Alex

I have to stop and phone. I do remember the name of the road, and what the house looks like and that it is on a corner but now that I’m here I don’t recognise it. This whole visit could be scuppered before it’s even begun.

The phone rings five times and then she picks up.

“Sorry, I say.  I’ve forgotten which number you live at.”

“Just a minute,” she says. “I’ll have to go and look.” She’s only gone a few seconds. “35. It’s number 35.”   

I arrive a few minutes later. Physically, she looks no different. But her eyes dart about a little and she seems constantly bewildered.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asks.

“Yes, that would be nice.” I’m gasping.  I’ve been in the car for two and a half hours. 

I never do get my cup of coffee but we manage to talk about old times as if they were yesterday.

“Do you remember when the Germans came over and we drove for miles on the right across the moors without realising?” she says.

“What about when we were in Stuttgart and we kept going for Zwiebelkuchen?”

“Oh, and Betsey in Filey street? She always used to leave her window open. My dad used to freak.”

Suddenly she stops talking and her smile vanishes. “Look,” she says, “he’s left me a list.”

We look at it together. She’s to go to the Post Office and return a letter that was not meant for them.  She’s to buys some stamps while she’s there. “Go for a walk around the animal park if the sun’s shining. Don’t attempt to put the alarm on. Marianne will be here at 3.00,” Daniel has written.  I wonder who Marianne is.

“Let’s buy something for lunch while we’re out,” I suggest. She nods. She makes sure she has her key and she locks the door.

They clearly know her in the Post Office. They treat her like a child who is running an errand for her parents. We go to the delicatessen and although I do all the buying I ask her opinion which she gives quite expertly. The sales assistants there as well are kind to her.

“Shall we go to the animal park?” she asks.  

“Yes that would be nice,” I reply.

We go to the park. It’s just a little grass, a few trees and a few petting animals, mainly goats, set between the two sides of a wide suburban boulevard.  I’ve been here before when she and Daniel first came to live in Holland and all of our children were quite small. It’s amazing how well she knows the way, considering what she doesn’t know any more. 

But I’m still longing for my caffeine fix. “Shall we go and get a coffee?” I suggest as we turn our back on the animals. “Perhaps we could go to that place we went to last time I came here?”

“There’s a new one open and it’s better,” she says, surprisingly lucid, and confidently leading the way.  But seconds later: “I usually have, you know, it begins with a ‘c’.”

“Coffee?” I suggest inanely.

She shakes her head.  “You know. It’s all frothy and it whizzes.”  She’s trying to remember the word “cappuccino”. 

We chat easily over our coffees. It’s hard to remember she’s ill. Then back at her house I help her unpack the cheese, cold meat and rolls we bought at the delicatessen. “I’ll get the lunch,” she says and sets the table for one.

“Have you got another knife and fork and table mat?” I ask.

She points to a drawer. She goes to the fridge, takes a note off the door, reads it, then opens the fridge and takes out three bottles of pills. “These are from the doctor,” she says, holding up one of them. “And these are vitamins”. She points to the other two. She reads the note. “I have to take two of the white ones and one each of the red and the green.”

She hands me the piece of paper and I help her to sort out the required pills. I notice that the one the doctor prescribed is for a drug not sanctioned in the UK and I’m thankful she lives in Holland. I get us both water.

Later that afternoon she tells me about some of the things she used to do at the school. “I organised a recipe book once,” she says. “An international one. That was when all the students and their parents liked me. But now that I’ve gone peculiar they keep out of the way.”  She laughs at herself.

My friend is still there, even though she’s partly hidden by the veil of her own bewilderment and forgetfulness. 

At three o’clock Marianne arrives. She’s a pleasant woman, a little older than Alex and myself. It’s time for me to go. We introduce ourselves as it seems beyond Alex.  She’s getting tired now.

“Thank you so much for being here,” said Marianne. “Daniel was so pleased you could come.”    

A few weeks after my visit Alex wanders out one night. Daniel goes everywhere she might have gone but has no luck. He has to get the police involved.  They find her safe and well but she has to be hospitalised until they can find her a place in a nursing home.

A few weeks after that, Daniel gets into the habit of visiting her daily and taking her for walks. “It’s a little disconcerting,” he says. “She insists on smiling at everybody and saying hello.”

Thank goodness, I think.  That's our Alex. 

Age Becomes Her

There’s not a thing you can do about it.  You will age.  So you may as well enjoy it. 

She approaches me as I make my way along the platform to take the 9.55 Virgin train to London Euston. She has an old-fashioned grey rinse and set. That, her tallness and her spectacles give her the look of an old-school librarian.

