The Journal (Short Fiction)
24th April 2012
In: Short Stories
Dorothy unwrapped the gift with habitual care, picking at each short strip of silver sticky tape, peeling it from the glossy surface before unfolding the precisely creased corners and smoothing out the tree-patterned paper with the intention of saving and reusing it. Aware Agnes was watching her, she maintained a expression that anticipated a possible pleasure but not, she suspected, an overwhelming one. She’d guessed that it was a book, the size, shape and weight of the package gave that much away, and its dimensions had suggested novel or biography rather than coffee table. A book was always better than bath salts or Swiss embroidered handkerchiefs, however fine the stitching, but she was rather hoping that it wouldn’t turn out to be a whodunnit selected from the pages of the book club magazine her sister had been so enthusiastically supporting of late.
“Oh,” she smiled, half relieved yet mildly disappointed as she ran her finger along the maroon leather spine. “A diary! That’s nice — very useful. Thank you, dear.” It was, she had to admit, a very fine diary. The pages had that satisfying crispness and virginal quality that deserved their gold edging, each one headed with the date and month — a whole page for each day — their blankness just a little daunting when she considered that nowadays so few things happened in her life that seemed worth the trouble of recording. She could never fill all that space with anything truly memorable. To note down her routines — dusting, shopping, ironing, watching TV — for the sake of something to write about would only serve to underline the dull mundanity of most of what she did. So, when Agnes had gone, she put the diary in a drawer, tucking it out of sight under the pile of yellowing stationery she had no use for but couldn’t quite bring herself to throw away.
It was the end of March when she had her fall. Early spring sunlight slanting through the front parlour window had drawn her attention to several cobwebs strung between the picture rails and the light fitting. The high, Victorian ceiling’s carved cornices and elaborate central rose housed a small colony of spiders and an undisturbed layer of dust. All were out of reach of her feather duster unless she used the kitchen steps. She was careful how she placed them, tested them for steadiness before she mounted, slowly and deliberately, making sure each foot was in the middle of the tread. Afterwards, she wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, how the steps had suddenly tilted and, for a second, it seemed she had hung in the dust-swirling air before crashing to the floor and curling up in a tight ball, breathless with shock and pain.
She lay there and waited for the sharpness to dull to a throbbing ache, tried to move and gasped as pain ran her through again. Once more she waited, her cheek pressed uncomfortably against the carpet giving her a rare perspective on the room at floor level. She could see for several inches underneath the loose-covered damask of the sofa before it sagged too low, tired springs and worn out horsehair unequal to the strain. There were small shapes just visible in the dimness. One of them, closest to the edge, was possibly a button, the other silhouettes were harder to guess but she seemed to remember misplacing a pen top
recently but hadn’t she looked under there? She concentrated and recalled the incident. Yes, that was it — the top from Archie’s fountain pen, part of a writing set he’d been presented with on his retirement. She’d been using it to write her Christmas cards and the apparent loss of the cap had her searching the house. She’d been upset for days, thinking it would turn up and that she would discover it somewhere inappropriate — the bathroom cabinet or perhaps the cutlery drawer — where she’d put it down in a moment of absent-mindedness. But it hadn’t turned up, at least, not until now.
The feather duster had fallen nearby and she stretched to retrieve it, wincing and letting the breath hiss out over her teeth. She was poking the handle under the sofa when the telephone rang. Hidden from her view by the sofa’s blue bulk, it sat on the small writing table in front of the window, high up now and on another level well beyond her reach. She counted the rings — seventeen, before it jangled its last and went silent again. “Damn!” she muttered, sudden tears of frustration threatening to spill as awareness slowly dawned and it occurred to her that she might be spending the night on the floor. She tugged at the corners of the
cushions and pulled them down on her. Her limbs felt stiff and cold, her head ached and her throat was parched. She dozed a little and prayed for someone to come.
It was dark when she woke and a familiar voice was calling her name. Then she heard the snap of the letterbox followed by the front door opening, footsteps on the hall’s linoleum and, a moment later, the overhead light blinded her. There was a warm flurry of movement, a sweet feminine smell of soap or cologne as expert fingers found her pulse, brushed the hair from her face and felt her forehead.
“Dorothy, can you hear me?”
She screwed up her eyes against the glare, swallowed hard and forced out a croak of acknowledgement. “Yes,” she took a deep breath, winced and added “I fell off the steps...”
June nodded,“So I see. How long have you been on the floor?”
“Um, I’m not really sure, dear. Since sometime this morning. I think it must have been ten thirty or so, perhaps a little later. I was dusting, you see. Silly accident — I couldn’t have been paying proper attention and the steps tilted... Oh, my mouth and throat’s so dry,” she swallowed again with difficulty, “You couldn’t make us a cup of tea, dear, could you?”
“I’m going to call an ambulance — you need to see a doctor and be checked over properly. You might have done some real damage, I can’t tell and I don’t want to chance moving you. Sorry, tea’s out of the question but I’ll get you some water — a few sips won’t hurt. Now, you lie still and try not to worry.”
Dorothy knew it was no good arguing — she was left watching and feeling helpless, just as she had been on the night when Archie had had his heart attack and she, frightened and panicking, had phoned next door and June had run round
and tried to resuscitate him. He’d been on the floor by the fireplace, only a couple of feet from where she lay now, his eyes had been open and staring up at the ceiling, a faint look of puzzlement on his face. June had tried for ages, alternately giving mouth to mouth and then thumping, quite roughly Dorothy had thought, on his chest in the hope of reviving him. But he’d never stirred, his skin greying to a pallor that would never again flush following an energetic bit of gardening or a
Sunday afternoon tipple. She’d known he was dead even before the paramedic
confirmed it.
