Talking Heads, page 5
When I went down again she’s still sat there with her hat and coat on. I said: ‘Do you want to knit him a tea cosy?’ She said, ‘I don’t think he’s the tea-cosy type. When I first knew him he had a motorbike and sidecar. Besides, I think it’s got beyond the tea-cosy stage.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ She said, ‘Graham. My one aim in life is for you to be happy. If I thought that by dying I would make you happy I would.’ I said, ‘Mother, your dying wouldn’t make me happy. In fact the reverse. It would make me unhappy. Anyway, Mother, you’re not going to die.’ She said, ‘No. I’m not going to die. I’m going to get married. And the honeymoon is in Tenerife. Have one of your tablets.’
She made a cup of tea. I said, ‘How can you go to Tenerife, you’re smothered at Scarborough?’ She said, ‘It’s a four-star hotel with tip-top air-conditioning, you get your breakfast from a long table.’ I said, ‘What about your bowels?’ She said, ‘What about my bowels?’ ‘Well, you said they were unpredictable at Morecambe. Get them to the Canary Islands and they’re going to be all over the place.’ She said, ‘Who’s talking about the Canary Islands? I’m going to Tenerife.’ ‘And what about post-Tenerife? Where are you going to live?’ She said, ‘Here. Frank says he’ll be away on and off on business but he wants to call this home.’ I said, ‘What about me?’ She went into the kitchen. ‘Well, we wondered whether you’d prefer to go back to the hostel. You were happy at the hostel. You rubbed shoulders with all sorts.’ I said, ‘Mam. This is my home.’ She said, ‘A man shouldn’t be living with his mother at your age, Frank says. Did you take a tablet?’
Now it’s four o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. There’s a car parked outside. I can’t see but I think there’s somebody in it, watching like they used to do before. I thought all that chapter was closed.
GO TO BLACK.
Come up on Graham sitting on an upright chair. Evening.
This morning I went to Community Caring down at the Health Centre. It caters for all sorts. Steve, who runs it, is dead against what he calls ‘the ghetto approach’. What he’s after is a nice mix of personality difficulties as being the most fruitful exercise in problem-solving and a more realistic model of society generally. There’s a constant flow of coffee, ‘oiling the wheels’ Steve calls it, and we’re all encouraged to ventilate our problems and generally let our hair down. I sometimes feel a bit out of it as I’ve never had any particular problems, so this time when Steve says ‘Now chaps and chappesses who’s going to set the ball rolling?’ I get in quick and tell them about Mother and Mr Turnbull. When I’d finished Steve said, ‘Thank you, Graham, for sharing your problem with us. Does anybody want to kick it around?’
First off the mark is Leonard, who wonders whether Graham has sufficiently appreciated that old people can fall in love and have meaningful relationships generally, the same as young people. I suppose this is understandable coming from Leonard because he’s sixty-five, only he doesn’t have meaningful relationships. He’s been had up for exposing himself in Sainsbury’s doorway. As Mother said, ‘Tesco, you could understand it.’
Then Janice chips in. ‘Had they been having sexual intercourse?’ I said I didn’t want to think about it. Steve said, ‘Why?’ I said I didn’t know. So he said, ‘Maybe what we should be talking about is why Graham is being so defensive about sexual intercourse.’ I said, ‘Steve. I am not being defensive about sexual intercourse. She is my mother.’ Jackie, who’s nine parts Lesbian, said, ‘Graham. She is also A Woman.’ I couldn’t believe this. I said, ‘Jackie. You’re an ex-battered wife. I thought you didn’t approve of marriage.’ She said, ‘Graham. I approve of caring marriage.’ I said, ‘Jackie. This is not caring marriage.’ She said, ‘Graham, what’s Tenerife? That’s caring. All I got was a black eye and a day trip to Fleetwood.’ Then they all have a go. Get Graham. Steve summed up. ‘The general feeling of the group is that Graham could be more open.’ I said, ‘How can I be more open? There’s somebody sat outside the house watching.’ I wanted to discuss that only Leonard leaped in and said he felt the need to talk through an episode behind British Home Stores. I stuck it a bit longer and then came home.
Mother’s sat there, all dolled up. Earrings on, chiffon scarf, lathered in make-up. She said, ‘Oh, I thought you were Mr Turnbull.’ I said, ‘No.’ She said, ‘I’ll just go to the lav.’ She goes three times in the next ten minutes. I said, ‘You’re not getting married today, are you?’ She said, ‘No. There’s a new Asda superstore opened at Bingley and we thought we’d give it the once over. Frank says they have a very good selection of sun tan lotions.’ I said, ‘Mother, there’s somebody watching the house.’ She said, ‘I want to pick out some tissues and Frank’s looking for a little chammy for his windscreen. He’s promised me something called a cheeseburger, there’s a café that’s part of the complex.’
