No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club: Diary of a Sixtieth Year (23 page)

December 15th

The builders came to do my room. I have moved myself into the spare room—and what an education! I think there should be a “sleep in your spare room” day every year, so that hosts can find out how incredibly uncomfortable the beds are and how the floorboards creak when guests want to go to the loo at night. I discovered that the soap I’d put out in the bedroom basin was streaked with grime and stuck to the dish, there was no hook on the back of the door to hang up your dressing gown, and that the fashionable iron-barred bedhead was, while fabulous to look at, hideously uncomfortable. The bedside light worked only if I got out of bed and turned it on at the door, there was no bulb in it when I did manage to turn it on and, worst, all there was an old hot-water bottle, stone cold, lurking at the bottom of the bed, which must have been there for months. The blind has stuck so you can’t pull it down, and the radiator hasn’t been bled for years.

The builders are creepy. Anghel is very short and very fat with a big black moustache, and I don’t trust him; Sorin is huge, with tattoos, repulsive but weirdly attractive at the same time. Thank God I have no sexual feelings at all, or I would be fantasizing about him. He just has a sweet smile, showing hideously discolored teeth, and looks you intently in the eye—either the sign of a wonderful lover or a psychopath, in my experience.

He has said nothing except two words. While peeling off the wallpaper, a whole pile of plaster came off at the same time.

“Many dust,” he said.

Was most touched to find that after one wallpaper stripping there was revealed a row of stenciled elephants, which I had done for Jack when he was small and it was his room. I stood there almost in tears. What made the elephants even more touching was that for some reason I had stenciled them in dismal gray. Why I hadn’t stenciled them in bright yellow or blue, I don’t know. Took a photograph of them to show to Chrissie. Then felt incredibly silly. Why would she be remotely interested?

Although I normally couldn’t give a pin about health and safety, I’m slightly worried about the state of their ladder, which seems to be two sticks held together by the odd wobbly rung. All day they sing loud, wailing mountain songs. Otherwise, they don’t speak at all even though I ply them with coffee, orange juice and even bacon sandwiches. Am starting to feel irrational paranoia.

While working, I hear them talking Romanian next door and shrieking with laughter and banging and pounding. Can’t think what they are doing because they are only meant to be wallpapering. I suspect they are digging up the floorboards and hiding caches of arms. Or bodies of dead babies.

The day before they left, they told me, in sign language, that they had got rid of my carpet for me—something I hadn’t asked them to do, though I’d told them I was getting a new one. Why? They’ve left me with hideous dusty underfelt covered with tacks and knots. Had they spilt something on it? Sold it? Surely not—it was so grimy. Was it covered with blood from the man they’d buried under my floorboards? Had they kidnapped Pouncer and sold him for fur coats? They did an incredibly good job, but I was relieved when they went.

Dec 19th

Horrible moment! I was just sitting in my bath thinking how lovely it was the builders weren’t there anymore, ran my sponge under the hot tap and washed my face with it. And then—my face and hands were red and stung, and suddenly I couldn’t see. Tears were pouring down my face. After a few seconds I recognized the smell of Nitromors paint stripper, familiar from years of stripping pine cupboards in my youth and, with great presence of mind, I seized the shower head and sprayed water into my eyes, trying to keep them wide open. Eventually I could see again, but my face still stung and was red, and my hands were raw and tingling.

I was extremely shocked. Obviously the builders had been using my sponge to clean their brushes. Suddenly I thought—what would have happened if Gene had come round for a bath and I had used the sponge on his face? When he cried I would just have thought he was feeling miserable. He would have been blinded. I got so upset that I started to cry proper tears and my head rattled with the horror of the idea.

Dec 20

I made a date to see Hughie when James was out pruning someone’s wisteria or whatever he does all day. Hughie was working from home and opened the door in his dressing gown, even though it was eleven in the morning. I noticed he hadn’t shaved.