Her x-rays showed no broken bones or fractures. She had been so fortunate, so very, very lucky to have got off so lightly, the young Asian doctor told her, his accent emphasising his surprise that her elderly skeleton had proved so resilient. Just a badly bruised and swollen leg and a twisted shoulder. But she must rest, he wagged a warning finger, so they were keeping her in overnight for observation and would see how she was in the morning.
They took her home in a hospital car and, having slept well and no longer in pain, she enjoyed the drive. The sun was pleasantly warm through the glass and, it seemed to her, the brightness of the day was reflected in the movement
and colour in the streets so that she observed it more keenly, noticing the small details with a fresh eye, as though there had been a subtle shift in her perception. Probably just glad to still be in one piece, she thought, watching a man with a walking frame negotiate his way between two closely parked cars. For no reason she could think of, she recalled the diary Agnes had given her and anticipated what she would write in it.
Tuesday, 1st April — All Fools’ Day.
After yesterday’s episode, it seems appropriate to start my journal here. It was a silly accident and I should have been more careful. I suppose the doctors have to deal with a lot of foolish old people but I felt ridiculous — like a child being patched up after failing to heed its parent’s warning —such a nuisance to everybody. June popped round just before eight this morning, checked the bandage on my leg and adjusted the sling pinning my left arm to my chest. I am supposed to move my left shoulder as little as possible. Not that I want to, the slightest movement sends a sharp pain from neck to wrist. She made me tea and toast, bless her, and got me settled in my chair near the window, a pile of magazines, books and my radio beside me. I am to stay put until she calls back for elevenses. I know she has a busy morning — she has to check up on all her “ladies,” as she calls them, and one of them is due today. It’s a first baby and June says the expectant mother’s little more than a girl herself but she refuses to go into hospital to have it — she’s got a phobia of hospitals apparently. I wonder how different things would have been if I’d had a baby or two. We did talk about it when we were first married. While he never actually said he didn’t want children, Archie always seemed uncertain exactly how he felt on the subject. But he wasn’t a great one for showing his feelings so I didn’t press him. I let the question slide, sometimes wanting to raise the subject again and then thinking best not. Eventually, of course, it was no longer an option. It doesn’t stop me thinking about it, though. I imagine having a son — strong and clever and someone I’d be proud of; someone who would phone me regularly to see how I was and who would take me for a drive on a Sunday afternoon; invite me to his home for Christmas; give me grandchildren to fuss over. With Archie gone, I’ve had no one to fit my life around these past eight months. Agnes visits from time to time but she has her own life, besides, we were never that close. I know that I’m just drifting and I have to find a direction for myself. I need some sort of goal. Perhaps this is an opportunity to think everything through and face up to the fact that I’m sixty eight this year and I should make the most of what time I have left. All this writing is exhausting — or maybe it’s the effect of the painkillers — anyway, I think I’ll take a short nap. It’s now one o’ clock, I’ve just woken up and June still isn’t back. I’m guessing she has a delivery to attend to.
Wednesday, 2nd April
It was a boy, born a few minutes after midday and weighing in at six pounds nine ounces. June said it was a very quick delivery — all over in a couple of hours — and both mum and baby are fine. No complications or drama. June seems almost as happy as if it was her own baby. She showed me a snap of herself holding him — one of those digital photos taken only minutes after the birth. He’s going to be called Marlon and he’s the eighteenth baby June’s helped bring into the world since she completed her midwifery qualification. I envy her the joy she evidently has in her profession. It’s much brighter today and the last lot of Spring bulbs Archie planted in the front border are in flower again. They make quite a show and several people have stopped to admire them. Old Mrs. Grant waved when she saw me here by the window. She must be well past ninety because her daughter Bessie was in my class at school. It’s amazing that she still gets about. She has a cast iron constitution, apparently. I’ve heard her boast in the corner shop that she hasn’t had a cold since before the war — not even a sniffle. Never misses Chapel, either. Or the chance of a good gossip. Granny Grant, Archie used to call her and never encouraged her to stop and chat when he was digging or weeding out the front. But then Archie wasn’t the most sociable of men. I think he knew more about plants than he did about people. He was good with plants. The winter rosebushes budded well this year and the unusually mild spell after Christmas brought a second flush. There are still one or two blooms hanging on. I caught a man admiring them this afternoon. I didn’t recognise him and he only stopped for a moment. There was something striking about him and the way he
focused on the roses. Even from this distance, I could sense the intense pleasure he drew from
looking at them. He must be a gardener.
Thursday, 3rd April
My leg feels better but my shoulder is still giving me gyp. Odd expression, that — my father used to use it when his lumbago was playing up. The painkillers they gave me at the hospital don’t work for long and I’m only supposed to take them every fours hours. I get so stiff just sitting for hours on end. God knows how the permanently disabled cope. But I shouldn’t complain, I suppose, especially as June has been so good. I gave her a list and she’s gone shopping for me today. I never really enjoy grocery shopping and find the supermarkets too bright and too noisy but I’m missing the walk to the precinct and it’s only my third day indoors. I need to distract myself — I think there’s a play on Radio Four.