Just then there’s a little toot on the horn and she runs to the lav again. I said, ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me, Mam.’ She said, ‘I’m not giving in to you, you’re a grown man. Is my underskirt showing?’ He toots again. She says, ‘Look at your magazines, make yourself a poached egg.’ I said, ‘Mam.’ She said, ‘There’s that bit of chicken in the fridge. You could iron those two vests. Take a tablet. Give us a kiss. Toodle pip.’
I thought I’d go sit in the back room where they couldn’t see me. I pulled the curtains and I’m sitting there in the dark and I think I hear a knock at the front door. I don’t move and there’s another knock. Louder. I do like Doctor Chaudhury says and tell myself it’s not happening, only it is. Somebody shouts through the letter-box. ‘I know you’re in there. Open this door.’ So I do. And there is someone. It’s a woman.
She said, ‘Are you the son?’ I said, ‘What?’ She said, ‘Are you the son? I’m the daughter.’ I said, ‘Have you been watching the house?’ She said, ‘On and off. Why?’ I said, ‘Nothing.’ She said, ‘I don’t know what there is to look so suited about.’ I said, ‘You’d better come in.’
GO TO BLACK.
Come up on Graham as he puts a magazine on top of the wardrobe. He sits down in the easy chair. Night.
It’s nine o’clock when I hear the car outside. I’m sitting watching TV. I say, ‘Oh hello. Did you have a nice time?’ She said, ‘Yes. Yes we did, thank you.’ ‘Did you get your sun tan lotion?’ She said, ‘What sun tan lotion?’ ‘You were going to get some sun tan lotion. Never mind. You’ve forgotten. How’s Mr Turnbull?’ ‘Frank? He’s all right.’ She took her things off. ‘I’m sure you could get to like him, Graham, if only you got to know him.’ I said, ‘Well, you should have brought him in.’ ‘Well, I will next time. It’d be nice if now and again we could go off as a threesome. What have you done?’ ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just sat here.’ ‘You’ve been all right?’ ‘Mmm.’
‘You see,’ she said, ‘there wasn’t anybody outside.’ ‘Oh yes there was.’ She said, ‘Oh Graham. Have you had a tablet? Have a tablet.’ ‘I don’t want a tablet. I’ll tell you who was sat outside. Mrs Pamela Musgrave.’ She said, ‘Who’s she?’ ‘Née Turnbull. The daughter of your hubby to be.’ She said, ‘He hasn’t got a daughter. He’s got a son down south. He hasn’t got a daughter,’ she said, ‘you’re making stuff up now, have a tablet.’ I said, ‘I’m not making it up. And there’s something else I’m not making up. Mrs Turnbull.’ She said, ‘There isn’t a Mrs Turnbull. She’s dead. I’m going to the lav.’ I said, ‘She’s not dead. She’s in a wheelchair with a broken heart. He’s been having you on.’
After a bit she comes out. ‘You’re just saying all this.’ ‘The number’s on the pad. Ring up. She’s disabled is his wife. Has been for ten years. Their daughter looks after them. You’re not the first. He’s always doing it. One woman, it was going to be Barbados. Somebody spotted you together at Bolton Abbey. A well-wisher. Tenerife!’
Later on I took her a cup of tea. She’d been crying. She said, ‘I bought this little bedjacket.’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, Mam.’ She said, ‘He was right enough. What can you expect at my age? How old am I?’ ‘Seventy-two.’ ‘That’s another thing. I remembered with him. I don’t remember with you.’ I said, ‘I’m sorry.’ She said, ‘You’re not sorry. How are you sorry? You didn’t like him.’ I said, ‘He wasn’t good enough for you.’ She said, ‘I’m the best judge of that. He was natty, more than can be said for you.’ And starts crying again. I said, ‘I understand, Mam.’ She said, ‘You don’t understand. How can you understand, you, you’re not normal?’ I said, ‘I’m going to bed.’
In a bit she comes shouting outside the door. ‘You think you’ve got it over me, Graham Whittaker. Well, you haven’t. I’ve got it over you.’ I said, ‘Go back to bed.’ She said, ‘I know the kind of magazines you read.’ I said, ‘Chess. You’ll catch cold.’ She said, ‘They never are chess. Chess with no clothes on. Chess in their birthday suits. That kind of chess. Chess men.’ I said, ‘Go to bed. And turn your blanket off.’
