Sat in another dusty front room of memories and the feeling of foreboding is almost palpable. The old woman in the chair opposite has the sort of face a Botox salesman would have wet dreams over. More creases than idiot F’s self-ironed shirt and drooping jowls succumbing to the inexorable pull of gravity. I’m depressed even before she starts her well-signposted reasons for moving.
‘It’s the family you see love,’ she begins voice faltering, eyes milky with age and resignation. ‘They think I can’t cope in this big old house anymore.’ Translation: get the money and spend it as soon as possible before the old goat needs a self-funding care package.
I guess families have fought and manoeuvred over still breathing relatives to improve their position, for time in memoriam - just read Jane Austen if you can manage a book without former SAS operatives slotting bad guys each chapter – but it doesn’t make it any more palatable.
‘Think I’d be better off in one of those retirement flats you see,’ mumbles the old girl looking wistfully at the mantelpiece where assorted grandchildren are displayed in various stiffly posed school photos. ‘Only I’m not so sure I want to leave this place,’ continues the woman. ‘My kids all grew up here and the grandchildren love the garden.’ So would a developer, I think avariciously, glancing at the overgrown wilderness through the French doors. Reports might be mixed still but the speculators will start buying land again eventually - they always do.
‘Do they come often then?’ I ask stupidly, remembering too late to always frame and rehearse your question in advance, even when the recipient has cold-calling undertakers posting business cards through their letterbox.
‘Oh they are very busy people you see.’ Apologises the woman with a self-deprecating shrug. They’ll be free for the reading of the will doubtless, I think to myself, and make a mental note that if I survive my wife, to blow any equity I have left on a brace of sympathetic Amsterdam hookers en-route to the Swiss exit flat – no need for orange emergency pull-cords in that apartment.
As I wait for the woman to make a cup of tea, a good ploy to stay a little longer and work on a sole agency contract, I scan the mementoes around the room and feel the melancholy building. The owner is scuttling in the kitchen as a kettle rolls to the boil and I know without looking there’ll be china cups, a milk jug and biscuits. Sure enough she labours back in, carrying a flowery tray. Here it comes, I think, as she sinks back into the well-worn armchair with a groan then looks at me, before not disappointing.
‘Don’t get old will you young man?’
Now I’m far from young, but it clearly depends on your perspective and if you can feel the disturbed air as the grim reaper sharpens his scythe. Or in this case the hurried activity as the feuding family check your bank balance. Healthier than her as it happens - sorry, but the statement was on the open bureau.
‘It’s no fun at all.’ Continues the woman, eyes as watery as her cuppa.
The rich tea’s are stale, as expected, the cups tannin stained and the sides flecked with flaking dried product from innumerable drinks gone by and the next question is just as predictable.
‘What do you think of these sheltered home schemes then?’
Now here’s a dilemma. I hate them with a passion, the claustrophobic square footage, the busybody manager, the smell of cabbage and confusion in the stairwells and the forced bonhomie of the communal lounges with their high back chairs, dribbling whist drives, and blaring volume daytime television screen.
‘They’re not too bad at all,’ says a familiar voice whose principles disappeared much sooner than that ladies fashion store my wife used to like. And the hypocrite adds a failsafe disturbance sale ploy, by adding.
‘And of course security is so much better for someone living alone.’
‘I think the family were hoping I’d get a little more than that.’ Ponders the old lady when I hit her with a realistic asking price.
Self-defeating as it is, I’m rather hoping she decides to stay put.
‘It’s the family you see love,’ she begins voice faltering, eyes milky with age and resignation. ‘They think I can’t cope in this big old house anymore.’ Translation: get the money and spend it as soon as possible before the old goat needs a self-funding care package.
I guess families have fought and manoeuvred over still breathing relatives to improve their position, for time in memoriam - just read Jane Austen if you can manage a book without former SAS operatives slotting bad guys each chapter – but it doesn’t make it any more palatable.
‘Think I’d be better off in one of those retirement flats you see,’ mumbles the old girl looking wistfully at the mantelpiece where assorted grandchildren are displayed in various stiffly posed school photos. ‘Only I’m not so sure I want to leave this place,’ continues the woman. ‘My kids all grew up here and the grandchildren love the garden.’ So would a developer, I think avariciously, glancing at the overgrown wilderness through the French doors. Reports might be mixed still but the speculators will start buying land again eventually - they always do.
‘Do they come often then?’ I ask stupidly, remembering too late to always frame and rehearse your question in advance, even when the recipient has cold-calling undertakers posting business cards through their letterbox.
‘Oh they are very busy people you see.’ Apologises the woman with a self-deprecating shrug. They’ll be free for the reading of the will doubtless, I think to myself, and make a mental note that if I survive my wife, to blow any equity I have left on a brace of sympathetic Amsterdam hookers en-route to the Swiss exit flat – no need for orange emergency pull-cords in that apartment.
As I wait for the woman to make a cup of tea, a good ploy to stay a little longer and work on a sole agency contract, I scan the mementoes around the room and feel the melancholy building. The owner is scuttling in the kitchen as a kettle rolls to the boil and I know without looking there’ll be china cups, a milk jug and biscuits. Sure enough she labours back in, carrying a flowery tray. Here it comes, I think, as she sinks back into the well-worn armchair with a groan then looks at me, before not disappointing.
‘Don’t get old will you young man?’
Now I’m far from young, but it clearly depends on your perspective and if you can feel the disturbed air as the grim reaper sharpens his scythe. Or in this case the hurried activity as the feuding family check your bank balance. Healthier than her as it happens - sorry, but the statement was on the open bureau.
‘It’s no fun at all.’ Continues the woman, eyes as watery as her cuppa.
The rich tea’s are stale, as expected, the cups tannin stained and the sides flecked with flaking dried product from innumerable drinks gone by and the next question is just as predictable.
‘What do you think of these sheltered home schemes then?’
Now here’s a dilemma. I hate them with a passion, the claustrophobic square footage, the busybody manager, the smell of cabbage and confusion in the stairwells and the forced bonhomie of the communal lounges with their high back chairs, dribbling whist drives, and blaring volume daytime television screen.
‘They’re not too bad at all,’ says a familiar voice whose principles disappeared much sooner than that ladies fashion store my wife used to like. And the hypocrite adds a failsafe disturbance sale ploy, by adding.
‘And of course security is so much better for someone living alone.’
‘I think the family were hoping I’d get a little more than that.’ Ponders the old lady when I hit her with a realistic asking price.
Self-defeating as it is, I’m rather hoping she decides to stay put.
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6 comments:
Very good piece. Could be worked into a cracking short story. Write what you know, eh?
Jane Austen
Austin/Austen Oops I really should have finished the book but it was a bit slow without any shooting....still looking for that editor.
S.A.
The story reminded me of early Philip Roth. Have you read Goodbye, Columbus? It's very good. Check "Defender of the Faith"
Ian - Not read Goodbye Columbus but I'll check it out. Thanks for the comments.
S.A.
some real scope for novel writing here SA. Strong narrative.
Andy
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