“Amazing,” he said, as he showed me in, “how when you haven’t got long to live, all decorum goes down the drain. Let me make you some coffee.”

“Do they know specifically how long you’ve got?”

“God knows,” he said, putting the kettle on. “Months rather than days. But how many? Who can tell? It’s a rum old business, I can tell you. Not that it matters a great deal to me. I’ve always been expecting to die one day, and here I am…on the threshold. Can’t think what those people are doing who are surprised when they’re told they’ve only a certain amount of time to live. Did they imagine they’d live forever?”

He handed me a cup of coffee and we sat down in the sitting room.

“Well, you seem to be taking it very calmly, I must say,” I said. “You’re setting us all a very good example. So far,” I added darkly.

“I’m not afraid of death at all,” he said. “And do you know, I feel perfectly all right at the moment. Apart from the cough, I just feel a bit tired. And anyway, you know in one way this cancer thing is rather a relief. It means that I’m never going to get Alzheimer’s, which is a real treat. And I’m never having to do that whole suicide bit when everything gets too much, which would be incredibly difficult with James around, wouldn’t it? I bet he’d never allow me to put a plastic bag over my head and take a hundred sleeping pills. He’d always be there, watching.”

“Or, worse, putting holes in all the plastic bags in the house, so you’d never manage to stop breathing,” I said. “I once bought a book that told you how to top yourself,” I went on. “It was called
A Guide to Self-Deliverance
and it was produced by a pro-euthanasia group, but it’s illegal to publish it now.
But I still have it!
” I added.

“I’ll bear it in mind in emergency,” said Hughie. “In the meantime I’m ‘being brave,’ as so many people idiotically describe it. I’m not being brave at all, of course, I’m just behaving like any sensible person would behave. OK: On the minus side, I’m dying very soon. On the plus side, however, I’m never going to get cataracts or have hip replacements. Someone stuffed a thing about deaf aids through the letterbox this morning and I chucked it away with a light laugh. I’m never going to lose my memory or my teeth. I will never have to master a Zimmer frame—the list is endless, Marie.”

“Couldn’t you get a lung transplant?” I said with a sudden pang of desperation.

“No, they don’t do it with cancer patients apparently. I met someone in the hospital who was on the waiting list for a pair, though. Nice man. He has to find a pair that fit, however. He said that because he was big, he was more likely to get some soon, since most of the people on the waiting list for lung transplant cases are cystic fibrosis patients who are usually very small. Odd, isn’t it—waiting for the right-sized pair of lungs, like a pair of shoes. Anyway, I’m rather glad I’m not in the running for a pair.” He sucked on a cigarette and looked into the distance. “The other huge advantage of cancer is that, unlike dropping dead in the street, it means that I can tidy everything up before I go. Make my will. Leave the office neat and sorted out, and organize someone to carry on. Cancer is rather a blessing—not a word I usually use, but it’s true.”

“But aren’t you sad that you won’t…um…” I suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Live longer? Are those the words you’re groping for? Why should I? I’ve got no children or grandchildren. I was going to retire soon, anyway. Then what? Learn Chinese? Join a book club? I can’t read fiction. Funny thing about getting old—you want to read only historical facts or biographies. Never could understand why. No, I’ve always found life a bit difficult, you know, my dear. Bit like wading through treacle. It’ll be no bad thing to give it all a break. And I’m lucky. If James were to die before me, I’d find life very hard. I wouldn’t have anyone to row with, or to cook my meals for me. No, I’m definitely the lucky one here. It was a bit of a shock when I was told, I have to admit. But that’s about all. I’m quite surprised how I feel about it all. Quite pleased. Everyone’s very kind, so I’m being made a great fuss of. Archie is being particularly kind. I must say, he is pure gold, that man. And, of course, suddenly I’m terribly rich. I’m cashing in all my pensions and with any luck I will be able to go out with a huge bang.