I missed the author’s name and only recognised one of the actors because he’d been in a TV soap but it really wasn’t bad, as modern plays go. Halfway through the second act I glanced out of the window and saw the man again. I had a clearer view of him than yesterday because this morning I’d asked June to push the curtains right back, unhook the grubby nets and put them in the laundry basket. It makes the room a lot lighter and gives me a better view of the street and any passers-by. So, there he was again, one hand resting on my wall, his head cocked slightly as he leaned over and examined one of the roses. He didn’t attempt to touch it, though. After a moment or two he straightened up and continued walking down the road. By then, I’d lost the thread of the play so I turned the radio off. It was, I found, more entertaining to speculate on who the man might be and what he finds so fascinating about my late husband’s roses. When June came in with the shopping, I mentioned him, trying to describe him in the hope she might know who he is. But I could see she was tired and probably wanted to get away. She shrugged, smiled and said she hadn’t a clue. She put the shopping away and let herself out. Later she brought round a small Pyrex dish full of chicken stew. She called it something different but it tasted like chicken stew. It was very good and I must remember to ask her for the recipe.
Friday, 4th April
June was late coming round this morning. Poor thing had been up half the night with one of her ladies who’d gone into labour six weeks early. The baby had been fine, if a little jaundiced, but the mum had had problems with the afterbirth. June gave me a blow by blow account. It all sounded rather awful and, to be honest, would have put me right off the idea had I still been young enough to consider motherhood. After all, there’s always adoption. I wrote an unusually long letter to Agnes. I’m not sure why I ended up writing quite so much but I kept it quite cheerful and reassuring. I took care to make it clear I’m on the mend and not on my deathbed. The last thing I want is for her to suddenly descend on me like a frustrated Florence Nightingale, full of good intentions but inclined to grate on the nerves. That’s being uncharitable, I know. I just don’t want to give her the opportunity to fuss and jolly me along like I’m some hopeless geriatric with no mind of my own. He came past about the usual time but barely paused. He looked, though. There was, June told me, quite a cold northeaster so perhaps he didn’t want to stop. The petals are starting to fall, too. They are definitely past their best and no more buds, as far as I can see.
Saturday, 5th April
A different set of people on the street today. I suppose routines change at weekends. Funny, I never noticed or even thought about it before. The nine-to-fivers absent and more young people and families. I wonder if he’ll come.
Monday, 7th April
I haven’t clapped eyes on him since Friday. He was looking a bit peaky, I thought. He was hunched into his overcoat — a very smart, expensive-looking overcoat — collar up and a thick tartan scarf around his neck. Perhaps he has a cold. I hope it’s nothing serious. If he has a wife, I hope she takes good care of him. Archie always needed such a lot of attention when he was unwell. Men generally do. I didn’t make a journal entry yesterday because I had visitors nearly all day. I tried to keep an eye out for him but it’s difficult when someone’s talking to you and you don’t want to appear rude by staring out the window. Anyway, June popped round as usual to check on me and stayed for a chat. Marlon and his mum continue to thrive, apparently, and her other ladies are doing well. Four more due in the next week, including twins. Then the vicar dropped in for a few minutes. Probably seeing for himself if I’m about to claim my half of the double plot in his graveyard. He’s quite a nice chap but a bit young for the seriousness of some of his duties. He always looks so solemn and somehow sucked dry of fun. But he was good enough to make us both a cup of tea. Obviously a New Man. I wonder if Mrs.Vicar knows how fortunate she is. I can’t remember Archie ever making me a cup of tea. Anyway, having assured him I’m on the mend and he wasn’t about to lose one of his congregation, he left me a leaflet about the church roof restoration fund. Maybe he hopes I’ll leave St. Luke’s something in my will. I’d just dozed off when the doorbell went again and Donald and Freda arrived. They were visiting in the area and, having gone in the shop and heard about my fall from Jack and Anne, thought they’d see how I was. It’s like the jungle drums round here — can’t keep anything quiet for long. Freda had brought this enormous bunch of lilies — a tad funereal, but I managed to thank her anyway. She insisted on getting a vase and arranging them for me. Then she put the vase in the middle of the windowsill and I could hardly see out at all. We chatted about the days when Donald and Archie played in the bowls team and that disastrous caravan holiday the four of us took in Devon. Freda wanted to look at the photos but I said I hadn’t seen them for years and they were probably lost. They’re in the bureau but I didn’t want to encourage her. Eventually they decided they’d tired me out — they weren’t wrong — and left. I went to bed early.
It’s a typical Monday morning — wet and windy, so I’m not hopeful. It might clear up by midday but it’s very grey. The last roses are looking sorry for themselves now, lots of petals blowing about on the ground. I’d go out and tidy up, if I could. I might even get the chance to speak to him then, if I timed it right. Just to pass the time of day and be friendly. He looks so pleasant — cultured but approachable. One of Nature’s gentlemen, my mother would have called him. I’ve been thinking about him a lot and trying to guess who he is and where he’s going as he passes by my gate. I used to play a similar game as a child. Fellow passengers on trains always intrigued me and I used to study them while I pretended to read my book or comic. I can still remember some of the fantastical life histories I invented to while away a tedious journey. Other people’s lives seemed so much more interesting than my own. They still do. As I expected, it stayed dull and drizzly and he never showed. Why, then, do I feel so let down and disappointed?
