my clothes, too.
EG-Mrs. M appeared uninvited with what she called a complete hot dinner and without so much as a by-your-leave sticks it in oven, fusses about setting the timer but she didn’t know how to work it, neither did I. She said it’d take 30 minutes and that was just enough time for a bath, wouldn’t it be a good idea if she popped up and ran me one. I spoke quite sharply.
I think she’s definitely after me.
She said she’d be calling back for the dish and she’d better find it empty, wag wag goes the finger, she thinks she’s funny. Well, forewarned-I just won’t answer the door.
Though the dish IS empty because I flung the whole lot into the back hedge.
Gave me an idea though. If you ask me the bloody council’s messing about with the bin day and not telling me so I’m not bothering putting ours out now. Anything for chucking can go in the hedge. Or it can stay here, plenty space in the hall-I’ll get round to a big sort out when it suits me.
All these people. They all still ask how I am and I say nothing and I have nothing much to contribute on other subjects either. What difference does it make if I agree it’s a nice day or not? It’s not long before I see their mouths squirming around for something to say. Throats get cleared and looks flit from one pair of eyes to another. No wonder I lose my temper.
Mrs. M: Am I sure I’m not a big casserole fan? It’s just good plain English food-no garlic!
Della: She’d be only too pleased to make me a cup of tea to have with the cake she’s brought. Ruth liked Earl Grey, didn’t she? Della likes camomile of an evening but she can’t get along with peppermint, it repeats on her.
Nurse: Isn’t Arthur a naughty old lazybones, not cutting his nails, she’s got people who’d love to be able to cut their nails for themselves.
Carole: Is the pressure cooker perhaps standing for something else? Is the pressure cooker maybe not really about the pressure cooker? Is it symbolic of earlier times?
See what’s going on? They think they can get me via toenails and tea and tributes.
And not a word these days about how it’s all right for me to be angry.
Example-I told Carole in no uncertain terms what I’d do to that bastard driver if I got my hands on him.
Oh, she pretended to understand, but I wasn’t fooled. “Oh. Oh, Arthur, yes I see, well, but, oh dear, you don’t think maybe justice is best left to the police? Of course it’s understandable…”
The police are useless! Fucking useless! I told her. Scared her, I think. Obviously she doesn’t think the anger’s all right at all-first sign of it and she wants it all bottled up again. Stupid bitch in my opinion (as I pointed out).
Relieved to see the back of them all
What makes these people tick?
I don’t even know them.
And I like garlic, as you know.
NO WONDER I LOSE MY TEMPER .
Arthur
Inside the house, Arthur was roaming upstairs. But there was a change. He wasn’t properly dressed. He was wearing only a raincoat that wasn’t completely buttoned and I could see he was naked under it. His wandering seemed more urgent and erratic. He would pause, then suddenly stir and start up to another room and once there, stand and do nothing. Or he would conduct frantic searches in this room or that, and abandon them without finding anything. He walked about with a tea towel over his shoulder and a pen and a bundle of papers in his hands. There were papers stuffed in the coat pockets, too. When he made his way up the ladder to the attic I shuddered to see that his feet were bare on the sharp metal rungs. When the attic light came on I made my way straight into the house, impatient to get started.
I worked by the light set into the hood over the cooker, as golden and soft as candlelight. There was plenty of hot water, at least. The washing up didn’t take so very long and once I’d scrubbed the grill and stovetop and found bin bags and bagged the rotten scraps I began to see my way. The stink subsided. The countertops polished up nicely. I found bleach and cleaning spray and went around again twice, both in the kitchen and the conservatory, and the smell disappeared altogether, or rather was replaced by a much better one not unlike the smell of the house in Beaulieu Gardens.
Ruth would be a fiend of a housekeeper, I was sure of that. She would be pleased to have her place put back to rights, and I worked with some notion of carrying out her wishes and surpassing even her standards; I scrubbed with a desire for reparation and praise. Resting for a moment, I looked around, not with satisfaction-that was for Ruth to accord or deny me-but with a wish that she should see and judge. Quickly I told myself-no, I told her-that of course this was only a quick cleanup. After so many weeks’ neglect there would be, I explained, deeper layers of filth and chaos than I could erase in one go. By now there would be dirt settling in here, there, and everywhere, feeling its dark way into the house’s fabric rather than merely across its surfaces, and that would take more time and effort to penetrate and correct. As I measured out another capful of detergent, I assured Ruth that I had only just begun. I extinguished the light over the cooker and, starting at the conservatory door, I set about the washing of the kitchen floor in the manner of my grandmother, on my hands and knees with a coarse cloth and a bucket of soapy water, in darkness.
I worked my way across the floor to the door that led into the hall. I stood up and opened it, and borne in with the silence from the rest of the house came also another, even worse smell. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I suppose. If he had let the kitchen get into such a state, why would he have been any more careful about the bathroom? I shuddered, for Ruth. She would be mortified.
The hall was littered with papers and piles of rubbish but I didn’t take time to look at them closely. The downstairs lavatory was next to the front door. I didn’t need to see any more than I was shown by the glow of orange through the window from the street lamps of Cardigan Avenue. I felt rather sick before I had improved
