Nobody likes old people – old people don’t like old people. Alan Bennett. (From the play Allelujah.)
The strange thing about getting old is that it happens when you least expect it and it is other people who point it out to you. Of course you realise that there are bits of you that ache and bits of you that don’t work as well as they did, but what really tells you that you are getting old is the look in other people’s eyes. They either give you help that you don’t need (which is fine- one day you will) or they look straight through you. You are just not quite fast enough any more…….. and you are not allowed to talk about it. In fact, worse still, you are expected to pretend it isn’t happening.
Margaret works all this out standing in front of the self service tills at her local supermarket. The assistant with the bright red hair is the worst. Usually she is easy to avoid, thanks to the hair, but sometimes she will turn up out of the blue, wearing her happy to help badge, and just stand there, staring, waiting for Margaret to become confused. Which Margaret invariably does, as soon as she knows that she is being watched. Margaret couldn’t exactly blame the woman– she had done nothing wrong– but it was still the woman’s fault. She watches her few bits of shopping being put into her bag for her with a strong sense of the inevitability of life. She even says thank you. Enough is enough. It is time to wander back home.
As she walks back to her little bungalow, checking off the familiar cracks in the pavement, passing the road sign that had been made crooked by a wayward car years ago and wishing that she had brought her trolley, she tries to remember when her world became so small. It had happened so slowly that it now felt like a surprise. She had become somebody who used to do things. Other people her age boasted all the time about how busy they were and her facebook feed (there so that she could see her grandchild) was full of memes joking about bad backs and creaking knees. Well it wasn’t funny. None of it was funny.
Damn. A blow dried woman in a smart red suit is walking towards her. Righteous Rachel. The one who knocks on the door collecting money during Christian Aid week. She had once tried to talk to Margaret about God. It had been embarrassing.
“Morning Margaret.”
Margaret smiles.
“Morning Rachel.”
You really didn’t need to dress yourself up like that for a trip down the road to the shops, but Rachel did. Always. Her hair never moved. It made Margaret feel shabby.
“Is it busy down there?”
“Not really.”
There is a short silence while Rachel tries to think of something else to say. Margaret wonders whether to walk on.
“Well…… I’d better get moving. Busy Busy. See you later”
She wouldn’t of course. Margaret could imagine the kind of being busy she was talking about. There were a group of them bustling in and out of St Peter’s church each time she went past. Flowers, soup, Weight Watchers, toddler groups. “Messy church” they called it on the poster– even though it was anything but. They were in a world of their own. All of them safe in their own little gated, sacred bubble of niceness.
She sets off again. A group of teenagers bustle by on the other side of the road. They are pushing each other, laughing, making noise just for the sake of it. So much life is spilling out of them that it makes her nervous.
“Good morning to you.”
Jack now. Jack is all right. Jack doesn’t know Margaret’s name, and he has never asked, but he knows her. Margaret knows his name because everybody does. His smile reaches his eyes and he never walks past without making her feel better. He had once told Margaret that her shoelace was undone because he was worried that she might fall over, or “have a fall” as she supposed she ought to call it now. Jack was a good thing. If he had worn a hat he would have raised it to her. She doesn’t mind Jack.
“Now Jack.”
“Have a nice day.”
He has what might be a Polish accent. That was probably one of the first English phrases he had learned, years ago, and he says it as if he means it.
Yes. Jack is definitely a good thing.
It is always a relief to turn the corner and reach the end of her road. Sometimes this is because she is tired but more often it is just knowing that there is a kettle and a biscuit waiting for her and nobody will be able to try to talk to her while she eats it. There is a little red Kia parked in her drive. She keeps her head up and walks just a bit faster. Lisa! Already! That kettle will have been boiled and Jamie will be waiting to show her his rabbit. Three weeks ago Lisa had insisted on having her own key. She said it was for safety but this was nonsense. Margaret had only allowed it to happen because she wanted to make sure that her daughter could always be there whenever she wanted- with Jamie! Jamie is three and a half years worth of pure joy. A little dynamo fuelled by bananas and milk shake. Her future.