Tuesday, 8th April
June has suggested that she gets one of her ladies round to do my hair for me. She thinks it will cheer me up. I suppose it’s a polite way of telling me I look a sight. Of course, she’s not wrong. I’ve let myself go recently — this past couple of years, if I’m honest. I just can’t seem to be bothered to make the effort anymore. So, I’ve told her yes. She’s going to arrange it and let me know. I think I caught sight of him this afternoon but he was on the other side of the road, which wrong-footed me, then a furniture lorry pulled up to make a delivery to the house opposite and cut off my view so I can’t be sure. I’ve been trying to remember if Archie’s telescope is still in the trunk in the back bedroom or if I turfed it out and took it to one of the charity shops along with his best blazer and bowling shoes. If I find it, I’ll have to be discreet. An elderly woman seen to be watching what the rest of the world is up to through a telescope might upset a few people hereabouts. Besides, I don’t want him thinking I’m some sort of nutcase or peeping tom.
Wednesday, 9th April
I had a good night, slept right through for the first time in weeks. The postman woke me — a small parcel from Agnes that turned out to be a book called “Older and Wiser — the rewards of Age” together with a note that tells me it’s absolutely essential reading because it could change my life. I sat and considered whether I wanted to change my life and came to the conclusion that, if I changed it at all, I’d do it my way and in my own sweet time. I scribbled a quick line in a thank you notelet, saying how thoughtful of her, then put the book with others, unread and now collecting dust, that she has at various times recommended in the same terms. I know she means well but I wish she’d give it up. He walked past, glanced in the window and I’m sure he saw me because he smiled before he looked away. I went quite fluttery inside. It was a shock to feel like that but it lifted me. I’m so glad the hairdresser is coming tomorrow.
Thursday, 10th April
My leg is much better, the swelling has gone and I can put some weight on it without too much discomfort. I’m expecting Carol to arrive about ten o’ clock. She used to work in one of the salons in town before she went freelance. June says she’s very good with perms. I think I’ll just settle for a cut and blow dry this time. I’m wondering about offering her tea or coffee. Pregnant women often don’t drink anything that contains caffeine. At least, that’s what I’ve read in some of the advice columns. Which leaves milk, water or some of my Lucozade. I needn’t have worried — she bought a large bottle of Scottish spring water with her, plus a bag of peaches, fruit being one of her current cravings. She was very chatty and I found out quite a lot more things about pregnancy that I didn’t know. Some that I would have preferred not to know but I guess it was my fault for asking questions. She’s a big girl in every way and reminds me of a character from a Beryl Cook painting. Fortunately, she’s given up smoking because of the sprog (her expression), who’ll be her third, not counting the miscarriage she had four years ago. Anyway, she cut my hair quite short, persuaded me to have a colour rinse to soften the grey, and used several handfuls of styling mousse. When she’d finished and handed me the mirror I was quite stunned by how different she’d made me look. As it was lunchtime by then, I offered her a sandwich but she said she couldn’t stop because she’d got an ante natal appointment. I took off the old jumper and slacks I’d been wearing — despite the tightly pinned towel, bits of hair had still worked their way down my neckline and I felt itchy. Besides, I wanted to dress up a bit and see the full effect. I pulled my heather two-piece from the wardrobe and held it against me, then tried a selection of dresses I haven’t worn in donkey’s years. I plumped for the two-piece in the end, powdered my face, found a lipstick that toned and topped off the new look with the pair of freshwater pearl earrings Archie bought me, after much hinting, for our pearl anniversary. So, there I am, all dressed up and nowhere to go. Except my seat by the front parlour window. I got myself settled well before his usual time.
He saw me, waved and tipped his hat — a dark felt fedora (I think that’s what they’re called) that gives him a slightly rakish air. I actually felt myself blushing as I waved back. Then, a bit embarrassed and anxious that he shouldn’t think I was flirting, which I suppose I was, I looked down at the book on my lap. This journal — which, when I read it back, seems to be about someone I never knew I was.
Friday, 11th April
June thinks my new hairstyle’s taken years off me. She doesn’t know the half of it but I haven’t said anything to her about him. It’s the first secret I’ve had that’s worth keeping. In fact, the only other secret I can remember having was when I kept quiet about my engagement to Archie until he’d plucked up enough courage to go to my father and state his intentions. I never did really understand my father’s objections — none of my family ever really warmed to Archie. Looking back, I’m not even sure I truly warmed to him that much. He wasn’t a man that invited closeness. Sometimes I think the only reason I married him was because he happened to ask me at a time when I was feeling unsettled and melancholy. Only a few months before, John, who I was convinced I was head-over-heels in love with after he’d asked me for a dance at the harvest supper, was killed falling from scaffolding. It devastated me and Archie had been a diversion. It sounds a bit selfish now but I was very young and the young tend to be that way. Several other girls in the typing pool at work were getting married that summer. We boasted about our bottom drawers and vied with each other over wedding dresses. Mother made mine to keep the costs down but, determined not to be outshone by my richer workmates, I swanked that it had been ordered from a posh catalogue. I persuaded her to take the label from her one evening frock and sew it into the gown, proof in case anyone should doubt me. I guess I was a bit of a snob, too.