“I wonder whether you would be prepared to take part in a survey about your journey today?” she asks.

I hesitate. Will there be anything in it for me? I doubt it. Gone are the days of the free lip gloss or chocolate bar.

“If you leave your contact details we’ll put you in a prize draw for a £1000,” she says.

Oh, go on then.

“This age group?” she says pointing to the 45-55 column.

I shake my head and point to the next group up. She doesn’t believe me, I think.

Her eyebrows shoot up.  “It’s terrible getting old, isn’t it?” she says.

“No,” I say. “At least I’ve got my Senior Rail Pass.” 

“Even so,” she says. “I’d rather be younger, wouldn’t you?”

No, I think. “I don’t know,” I say.  “I think I’d rather travel more cheaply.”

She’s younger than me and she doesn’t believe I’m over 60, I think. Get over yourself, woman.    

Becoming 60 doesn’t actually bother me. There’s nothing you can do about it and there are a few perks. Like the Senior Rail Pass. And like feeling justified about being as demanding, critical and grumpy as you like. Not that I abuse that of course. But for goodness’ sake, I’ve been around a while. Show me some respect. And I’m not an old dear. I still have all my marbles, thank you very much. 

I’ve stopped feeling guilty about taking the last seat on the tram.    

Our Daily Bread Lifeless

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Pattie folded the first-size sleeps suits. All white or lemon; they’d decided not to find out the gender of the child. She couldn’t bear to give them away, actually. Maybe she should keep them. “There will be other opportunities, Mrs Morris,” the doctor had said. “You’re young yet.” They’d said she should give her body time to recuperate, then try again. She didn’t know whether she dared, though.   

She picked up the pile of clothes and put them back into the chest of drawers. She couldn’t bear this room now either, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do anything else with it.

“Should we change it back to a spare room?” Tom had suggested. 

She’d not wanted that either. That would be admitting they didn’t think it was possible.

The light caught the mobile as it twirled in the slight draft coming through the door.  It was a fine summer day and the landing window was open. If things had turned out differently she would have probably been pushing him or her out in the park today. 

It was nine months now since the miscarriage. It had been quite a late one. The doctor had explained it in a really funny way. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Morris. If it had been another couple of weeks the baby may have been viable.”

It hadn’t had a funeral. They’d not given it a name.  Nobody had offered this time to tell them its gender.  They’d just scooped up all the stuff that had come away from her body and she guessed it had all been incinerated.     

She was still off work. Clinical depression they’d said.  It’s not clinical, she thought. There’s a reason: my baby died.

“Wouldn’t it help to go back to the office?” Tom had said. But she’d not been able to face the looks of sympathy or worse still, the whispered conversations and the way they would, she was sure, avoid talking to her.

Her body didn’t seem to be recovering either. Her tummy muscles were still quite flabby. Her back ached. She was constantly tired.

It didn’t make sense. She’d seen some of the women whose babies had been due at the same time as hers. They had their bodies back and they seemed full of energy. Yet they were supposedly having sleepless nights and were breast-feeding their babies. They ought to be tired, not her.

Trying out 14 June 2014

His dad was waiting for him, just like he did every Saturday after training. Smart shoes.
Businessman’s overcoat. Cigarette in his hand. Much more elegant than the other dads.

“You did good, son. You showed them who’s boss.”

“It wasn’t a match, Dad. Only a training session.”

“Just as important. Don’t you forget it. Are you in the team?”

He shrugged. He hoped so. But there was never a guarantee. You had to earn your place.

“You did your best, though?”

He nodded.

His dad slung his arm around his shoulders. “That’s my lad.” 

Dad sighed. “But is your best good enough?”

“I try, Dad.”

Dad nodded. “Yeah. Remember even if you don’t make it to the team, you playing your hardest makes them do better.”

He kissed the photo. He’d done his bit. Now he must wait and see.     

140 X 140 Credit 23 May 2014

“You wouldn’t be alone,” said the man at the bank. “We accept a new customer every four minutes.”

Reginald had been sitting at the customer service desk for at least eight. So, that was two more new customers then. Was he supposed to be one of them? 

“Don’t forget a credit card gives you extra protection. We’re liable if a sale goes wrong.”

There was that. The blue and white card with the gold chip did look tempting. He’d be able to pay for the holiday upfront. Maybe he’d get the kids some new things.  A nice evening dress for Sophia too.    

Then he remembered when the bailiffs came and took everything. They’d had to sleep on the floor that night. 

“No thanks. Now that I’ve got my credit record straight.”

The bank man sighed. No target meeting today, then.