When she returns she finishes off the punch, and then heaves herself upstairs with the aid of the banisters.
She is beginning to feel distinctly ill, and heads for her bed with the unconscious but unswerving instinct of a homing pigeon. She reminds herself to draw the curtains so that no one will be able to pry and spy, and then she undresses with difficulty, and throws her clothes on to the floor with all the perverse but justified devilment of one who has been brought up not to, and has never tried it before. She extinguishes the light and crawls into bed, but every time that she closes her eyes she begins to feel seasick. Her eyes glitter in the dark like those of a small girl, the years are briefly annulled, and she remembers how to feel frightened when an owl hoots outside.
At eleven thirty, fetid Jack Oak opens his front door to put the cat out and spots a biscuit tin by the door scraper. He picks it up, curious, and takes it back inside. ‘Look what some’un left,’ he says to his daughter, who is just as unkempt as he is, but smells more sweetly.
‘Well, open it,’ she says.
Jack prises off the lid with his thick yellow nails, and inside he finds six mince pies, and an envelope. Jack almost never gets Christmas cards. He feels a leap of excitement and pleasure in his belly, and hands the card to his daughter to read. It says: ‘To dear Mr Obadiah Oak and daughter, a very Happy Christmas and New Year, from Marjorie Griffiths.’
‘Well, bugger me,’ says Jack, and his daughter says, ‘Now there’s a turn-up for the books.’ Jack puts the card on the mantelpiece, crams a whole mince pie into his mouth, and delves among the clutter for a pencil and the box of yellowing cards that he bought from the village shop fifteen years ago.
ARCHIE AND THE WOMAN
‘MOTHER TO ARCHIE-MASTER, come in please. Over.’
‘I’m digging potatoes,’ I said to my mother, sighing as I held the walkie-talkie to my ear with my right hand, and gave up turning the heavy ochre clay. I thrust the spade into the ground. ‘What do you want now? Can’t it wait ’til lunchtime? Over.’
‘I wanted to talk to you urgently,’ she replied, ‘while I remembered. Over.’
‘Well, what is it? Over.’
There was a long pause, and then she said, ‘Bless me, I’ve forgotten what it was. Over.’
‘Tell me at lunchtime then, when you’ve remembered. What’s for lunch? Over.’
‘Steak and kidney pie with mashed neeps with a fried egg on top. It’ll be half an hour. I’ll be ringing you when it’s ready. Over and out.’
I looked at the walkie-talkie. ‘Bloody thing,’ I said to myself, and hooked it on to the trellis. It had been a curse ever since my mother gave it to me for Christmas, because it meant that she could get hold of me wherever I was. Nowadays she did not even see fit to come the fifty yards to the vegetable patch, and I could clearly see her through the kitchen window, putting the walkie-talkie down and wiping the steam from her spectacles. If I left the gadget in the house, then she would roundly accuse me of ingratitude, and of a lack of respect for her poor old legs. Sometimes I just switched it off, and pretended that the batteries had run out.
‘What was it then?’ I asked her, as I pierced the yolk of my egg and watched the thick yellow goo trickle down the sides of a pyramid of mashed turnip.
She put down her knife and fork, and looked into her notebook, a small black one, with ruled lines and a red spine. In it she kept remarks and reminders that were to be addressed specifically to me. I used to call it ‘Mother’s Book of Complaints’.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve decided that it’s about time you got married.’
I was aghast. I was so stricken by aghastness, or aghastitude, that my mind went quite blank, like a balloon that had suddenly popped on a briar. I paused with a forkful of mash in mid-delivery, and my mouth agape. ‘What on earth for?’ I demanded eventually. ‘I’m only forty-two.’
‘Even so,’ she said.
‘Oh, come off it. What would I want with being married?’
‘It’s not you I’m thinking of,’ she replied, ‘it’s me. I need some company about the place. You’re always out and about. When you’re not painting and decorating or gardening, you’re out playing golf. And I can’t imagine you looking after me in my old age, so you’ll have to get a wife.’
‘You’re only seventy-five,’ I said, ‘it’ll be donkey’s years before you’ll be going gaga.’
Naturally I didn’t take my mother seriously. When my dear father was dying in his bed, he had called me in to give me his final blessing, and, as I knelt beside him with the palm of his hand on the crown of my head, he had said, ‘Now, son, you’ve got to promise me something.’
‘Father, of course I will,’ I had said. He closed his eyes, as if to marshal his final strength, and he said, ‘Son, promise me faithfully that you’ll never take your mother seriously. I never have. And try not to get married.’
‘I swear it,’ I spluttered (for the tears were making speech difficult), and with that his breathing stopped. There was a horrible rattling from his throat, and my mother, who had been standing there all the while, said fondly, ‘The poor old sod.’
As the years have succeeded one another, I have increasingly appreciated my father’s wisdom. The fact is that Mother gets curious fancies that fly into her brain one day, and fly out of it the next, such as the time when she started to make cabbage wine because she had conceived the notion that it was good for the pancreas. Of course, it was undrinkable, and so she gave it away at Christmas time as presents for folk in the village that she didn’t think highly of. She sold some at the WI fete, and most people poured it straight on the compost after a single sip.
However, this idea that I should be getting married rankled in my mind like a bur in a woolly sock. It seemed a fine idea to have someone to share a bed with. I hadn’t had a decent pillow fight for twenty years. And apart from that, a man needs a female, other than his mother, to rub along with.
The problem was, of course, that I had to find some women to meet with, so that I would have an idea of what there was in the offing.
I ruled out an advertisement in the lonely hearts; I hated to tell lies, and an honest description of myself would have put off all but the desperate. I wasn’t so desperate that I would have taken someone else who was.
I thought about how one meets people in my village, and very soon realised that of course it was because of the dogs. Almost everyone had one, and most took their animals out every day, to stretch their legs and take a gander at what Mother Nature was doing to the common land or the Hurst. There was a regular ritual about all this, for if one met another dog, it was obligatory to pat it on the head, ruffle its ears, unclamp it from one’s leg, and discuss its virtues with the owner while the latter performed the same ritual with one’s own dog. First came the enquiry as to the dog’s breed, which was usually a matter of some doubt, then followed anecdotes intended to illustrate its irresistible appeal, its great intelligence and its extraordinary powers of intuition. Then came news of its health problems, and the fact that garlic pearls in its food had been working miracles. Naturally, one could while away many hours in doggy conversations in the process of taking a long walk, and one could come back at dusk and say, ‘I’m sorry I took so long, I got caught by Mrs John the Gardener, and she just wouldn’t stop going on about that bloody mutt of hers. I’ll dig the new potatoes and bring in the coal tomorrow,’ and my mother would tut, and say something like, ‘It was that woman’s dog that put Sir Edward’s Labrador bitch in the family way.’