I’ve been wondering how Archie would have coped if it had been me who’d died first and he’d been left on his own. Would he have done a stock take of his life and tried to find some fulfilment in his remaining years? Somehow, I doubt it. More likely, he would simply have parked himself in front of the telly, signed up for meals on wheels and ignored the rest of the world while he waited for The Grim Reaper. It probably never occurred to him to wonder how different his life might have been if I had said no to his proposal — if we each had spent those forty six years somewhere else, with someone else. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I feel a bit sad on both our counts and also slightly guilty that, by simply saying yes, I possibly cheated us both. For Archie, of course, it’s too late. But I still may have a chance if I’m brave enough to reach for it. So, I must go and comb my hair.
“Oh,” she smiled, half relieved yet mildly disappointed as she ran her finger along the maroon leather spine. “A diary! That’s nice — very useful. Thank you, dear.” It was, she had to admit, a very fine diary. The pages had that satisfying crispness and virginal quality that deserved their gold edging, each one headed with the date and month — a whole page for each day — their blankness just a little daunting when she considered that nowadays so few things happened in her life that seemed worth the trouble of recording. She could never fill all that space with anything truly memorable. To note down her routines — dusting, shopping, ironing, watching TV — for the sake of something to write about would only serve to underline the dull mundanity of most of what she did. So, when Agnes had gone, she put the diary in a drawer, tucking it out of sight under the pile of yellowing stationery she had no use for but couldn’t quite bring herself to throw away.
It was the end of March when she had her fall. Early spring sunlight slanting through the front parlour window had drawn her attention to several cobwebs strung between the picture rails and the light fitting. The high, Victorian ceiling’s carved cornices and elaborate central rose housed a small colony of spiders and an undisturbed layer of dust. All were out of reach of her feather duster unless she used the kitchen steps. She was careful how she placed them, tested them for steadiness before she mounted, slowly and deliberately, making sure each foot was in the middle of the tread. Afterwards, she wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, how the steps had suddenly tilted and, for a second, it seemed she had hung in the dust-swirling air before crashing to the floor and curling up in a tight ball, breathless with shock and pain.
She lay there and waited for the sharpness to dull to a throbbing ache, tried to move and gasped as pain ran her through again. Once more she waited, her cheek pressed uncomfortably against the carpet giving her a rare perspective on the room at floor level. She could see for several inches underneath the loose-covered damask of the sofa before it sagged too low, tired springs and worn out horsehair unequal to the strain. There were small shapes just visible in the dimness. One of them, closest to the edge, was possibly a button, the other silhouettes were harder to guess but she seemed to remember misplacing a pen top
recently but hadn’t she looked under there? She concentrated and recalled the incident. Yes, that was it — the top from Archie’s fountain pen, part of a writing set he’d been presented with on his retirement. She’d been using it to write her Christmas cards and the apparent loss of the cap had her searching the house. She’d been upset for days, thinking it would turn up and that she would discover it somewhere inappropriate — the bathroom cabinet or perhaps the cutlery drawer — where she’d put it down in a moment of absent-mindedness. But it hadn’t turned up, at least, not until now.
The feather duster had fallen nearby and she stretched to retrieve it, wincing and letting the breath hiss out over her teeth. She was poking the handle under the sofa when the telephone rang. Hidden from her view by the sofa’s blue bulk, it sat on the small writing table in front of the window, high up now and on another level well beyond her reach. She counted the rings — seventeen, before it jangled its last and went silent again. “Damn!” she muttered, sudden tears of frustration threatening to spill as awareness slowly dawned and it occurred to her that she might be spending the night on the floor. She tugged at the corners of the
cushions and pulled them down on her. Her limbs felt stiff and cold, her head ached and her throat was parched. She dozed a little and prayed for someone to come.
It was dark when she woke and a familiar voice was calling her name. Then she heard the snap of the letterbox followed by the front door opening, footsteps on the hall’s linoleum and, a moment later, the overhead light blinded her. There was a warm flurry of movement, a sweet feminine smell of soap or cologne as expert fingers found her pulse, brushed the hair from her face and felt her forehead.
“Dorothy, can you hear me?”
She screwed up her eyes against the glare, swallowed hard and forced out a croak of acknowledgement. “Yes,” she took a deep breath, winced and added “I fell off the steps...”
June nodded,“So I see. How long have you been on the floor?”
“Um, I’m not really sure, dear. Since sometime this morning. I think it must have been ten thirty or so, perhaps a little later. I was dusting, you see. Silly accident — I couldn’t have been paying proper attention and the steps tilted... Oh, my mouth and throat’s so dry,” she swallowed again with difficulty, “You couldn’t make us a cup of tea, dear, could you?”
“I’m going to call an ambulance — you need to see a doctor and be checked over properly. You might have done some real damage, I can’t tell and I don’t want to chance moving you. Sorry, tea’s out of the question but I’ll get you some water — a few sips won’t hurt. Now, you lie still and try not to worry.”
Dorothy knew it was no good arguing — she was left watching and feeling helpless, just as she had been on the night when Archie had had his heart attack and she, frightened and panicking, had phoned next door and June had run round
and tried to resuscitate him. He’d been on the floor by the fireplace, only a couple of feet from where she lay now, his eyes had been open and staring up at the ceiling, a faint look of puzzlement on his face. June had tried for ages, alternately giving mouth to mouth and then thumping, quite roughly Dorothy had thought, on his chest in the hope of reviving him. But he’d never stirred, his skin greying to a pallor that would never again flush following an energetic bit of gardening or a
Sunday afternoon tipple. She’d known he was dead even before the paramedic
confirmed it.