Pause.
Next day she’s right as rain. Forgotten it. Never mentions it anyway, except just as we’re coming out of the house she said, ‘I do love you, Graham.’ I said, ‘I love you too.’ She said, ‘Anyway he had a hearing aid.’ She said, ‘What’s on the agenda for today, then?’ I said, ‘I thought we might have a little ride to Ripon.’ She said, ‘Oh yes, Ripon. That’s nice. We could go to the cathedral. We like old buildings, don’t we, you and me?’
She put her arm through mine.
FADE OUT.
BED AMONG THE LENTILS
Susan . Maggie Smith
SUSAN IS A VICAR’S WIFE. SHE IS THIN AND NERVOUS AND PROBABLY SMOKES. SHE SITS ON AN UPRIGHT CHAIR IN THE KITCHEN. IT IS EVENING.
Geoffrey’s bad enough but I’m glad I wasn’t married to Jesus. The lesson this morning was the business in the Garden of Gethsemane when Jesus prays and the disciples keep falling asleep. He wakes them up and says, ‘Could you not watch with me one hour?’ It’s my mother.
I overslept this morning, flung on a cardigan and got there just as everybody was standing up. It was Holy Communion so the militants were out in force, the sub-zero temperature in the side-chapel doubtless adding to the attraction.
Geoffrey kicks off by apologising for his failure to defrost the church. (Subdued merriment.) Mr Medlicott has shingles, Geoffrey explains, and, as is well known, has consistently refused to initiate us lesser mortals into the mysteries of the boiler. (Helpless laughter.)
Mrs Belcher read the lesson. Mr Belcher took the plate round. ‘Big day for you,’ I said to them afterwards.
The sermon was about sex. I didn’t actually nod off, though I have heard it before. Marriage gives the OK to sex is the gist of it, but while it is far from being the be all and end all (you can say that again) sex is nevertheless the supreme joy of the married state and a symbol of the relationship between us and God. So, Geoffrey concludes, when we put our money in the plate it is a symbol of everything in our lives we are offering to God and that includes our sex. I could only find 10p.
Thinking about the sermon during the hymn I felt a pang of sympathy for the Deity, gifted with all this sex. No fun being made a present of the rare and desiccated conjunctions that take place between Geoffrey and me. Or the frightful collisions that presumably still occur between the Belchers. Not to mention whatever shamefaced fumblings go on between Miss Budd and Miss Bantock. ‘It’s all right if we offer it to God, Alice.’ ‘Well, if you say so, Pauline.’
Amazing scenes at the church door. Geoffrey had announced that after Easter the bishop would be paying us a visit so the fan club were running round in small circles, Miss Frobisher even going as far as to squeeze my elbow. Meanwhile, Geoffrey stands there the wind billowing out his surplice and ruffling his hair, what ‘Who’s Who in the Diocese of Ripon’ calls ‘his schoolboy good looks’. I helped put away the books while he did his ‘underneath this cassock I am but a man like anybody else’ act. ‘Such a live wire,’ said Mrs Belcher, ‘really putting the parish on the map.’ ‘That’s right,’ burbles Mrs Shrubsole, looking at me. ‘We must cherish him.’
We came back and I cherished him with some chicken wings in a tuna fish sauce. He said, ‘That went down well.’ I said, ‘The chicken wings?’ He said, ‘My sermon. I felt it hit the nail on the head.’ He put his hand over mine, hoping, I suppose, that having hit one nail he might hit another, but I said I had to go round with the parish magazine. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘I can attack my paperwork instead.’
Roads busy. Sunday afternoon. Families having a run out. Wheeling the pram, walking the dog. Living. Almighty God unto whom all hearts be open, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy holy spirit that we may perfectly love thee and worthily magnify thy glorious name and not spend our Sunday afternoons parked in a lay-by on the Ring Road wondering what happened to our life.
When I got back Geoffrey was just off to Evensong, was I going to come? When I said ‘No’ he said, ‘Really? Then I’d better pretend you have a headache.’
Why? One of the unsolved mysteries of life, or the unsolved mysteries of my life, is why the vicar’s wife is expected to go to church at all. A barrister’s wife doesn’t have to go to court, an actor’s wife isn’t at every performance, so why have I always got to be on parade? Not to mention the larger question of whether one believes in God in the first place. It’s assumed that being the vicar’s wife one does but the question has never actually come up, not with Geoffrey anyway. I can understand why, of course. To look at me, the hair, the flat chest, the wan smile, you’d think I was just cut out for God. And maybe I am. I’d just like to have been asked that’s all. Not that it matters of course. So long as you can run a tight jumble sale you can believe in what you like.