“Gamma|”
He is wearing the dinosaur top that Margaret had bought him. It has ROAR written on it in big red letters and a snarling T Rex. They hold up their hands and roar at each other, showing their teeth. He is the only person who still asks her which is her favourite dinosaur. She sweeps him up into a big hug.
“Mummy got the kettle on?”
He nods and wriggles to be put down. They walk through into the little galley kitchen. Lisa has washed up. Margaret shakes her head.
“I was going to do that when I got in.”
“Well now you don’t have to. That tap is dripping.”
“Yes. I know.”
There was no hugging Lisa. When Lisa had been small that wasn’t something you did. Well not in rural East Yorkshire anyway. There were no princess dresses back then, no endless photos of “my world” on social media, no coy mentions of “this one” and if you had gone around the village boasting to your friends about your child you’d soon be told to shut up about them. Usually behind your back, granted, but still. Children fitted into your world, they didn’t take it over. They were loved and protected, not spoiled. That still didn’t seem entirely wrong to Margaret but what did she know………… Perhaps they both hugged Jamie so much to make up for what had been lost, a kind of love by proxy. Of course she had always loved Lisa. It just wasn’t something you needed to be told back then.
Lisa is looking serious.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
That is never good. Margaret braces herself.
“You left one of the cooker rings on.”
What Margaret wants to say is “So?” but she is damned if she is going to behave like a teenager in front of her daughter. She clings onto Jamie’s hand.
“Did I? Never mind. No harm done.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“There’s no need.”
“I’m just saying.”
“It’s easily done. There was no pan on it.”
This is true. She had put the pan she used to cook her porridge safely in the sink.
“I know…….”
A question hangs in the air. Next time it will be asked.
“You’ve enough to think about without worrying about me.”
Len had worried about her. For thirty five years of marriage it had driven Margaret to distraction but for a long time, after he was gone, she had missed it. Not so much now. You did forget. That was the worst part of grief.
She goes through into the sitting room and glances at the television. The morning presenters are smiling and laughing into the empty room- why do they need to act as if they are a couple? Jamie runs after her and scrambles up onto the settee. There is no need to tell her what he wants but he does anyway.
“Peppa Pig! Peppa Pig!”
She sends the two presenters off into outer darkness halfway through an item where a chef who thinks far too much of himself is showing them how to (pointlessly) update a custard tart and finds the right channel. Peppa is going shopping with her family. She is very excited about buying onions. All is well in Peppa Pig’s world. It always is. It must be nice being Peppa Pig. Jamie zones out, eyes wide, thumb in mouth, lost in the bright colours and strange shapes. He knows how many onions Peppa will put in the bag and he is waiting for naughty Daddy Pig to put a chocolate cake in the shopping trolley without Mummy Pig’s permission. He knows that this is not allowed (unless he is with Gamma) because he has tried it. His mother walks in carrying two mugs of tea.
“Not Peppa Pig again?”
“He likes it.”
“So did I the first few times.”
“Shall I get someone to come and have a look at that tap?”
For heavens sake leave me alone and stop trying to interfere. I changed your nappies.
“If you like.”
“OK.”
Lisa is pacified. The pig family have bought the cake.
She might not mention the cooker ring again now.
“I want you to go to the doctor and get checked out.”
Here we go.
“What for?”
There is silence.
I’m going to make her say it.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been forgetting things.”
She is never going to say it but she is thinking it.
“Have I? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Yes. You have.”
“It was just one cooker ring. Everybody forgets things. You forget things.”
Margaret picks up her coffee mug and holds onto its warmth for comfort. The trouble with children is that all you ever are to them is their mother, and however special that makes you that is never the whole story. Now she is being made into a burden by Lisa’s fear. Of course you might not be able to see the signs in yourself. Lisa might be right. Her own fear begins to rise. If Lisa is right she really doesn’t want to know.
It’s easy to forget awkward moments when there is a three year old in the room. The afternoon is spent keeping Jamie happy. This is easily done. Biscuits, action songs, picture books and a lot more Peppa Pig. By the time Lisa takes him home Margaret is exhausted and very glad that all she has to do is put a pizza in the oven.
Almost an hour later she wakes up on the settee to a smell of burning.
Patricia Rogers' Weblog 