Her x-rays showed no broken bones or fractures. She had been so fortunate, so very, very lucky to have got off so lightly, the young Asian doctor told her, his accent emphasising his surprise that her elderly skeleton had proved so resilient. Just a badly bruised and swollen leg and a twisted shoulder. But she must rest, he wagged a warning finger, so they were keeping her in overnight for observation and would see how she was in the morning.
They took her home in a hospital car and, having slept well and no longer in pain, she enjoyed the drive. The sun was pleasantly warm through the glass and, it seemed to her, the brightness of the day was reflected in the movement
and colour in the streets so that she observed it more keenly, noticing the small details with a fresh eye, as though there had been a subtle shift in her perception. Probably just glad to still be in one piece, she thought, watching a man with a walking frame negotiate his way between two closely parked cars. For no reason she could think of, she recalled the diary Agnes had given her and anticipated what she would write in it.
Tuesday, 1st April — All Fools’ Day.
After yesterday’s episode, it seems appropriate to start my journal here. It was a silly accident and I should have been more careful. I suppose the doctors have to deal with a lot of foolish old people but I felt ridiculous — like a child being patched up after failing to heed its parent’s warning —such a nuisance to everybody. June popped round just before eight this morning, checked the bandage on my leg and adjusted the sling pinning my left arm to my chest. I am supposed to move my left shoulder as little as possible. Not that I want to, the slightest movement sends a sharp pain from neck to wrist. She made me tea and toast, bless her, and got me settled in my chair near the window, a pile of magazines, books and my radio beside me. I am to stay put until she calls back for elevenses. I know she has a busy morning — she has to check up on all her “ladies,” as she calls them, and one of them is due today. It’s a first baby and June says the expectant mother’s little more than a girl herself but she refuses to go into hospital to have it — she’s got a phobia of hospitals apparently. I wonder how different things would have been if I’d had a baby or two. We did talk about it when we were first married. While he never actually said he didn’t want children, Archie always seemed uncertain exactly how he felt on the subject. But he wasn’t a great one for showing his feelings so I didn’t press him. I let the question slide, sometimes wanting to raise the subject again and then thinking best not. Eventually, of course, it was no longer an option. It doesn’t stop me thinking about it, though. I imagine having a son — strong and clever and someone I’d be proud of; someone who would phone me regularly to see how I was and who would take me for a drive on a Sunday afternoon; invite me to his home for Christmas; give me grandchildren to fuss over. With Archie gone, I’ve had no one to fit my life around these past eight months. Agnes visits from time to time but she has her own life, besides, we were never that close. I know that I’m just drifting and I have to find a direction for myself. I need some sort of goal. Perhaps this is an opportunity to think everything through and face up to the fact that I’m sixty eight this year and I should make the most of what time I have left. All this writing is exhausting — or maybe it’s the effect of the painkillers — anyway, I think I’ll take a short nap. It’s now one o’ clock, I’ve just woken up and June still isn’t back. I’m guessing she has a delivery to attend to.
Wednesday, 2nd April
It was a boy, born a few minutes after midday and weighing in at six pounds nine ounces. June said it was a very quick delivery — all over in a couple of hours — and both mum and baby are fine. No complications or drama. June seems almost as happy as if it was her own baby. She showed me a snap of herself holding him — one of those digital photos taken only minutes after the birth. He’s going to be called Marlon and he’s the eighteenth baby June’s helped bring into the world since she completed her midwifery qualification. I envy her the joy she evidently has in her profession. It’s much brighter today and the last lot of Spring bulbs Archie planted in the front border are in flower again. They make quite a show and several people have stopped to admire them. Old Mrs. Grant waved when she saw me here by the window. She must be well past ninety because her daughter Bessie was in my class at school. It’s amazing that she still gets about. She has a cast iron constitution, apparently. I’ve heard her boast in the corner shop that she hasn’t had a cold since before the war — not even a sniffle. Never misses Chapel, either. Or the chance of a good gossip. Granny Grant, Archie used to call her and never encouraged her to stop and chat when he was digging or weeding out the front. But then Archie wasn’t the most sociable of men. I think he knew more about plants than he did about people. He was good with plants. The winter rosebushes budded well this year and the unusually mild spell after Christmas brought a second flush. There are still one or two blooms hanging on. I caught a man admiring them this afternoon. I didn’t recognise him and he only stopped for a moment. There was something striking about him and the way he
focused on the roses. Even from this distance, I could sense the intense pleasure he drew from
looking at them. He must be a gardener.
Thursday, 3rd April
My leg feels better but my shoulder is still giving me gyp. Odd expression, that — my father used to use it when his lumbago was playing up. The painkillers they gave me at the hospital don’t work for long and I’m only supposed to take them every fours hours. I get so stiff just sitting for hours on end. God knows how the permanently disabled cope. But I shouldn’t complain, I suppose, especially as June has been so good. I gave her a list and she’s gone shopping for me today. I never really enjoy grocery shopping and find the supermarkets too bright and too noisy but I’m missing the walk to the precinct and it’s only my third day indoors. I need to distract myself — I think there’s a play on Radio Four.