It could be that Geoffrey doesn’t believe in God either. I’ve always longed to ask him only God never seems to crop up. ‘Geoffrey,’ I’d say. ‘Yes, Susan?’ ‘Do you really believe in God? I mean, cards on tables, you don’t honestly, do you? God’s just a job like any other. You’ve got to bring home the bacon somehow.’ But no. Not a word. The subject’s never discussed.
After he’d gone I discovered we were out of sherry so I’ve just been round to the off-licence. The woman served me. Didn’t smile. I can’t think why. I spend enough.
GO TO BLACK.
Come up on Susan on the steps of the side-chapel, polishing a candlestick. Afternoon.
We were discussing the ordination of women. The bishop asked me what I thought. Should women take the services? So long as it doesn’t have to be me, I wanted to say, they can be taken by a trained gorilla. ‘Oh yes,’ Geoffrey chips in, ‘Susan’s all in favour. She’s keener than I am, aren’t you, darling?’ ‘More sprouts anybody?’ I said.
On the young side for a bishop, but he’s been a prominent sportsman at university so that would explain it. Boxing or rugby. Broken nose at some stage anyway. One of the ‘Christianity is common sense’ brigade. Hobby’s bricklaying apparently and refers to me throughout as ‘Mrs Vicar’. Wants beer with his lunch and Geoffrey says he’ll join him so this leaves me with the wine. Geoffrey’s all over him because the rumour is he’s shopping round for a new Archdeacon. Asks Geoff how outgoing I am. Actually says that. ‘How outgoing is Mrs Vicar?’ Mr Vicar jumps in with a quick rundown of my accomplishments and an outline of my punishing schedule. On a typical day, apparently, I kick off by changing the wheel on the Fiesta, then hasten to the bedside of a dying pensioner, after which, having done the altar flowers and dispensed warmth and appreciation to sundry parishioners en route, I top off a thrill-packed morning by taking round Meals on Wheels… somehow – ‘and this to me is the miracle,’ says Geoffrey – ‘somehow managing to rustle up a delicious lunch in the interim’, the miracle somewhat belied by the flabby lasagna we are currently embarked on. ‘The ladies,’ says the bishop. ‘Where would we be without them?’
Disaster strikes as I’m doling out the tinned peaches: the jug into which I’ve decanted the Carnation milk gets knocked over, possibly by me. Geoffrey, for whom turning the other cheek is part of the job, claims it caught his elbow and his lordship takes the same line, insisting he gets doused in Carnation milk practically every day of his life. Still, when I get a dishcloth and sponge off his gaiters I catch him giving me a funny look. It’s Mary Magdalene and the Nivea cream all over again. After lunch Geoffrey’s supposed to be taking him on a tour of the parish but while we’re having a cup of instant he claps his hand to his temple because he’s suddenly remembered he’s supposed to be in Keighley blessing a steam engine.
We’re stacking the dishwasher and I ask Geoffrey how he thinks it’s gone. Doesn’t know. ‘Fingers crossed,’ I say. ‘I think there are more constructive things we could do than that,’ he says crisply, and goes off to mend his inner tube. I sit by the Aga for a bit and as I doze off it comes to me that by ‘constructive things’ he perhaps means prayer.
When I wake up there’s a note from Geoffrey. ‘Gone to talk to the Ladies Bright Hour. Go to bed.’ I’m not sleepy and anyway we’re running low on sherry so I drive into Leeds. I’ve stopped going round the corner now as I owe them a bit on the side and she’s always so surly. There’s a little Indian shop behind the Infirmary I’ve found. It’s a newsagents basically but it sells drink and anything really, the way they do. Open last thing at night, Sundays included, my ideal. Ramesh he’s called. Mr Ramesh I call him, though Ramesh may be his Christian name. Only not Christian of course. I’ve been once or twice now, only this time he sits me in the back place on a sack of something and talks. Little statuette of a god on the wall. A god. Not The God. Not the definite article. One of several thousand apparently. ‘Safety in numbers,’ I said but he didn’t understand. Looks a bit more fun than Jesus anyway. Shows me pictures of other gods, getting up to all sorts. I said, ‘She looks a very busy lady. Is that yoga?’ He said, ‘Well, it helps.’ He’s quite athletic himself apparently, married, but his wife’s only about fourteen so they won’t let her in. He calls me Mrs Vicar too, only it’s different. He has lovely teeth.