“And then,” he added, warming to his theme, “there are all the things I’ll never have to do ever again. I will never have to paint a ceiling again. I will never have to go to a godchild’s end-of-term concert and listen to her straining away at the oboe. Never have to be driven in some ghastly old banger of a taxi on hairpin bends in the hills of Nepal, too fearful to ask the driver to slow down. I will never have to wonder whether it wouldn’t be a good idea to see China before I die. Sod China! And South America! My dear, the relief! What liberation!”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. “Well, I’ll be very sorry,” I said honestly. “You know how I feel about you,” I added, rather clumsily. What did I feel about him? I felt like a daughter, a sister…half-fancied him…

“And you know how I feel about you,” said Hughie, laughing. “Now neither of us has any clue what the other is talking about. Let’s leave it like that or we’ll get mawkish. Everything is as it should be.”

Later

When I got back I was so struck by the idea of death as a jolly good idea that I got out my old euthanasia book. To bump yourself off, apparently, you need “two plastic bags, approximately three feet in diameter and eighteen inches in width…Kitchen bin-liners are an obvious possibility…” And then, describing other methods: “Drugs and car exhaust require a secure connection between the end of the exhaust pipe and a length of stout flexible hose, which should fit over the exhaust pipe—vacuum-cleaner hose appears to be suitable…” Worth knowing if the going gets tough. But in the meantime I think I’ll hang around.

Though I have to say that these days I’m always pleasantly surprised, whenever I wake up in the morning, to find that I haven’t passed away in the night.

Dec 21

Just read that when he was seventy Dr. Johnson decided to learn Italian. Surely not! I mean, it would have taken him about a million years even to get to Italy. He could barely get to Scotland, as far as I remember. I wonder if old people like learning languages for the same reason they like gardening. You can’t be made redundant from gardening, and the work never comes to an end, so there’s no moment when you feel past it. It’s to do with expanding yourself like a sponge, rather than forging ahead.

Though don’t speak to me about sponges.

Dec 22

Just remembered that Archie likes gardening. I got a card from him saying that I must come down for a weekend soon. But what does it mean, “soon”? I can’t bear it when people issue vague invitations like this. I actually would rather like to go down and see him, but can’t really invite myself.

Later

Said goodbye to Michelle, who’s going back to her parents for Christmas. As she staggered out of the house with her enormous purple suitcase, covering me with kisses and saying: “I love you!” I felt it hard to hold back the tears. She’s only going for a week, but she is so adorable.

Tears dried rather quickly when, hoping for a soothing cup of coffee, I discovered that yet again she’d used up all the milk.

Dec 23

Went round to babysit Gene for the last time before Christmas. He is just so lovely! He now can stand up with help, and is a total delight. Later, he sat in his high chair, reaching out for the spoon as I shoved his face full of mashed bananas.

I play and laugh more with Gene than I do with anyone. When I put my head back he puts his head back, too, and then he laughs. Extraordinary how amusing he is. Far more amusing than most people I sit next to at dinner when I go out. And there is no chance of his growing a beard anytime soon, which is another great plus.

He has the most adorable face, like a small guru, compassionate, humorous, forgiving. After he’d gone to sleep, I settled down to watch a worthy program on DNA on the telly, hoping to grasp the entire evolution of life in an hour, but had barely watched the opening titles before I suddenly thought I’d have a tiny nap and woke at eleven to find Denis Norden hosting another program of “humorous” television goofs at exactly the same time as Jack and Chrissie returned. I couldn’t persuade them that I hadn’t turned it on specially…

Dec 24

Was talking to Penny when I mentioned “virtuous reality.” “Don’t you mean ‘virtual’ reality?” she said. “You mustn’t let this no-sex thing of yours go to your head.”

Difficult not to, though. My newly decorated bedroom now seems completely huge. I have rehung the pictures, and got a lovely green carpet down, and there is absolutely no room in my new bed for any kind of man, not even a tiny one. In the morning I jump down and run across my vast football pitch of a bedroom, rather in the style of Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music.
There is room not only for me to do the Sun Salutation, but actually for a whole class of people to do it, too. I feel I am living in Versailles. Note the word “feel.” The room is actually only 10 feet by 14 feet.