I missed the author’s name and only recognised one of the actors because he’d been in a TV soap but it really wasn’t bad, as modern plays go. Halfway through the second act I glanced out of the window and saw the man again. I had a clearer view of him than yesterday because this morning I’d asked June to push the curtains right back, unhook the grubby nets and put them in the laundry basket. It makes the room a lot lighter and gives me a better view of the street and any passers-by. So, there he was again, one hand resting on my wall, his head cocked slightly as he leaned over and examined one of the roses. He didn’t attempt to touch it, though. After a moment or two he straightened up and continued walking down the road. By then, I’d lost the thread of the play so I turned the radio off. It was, I found, more entertaining to speculate on who the man might be and what he finds so fascinating about my late husband’s roses. When June came in with the shopping, I mentioned him, trying to describe him in the hope she might know who he is. But I could see she was tired and probably wanted to get away. She shrugged, smiled and said she hadn’t a clue. She put the shopping away and let herself out. Later she brought round a small Pyrex dish full of chicken stew. She called it something different but it tasted like chicken stew. It was very good and I must remember to ask her for the recipe.
Friday, 4th April
June was late coming round this morning. Poor thing had been up half the night with one of her ladies who’d gone into labour six weeks early. The baby had been fine, if a little jaundiced, but the mum had had problems with the afterbirth. June gave me a blow by blow account. It all sounded rather awful and, to be honest, would have put me right off the idea had I still been young enough to consider motherhood. After all, there’s always adoption. I wrote an unusually long letter to Agnes. I’m not sure why I ended up writing quite so much but I kept it quite cheerful and reassuring. I took care to make it clear I’m on the mend and not on my deathbed. The last thing I want is for her to suddenly descend on me like a frustrated Florence Nightingale, full of good intentions but inclined to grate on the nerves. That’s being uncharitable, I know. I just don’t want to give her the opportunity to fuss and jolly me along like I’m some hopeless geriatric with no mind of my own. He came past about the usual time but barely paused. He looked, though. There was, June told me, quite a cold northeaster so perhaps he didn’t want to stop. The petals are starting to fall, too. They are definitely past their best and no more buds, as far as I can see.
Saturday, 5th April
A different set of people on the street today. I suppose routines change at weekends. Funny, I never noticed or even thought about it before. The nine-to-fivers absent and more young people and families. I wonder if he’ll come.
Monday, 7th April
I haven’t clapped eyes on him since Friday. He was looking a bit peaky, I thought. He was hunched into his overcoat — a very smart, expensive-looking overcoat — collar up and a thick tartan scarf around his neck. Perhaps he has a cold. I hope it’s nothing serious. If he has a wife, I hope she takes good care of him. Archie always needed such a lot of attention when he was unwell. Men generally do. I didn’t make a journal entry yesterday because I had visitors nearly all day. I tried to keep an eye out for him but it’s difficult when someone’s talking to you and you don’t want to appear rude by staring out the window. Anyway, June popped round as usual to check on me and stayed for a chat. Marlon and his mum continue to thrive, apparently, and her other ladies are doing well. Four more due in the next week, including twins. Then the vicar dropped in for a few minutes. Probably seeing for himself if I’m about to claim my half of the double plot in his graveyard. He’s quite a nice chap but a bit young for the seriousness of some of his duties. He always looks so solemn and somehow sucked dry of fun. But he was good enough to make us both a cup of tea. Obviously a New Man. I wonder if Mrs.Vicar knows how fortunate she is. I can’t remember Archie ever making me a cup of tea. Anyway, having assured him I’m on the mend and he wasn’t about to lose one of his congregation, he left me a leaflet about the church roof restoration fund. Maybe he hopes I’ll leave St. Luke’s something in my will. I’d just dozed off when the doorbell went again and Donald and Freda arrived. They were visiting in the area and, having gone in the shop and heard about my fall from Jack and Anne, thought they’d see how I was. It’s like the jungle drums round here — can’t keep anything quiet for long. Freda had brought this enormous bunch of lilies — a tad funereal, but I managed to thank her anyway. She insisted on getting a vase and arranging them for me. Then she put the vase in the middle of the windowsill and I could hardly see out at all. We chatted about the days when Donald and Archie played in the bowls team and that disastrous caravan holiday the four of us took in Devon. Freda wanted to look at the photos but I said I hadn’t seen them for years and they were probably lost. They’re in the bureau but I didn’t want to encourage her. Eventually they decided they’d tired me out — they weren’t wrong — and left. I went to bed early.
It’s a typical Monday morning — wet and windy, so I’m not hopeful. It might clear up by midday but it’s very grey. The last roses are looking sorry for themselves now, lots of petals blowing about on the ground. I’d go out and tidy up, if I could. I might even get the chance to speak to him then, if I timed it right. Just to pass the time of day and be friendly. He looks so pleasant — cultured but approachable. One of Nature’s gentlemen, my mother would have called him. I’ve been thinking about him a lot and trying to guess who he is and where he’s going as he passes by my gate. I used to play a similar game as a child. Fellow passengers on trains always intrigued me and I used to study them while I pretended to read my book or comic. I can still remember some of the fantastical life histories I invented to while away a tedious journey. Other people’s lives seemed so much more interesting than my own. They still do. As I expected, it stayed dull and drizzly and he never showed. Why, then, do I feel so let down and disappointed?
Tuesday, 8th April
June has suggested that she gets one of her ladies round to do my hair for me. She thinks it will cheer me up. I suppose it’s a polite way of telling me I look a sight. Of course, she’s not wrong. I’ve let myself go recently — this past couple of years, if I’m honest. I just can’t seem to be bothered to make the effort anymore. So, I’ve told her yes. She’s going to arrange it and let me know. I think I caught sight of him this afternoon but he was on the other side of the road, which wrong-footed me, then a furniture lorry pulled up to make a delivery to the house opposite and cut off my view so I can’t be sure. I’ve been trying to remember if Archie’s telescope is still in the trunk in the back bedroom or if I turfed it out and took it to one of the charity shops along with his best blazer and bowling shoes. If I find it, I’ll have to be discreet. An elderly woman seen to be watching what the rest of the world is up to through a telescope might upset a few people hereabouts. Besides, I don’t want him thinking I’m some sort of nutcase or peeping tom.
Wednesday, 9th April
I had a good night, slept right through for the first time in weeks. The postman woke me — a small parcel from Agnes that turned out to be a book called “Older and Wiser — the rewards of Age” together with a note that tells me it’s absolutely essential reading because it could change my life. I sat and considered whether I wanted to change my life and came to the conclusion that, if I changed it at all, I’d do it my way and in my own sweet time. I scribbled a quick line in a thank you notelet, saying how thoughtful of her, then put the book with others, unread and now collecting dust, that she has at various times recommended in the same terms. I know she means well but I wish she’d give it up. He walked past, glanced in the window and I’m sure he saw me because he smiled before he looked away. I went quite fluttery inside. It was a shock to feel like that but it lifted me. I’m so glad the hairdresser is coming tomorrow.
Thursday, 10th April
My leg is much better, the swelling has gone and I can put some weight on it without too much discomfort. I’m expecting Carol to arrive about ten o’ clock. She used to work in one of the salons in town before she went freelance. June says she’s very good with perms. I think I’ll just settle for a cut and blow dry this time. I’m wondering about offering her tea or coffee. Pregnant women often don’t drink anything that contains caffeine. At least, that’s what I’ve read in some of the advice columns. Which leaves milk, water or some of my Lucozade. I needn’t have worried — she bought a large bottle of Scottish spring water with her, plus a bag of peaches, fruit being one of her current cravings. She was very chatty and I found out quite a lot more things about pregnancy that I didn’t know. Some that I would have preferred not to know but I guess it was my fault for asking questions. She’s a big girl in every way and reminds me of a character from a Beryl Cook painting. Fortunately, she’s given up smoking because of the sprog (her expression), who’ll be her third, not counting the miscarriage she had four years ago. Anyway, she cut my hair quite short, persuaded me to have a colour rinse to soften the grey, and used several handfuls of styling mousse. When she’d finished and handed me the mirror I was quite stunned by how different she’d made me look. As it was lunchtime by then, I offered her a sandwich but she said she couldn’t stop because she’d got an ante natal appointment. I took off the old jumper and slacks I’d been wearing — despite the tightly pinned towel, bits of hair had still worked their way down my neckline and I felt itchy. Besides, I wanted to dress up a bit and see the full effect. I pulled my heather two-piece from the wardrobe and held it against me, then tried a selection of dresses I haven’t worn in donkey’s years. I plumped for the two-piece in the end, powdered my face, found a lipstick that toned and topped off the new look with the pair of freshwater pearl earrings Archie bought me, after much hinting, for our pearl anniversary. So, there I am, all dressed up and nowhere to go. Except my seat by the front parlour window. I got myself settled well before his usual time.
He saw me, waved and tipped his hat — a dark felt fedora (I think that’s what they’re called) that gives him a slightly rakish air. I actually felt myself blushing as I waved back. Then, a bit embarrassed and anxious that he shouldn’t think I was flirting, which I suppose I was, I looked down at the book on my lap. This journal — which, when I read it back, seems to be about someone I never knew I was.
Friday, 11th April
June thinks my new hairstyle’s taken years off me. She doesn’t know the half of it but I haven’t said anything to her about him. It’s the first secret I’ve had that’s worth keeping. In fact, the only other secret I can remember having was when I kept quiet about my engagement to Archie until he’d plucked up enough courage to go to my father and state his intentions. I never did really understand my father’s objections — none of my family ever really warmed to Archie. Looking back, I’m not even sure I truly warmed to him that much. He wasn’t a man that invited closeness. Sometimes I think the only reason I married him was because he happened to ask me at a time when I was feeling unsettled and melancholy. Only a few months before, John, who I was convinced I was head-over-heels in love with after he’d asked me for a dance at the harvest supper, was killed falling from scaffolding. It devastated me and Archie had been a diversion. It sounds a bit selfish now but I was very young and the young tend to be that way. Several other girls in the typing pool at work were getting married that summer. We boasted about our bottom drawers and vied with each other over wedding dresses. Mother made mine to keep the costs down but, determined not to be outshone by my richer workmates, I swanked that it had been ordered from a posh catalogue. I persuaded her to take the label from her one evening frock and sew it into the gown, proof in case anyone should doubt me. I guess I was a bit of a snob, too.
I’ve been wondering how Archie would have coped if it had been me who’d died first and he’d been left on his own. Would he have done a stock take of his life and tried to find some fulfilment in his remaining years? Somehow, I doubt it. More likely, he would simply have parked himself in front of the telly, signed up for meals on wheels and ignored the rest of the world while he waited for The Grim Reaper. It probably never occurred to him to wonder how different his life might have been if I had said no to his proposal — if we each had spent those forty six years somewhere else, with someone else. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I feel a bit sad on both our counts and also slightly guilty that, by simply saying yes, I possibly cheated us both. For Archie, of course, it’s too late. But I still may have a chance if I’m brave enough to reach for it. So, I must go and comb my hair.