Dec 25th

Odd that I’m not upset about being on my own at Christmas. Probably because I’ve had enough family Christmases to last me a lifetime. Anyway, I wasn’t on my own. I found myself at the lonely flotsam and jetsam table at Marion and Tim’s. As I had been dreading it all, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day morning, it turned out, as so often happens, to be glorious fun.

Much to my astonishment, Hughie and James were there, having vowed that they wanted only a quiet Christmas at home, and there were also two mad right-wing thinkers, rather a change from the usual lefties, one of whom suddenly said to the other in a very loud voice over the Christmas pudding: “Now, what are we going to do about Tony Blair?”

There were also several single middle-aged women all of whom looked absolutely
desperate
for sex, and drank far too much and shouted much too loudly, and were clearly all very unhappy about getting old, which made me feel incredibly smug.

Sat next to Hughie and pulled a cracker with him. Instead of the usual “What does an elephant pack to go on holiday?” question, we had gnomic phrases of the kind that Jonathan Cainer comes up with. Mine read: “This year you will discover the real you.”

Hughie asked if I had any idea who the “real me” was.

I said I hadn’t actually, and it had always worried me. He said he felt the same, which is why he asked the question. Eventually we decided that there are several “real me”s inside us.

“Many of whom are in direct opposition to each other, of course,” said Hughie. “You have the sensitive Marie inside you,” he said, “as well as the sentimental, the funny and the critical.”

“And the desperate, vile and loathsome,” I added.

“Yes, them, too, of course,” said Hughie. “I, on the other hand…but let’s not go into me. Let’s agree that we are, rather, collections of personalities, like football teams. Or perhaps more accurately, an assorted rabble.”

“So I am a kind of Marie rabble, talking to a Hughie rabble,” I said.

“If we separated all the ‘real me’s in this room, we would probably have as many people as there are in, say, Lithuania,” said Hughie, looking round. He laughed. “By the way—any good presents?”

“Let’s say Age Concern have done rather well this year,” I replied, thinking of the huge charity carrier bag I had already stuffed with unwanted gifts. “Unfortunately, however, I can’t give them the wretched goats from Lucy.”

“Goats?”

“Yes, she donated a couple of goats to some African village in my name, without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“But goats are frightfully destructive!” said Hughie. “They’ll probably eat all the villagers’ wretched crops! And anyway, you can’t give someone a gift to charity as a present. You can ask for someone else to give them to you…but not the other way round. How irritating.”

“And you? What did you get?”

Hughie laughed. “James gave me a book about Gaia,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder. I’ve lived with him for twenty-five years…does he actually know me at all, at all? But a bit late, I suppose, to ask that question.”

“How are you feeling?” I asked. “If that isn’t too crass a question.”

“Curiously well,” said Hughie. “A bit tired, and losing weight, of course, but unless I knew it from the test results, I really wouldn’t know I’d got cancer at all. That’s one of the oddest things. The doctors know I’m dying but, quite honestly, I don’t feel I’m dying one bit. And no, I’m not in denial,” he added. “They’re obviously right. But the intellectual knowledge doesn’t fit in with the physical knowledge. At the same time, I’m very glad I know where I stand. Or, rather, I know that I’m not going to be standing for very much longer.”

Dec 26th

Penny rang and told me that she’d had a lovely time, and pulled lots of Christmas candles.

Maciej tells me he has just split up with his girlfriend. He is, he says, “very gloamy.” Rather a good word.

Later

As I dropped my unwanted Christmas presents—an extremely expensive lemon-yellow cashmere jersey from Penny (lemon-yellow! Me!), a boxed set of scented candles from Marion, a photograph of woodland in a clip-frame from Philippa’s sister—outside the Age Concern shop, I picked up a free charity newspaper. Glanced inside and this is what I read: