Getting The Picture Read online

  Anyway, I’ll tell you more later. I wanted you to know where I was, Mo. In case you were wondering. And no need to worry about how well I’m being looked after. We live like lords here. Every minute of the day there’s someone coming around to boss me about. Have you taken your pill? Have you done a BM today (excuse my language, angel, that’s what we call bowel movements here and they seem awfully fond of talking about them). Or else they remind us it’s supper in fifteen minutes, or music classes, or special talks. The other folks here say we get the infants from the local schools visiting us so often it’s a wonder there’s any time left over for them to learn how to read and write.

  The children are about the only thing I’m looking forward to, but they’ve only come once since I’ve been here. ‘He’s a photographer,’ the matron told them. I liked that, it must have been what the doctor told her. Better than a shop assistant, anyway. So when they asked me to take their pictures, I pretended. I’ve still got my cameras but I don’t put film in them anymore, Mo. I stopped all that a long time ago. But it feels good to lift the camera up sometimes, to feel its weight against my cheek and to be able to catch a certain glint in the eye. Trouble is I see you too often in the viewfinder. That look on your face I can’t get rid of.

  I’ll write later, but everything will be all right. Mo darling. Haven’t I always promised you that when you are with me, you didn’t have to worry about anything anymore? That’s my job.

  M

  3. letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis

  Dear Mrs. Lewis,

  Once again the soap is missing from the hand basin in my room. I have told you on numerous occasions that Florence Oliver is stealing it. This is an intolerable situation and I would be grateful if you could take action with immediate effect.

  Yours sincerely,

  George Griffiths

  4. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn

  Dear Lizzie,

  That was kind of you to send me the spare photographs of young Brian’s birthday party. I thought he had a real look of your Frank about him, especially when he was holding that dagger to the other little boy’s face. I’m glad you told me it was plastic because it looks dangerously close to the eyes. And I wonder how they could fit so many children on the trampoline! No wonder Laurie was frightened it might collapse. Good of her to make the birthday tea so healthy, although I don’t see what’s so wrong with a bit of cake. Still, if you think Brian really didn’t mind the carrots. I just think young mums these days make so much work for themselves. But hark at me. As you have so often told me, I don’t understand what it’s like to be a mother.

  Meanwhile, here in the land of the living dead, a new man has arrived, not that you’d know. What with the last one, and then this one, it’s as if we specialize in invisible men up there in that top room. Not like George Griffiths. His room is plum in the middle of everything, and you can hear him stomping around even when you don’t want to, but it’s like this new man floats. He’s always suddenly appearing in corners and giving us a shock. Beth Crosbie says he gives her the heebie-jeebies. Mind, you remember me telling you about her. She’s the one who is still married but her husband lives out. In a flat. Does for himself and everything, although of course she’s been too ill to help for a long time. He was practically looking after her himself for years. Strange thing for a man to do although he still fusses all the time about her. He’s the one who made them take up her carpet and put a pink one in. Everything gives her the h-j’s. It’s not just me who says she’s self-indulgent. Catherine Francis, the one who gets the bus into town every Friday to have tea at Hoopers, she says Beth should just pull herself together.

  But that’s the problem of having a man around to care for you. You give in. We know all about that, don’t we, pet? Just think how many adventures we’ve had by ourselves since our husbands, God bless them, passed on. Take that time at the bingo in Portsmouth when that woman accused you of cheating after you called the Full House, and we had to run along the pier to get away from her. How we laughed. Well, we did when we were safely back in the B&B enjoying our Ovaltine. I just think about us being able to run anywhere now and I’m amazed. Seems like a different life. Still, mustn’t get gloomy. It must be time for us to start planning my next trip to you soon. Do let me know when Laurie thinks it convenient to spare you.

  We had a very interesting speaker here the other night. The young man’s mother, Joan, runs the corner shop and when Brenda was getting some bits and bobs in there, Joan was boasting how he’d just won some big essay-writing competition at his university. So he came in to talk to us about Virginia Woolf. It gave us all such a lovely nap and then when we woke up, Brenda made us a nice cup of tea.

  Anyway, this comes, as always, with many best wishes to you and your family. I hope your cold is better. A nasty thing, a cold is. You don’t go out without drying your hair, do you? That often brings on a cold and yours do seem to linger.

  Yours aye,

  Florence

  P.S. Naughty of Brian though to steal your stockings for his bandit costume. Did Laurie really not tell him off?

  5. note from florence oliver to george griffiths

  I have not touched your precious soap. Nor would I want to. If you tell Matron any more lies about me, I will call the police.

  6. note from george griffiths to nell baker

  (left on reception desk at pilgrim house)

  Dear Nell,

  It is now 8.10 a.m. and I have been waiting for you at reception for the last ten minutes. When you finally arrive, you may find me in my room. You know the value I put on punctuality so I have to say I’m disappointed.

  Your father

  7. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths

  Dear Mo,

  Well, here I am, angel, a bit more settled in. I have the smallest room in the house but it suits me fine because I’m right up at the top, out of the way. If I stand in the middle of the room, I can touch two of the walls with both hands. And when I’m in my narrow monk’s bed, tucked away under the eaves, it’s possible to put my hand up and feel the ceiling. It’s a nook, a nest, a haven. It reminds me of my studio.

  I have a bed, a wardrobe, a chair, a little shelf and a washbasin. That’s all. That’s all I want. Nothing on the walls, nothing specially placed to ‘cheer the place up’. I’ve tucked my boxes of photographs away under my bed along with the box containing these letters. All safe. And no one comes into my room. I couldn’t bear to feel that someone might spy on me. It’s like the studio. Once I stopped the photography, only Mahad was allowed up the stairs and never through the door.

  I did a thorough search the first night before I went to sleep. I knew there’d be a sign of the room’s last occupant left somewhere. It took time because I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but then, just as I was about to give up, I found it. Tucked away at the back of one of the shelves in the little pine wardrobe, there was a toffee wrapper. All twisted and tied up in a knot. I picked it up by the very edge and put it in the bin. ‘Good-bye, Tom Pardoe,’ I said as I dropped it. He was a quiet man, apparently. Only here a couple of months before they moved him to the hospice, but it still felt like some kind of ceremony was needed to get rid of his presence.

  If this is going to be my last home, I want it uncluttered and clear. I want to be able to concentrate on what’s always mattered the most in my life. You and me.

  I have a window, though. I can see the little strips of gardens from left to right, all with red-bricked walls separating them. I haven’t seen the neighbours on the right, and from the look of their garden, they don’t use it much, but there are two young brothers on the left-hand side. I hide behind my curtains because they climb up on the wall when they think no one’s watching and throw stones at our rosebushes. What is it with small boys and the need to hit things?

  And the other day I saw one of them holding something up to his eyes that they kept passing from one to another. I couldn’t see what it was at first,
but then I realised they’d made some binoculars out of toilet rolls. They were watching Brenda Lewis hang out the washing. She shooed them away when she spotted them but as soon as she’d gone, they popped up again. They were laughing and trying to push each other off the wall, and then they threw something at Brenda’s washing. They kept dipping down and throwing again several times before I realised it was handfuls of mud they were chucking. I think they were trying to knock the washing off the line. After a bit, they went quiet and just sat straddling the wall, watching how the underwear swayed in the wind through those cardboard binoculars of theirs.

  I wonder what they thought was interesting enough to spy on. Perhaps they were thinking what a strange species we are to wear such giant underpants.

  They call us the Pilgrims around here, which feels apt. We’re all in some kind of limbo station on our journey towards death. Most like me are going about it as quietly as we can, and yet this still makes us something of interest. To those boys, it seems we are of great interest.

  I haven’t spoken to George yet. You might wonder how that could be when we’re in the same house, but we both keep to ourselves. I’ve seen one of your daughters though. Nell. And Robyn, the granddaughter. She’s a good-looking girl. A Goth, if you know what that is. I used to rather like them coming into the newsagents, like little butterflies of doom. It seems that Angie is in France. I’m biding my time. It’s not as if I don’t have any to spare.

  M

  8. note from george griffiths to brenda lewis

  Dear Mrs. Lewis,

  You may not be aware that yesterday afternoon when you were absent, Susan Reed’s daughter visited, along with the family dog.

  Not only did the dog bark several times, but I watched it relieve itself on the front lawn.

  I have looked up the regulations for Pilgrim House and it specifically says No Pets. I would be grateful if you could bring this to the attention of all residents.

  Yours sincerely,

  George Griffiths

  9. email from nell baker to angie griffiths

  Hey Angie,

  I am at my wit’s end with Dad and you’ve got to help me. Paris is not that far away and he’s your father too. You can’t keep this noninvolvement thing going forever. He’s got worse, if possible. He even talks about himself in the third person. He said to me yesterday: George Griffiths has never put up with shoddy behaviour from anyone, and he’s not about to begin now. I nearly said, Well, Nell Baker doesn’t either, but old habits and all that. All he wants to talk about is you and your great job. You have to tell him the truth, or I will. I’m tired of biting my lip when he’s so rude about Robyn. It’s not easy being a single parent, or any kind of parent at all. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?

  I will wait to hear when you can come over but make it soon. Please. You have responsibilities here, Angie. Whether you like it or not.

  Nell

  10. note from claude bichourie to angie griffiths (left on hotel bedside table)

  Chérie,

  You looked so beautiful this morning I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Here is a little something for you to buy something nice. I will call you when I can get away but until then, one hundred kisses everywhere. The hotel bill is paid, of course. I would like to think of you enjoying champagne in bed for breakfast. Indulge me.

  Claude

  11. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths

  Darling Mo,

  How did you put up with him for all those years?

  I still haven’t passed much more than a sentence with George, but I’m already sick of his moaning and bossing and groaning and I don’t know what-ing. For years after you’d gone, I’d sit alone upstairs in the studio and think of you at home. I always thought of you happy, angel, even though it would hurt. I imagined you sitting on his knee, him all tired from business-work and you sweet and warm. The two little girls running around, and everyone so cosy. It would make me sick. Physically sick. Not surprising that a drink or two was the only thing that would see me through. I’m not condoning what I did, especially when it crept up. But I looked for comfort where I could find it. And I managed to stop, didn’t I? Eventually, I quit drinking, thanks to Mahad, and I made some kind of life for myself.

  But the truth is, now I know him, I can’t see you with this man. I don’t like to upset you but I don’t think he is good to his daughter, your daughter, either. The other day she came to call.

  Early in the morning it was, she must have been up at the crack of dawn to be here, but apparently she was five minutes late. Five minutes, and he’d already left the reception in a sulk. Mrs. Oliver, she’s one of the residents here, she was in the sitting room with me and she said he’s often like that. Apparently, everything has to be perfect or he creates a scene. And then later, we watched the two of them, George and Nell, from the window. They were walking around the garden as if a black cloud were hanging over them. As if it were an effort for a father to spend time with his daughter.

  She looked so tired. It was hard to see you in her. But when I tried, I found a trace of your smile. It would be good to bring it out again, for your sake, Mo.

  You see I think of you daily. I think of you hourly. I have never got out of the habit and I have never wanted to. And now I will be able to tell you all about your family. How they are getting on. Even Angie in Paris. I hear he’s proud of her, at least. The other residents say she’s all he talks about. So I will find out when she’s coming to visit and don’t fret. I will make things better for you here, angel. I will look after your girls for you.

  M

  12. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn

  Dear Lizzie,

  I didn’t mean to imply anything rude about Laurie’s cooking. It’s just that when we were five, we might not have thought bits of cut-up carrots and cucumber was an exciting birthday tea. But I take your point about allergies. And also how the wrong food can get children excited. There is so much to think about nowadays that we didn’t have to bother with. Don’t let’s be cross with each other. You know I don’t like it.

  We could have used with your Laurie’s food yesterday when Susan Reed’s family came to visit. Although it’s nice to have some life about the place, the two grandsons are a bit wild. They made straight for Martin, the new man. They asked him if it was true he used to have photographs in magazines. He went a bit quiet, but then he said that was right. I had no idea. What if he was famous, or something, like the one who married Princess Margaret when she had that teeny waist? And now I come to look at him again, he does have a distinguished air about him.

  He wouldn’t show them the photographs he’d taken although he went off to his room and came back with his camera. He spent a long time with them showing how it all worked. He even let them take some pictures themselves, although he told me secretly that there was no film in it. It wasn’t one of those modern cameras like your Laurie’s. I can’t imagine you on a computer, Lizzie. You are so much with-it nowadays.

  They pretended to take a photograph of me. I put my hand up to my hair and said, ‘Do I look beautiful?’

  ‘No,’ the young one replied, all serious and polite. ‘You are too creased.’

  ‘Say good-bye now,’ Susan Reed’s daughter told them then. ‘Time to go to the park.’ I think she thought I’d be upset but I wasn’t, because you’ll never guess what happened afterward when it was only me, Martin, and George Griffiths left in the sitting room. George was going on about noise and how they’d creased his Daily Telegraph when they sat in it by accident, but Martin ignored him and leaned across to me. ‘I think you look beautiful,’ he said.

  I went all peculiar. Even George Griffiths shut up for a moment. Don’t you worry, I’m not going to get silly again like I did with that man who came around selling roses at the Blackpool B&B, but I can’t remember the last time anyone said I looked beautiful. Or even looked at me.

  Anyway, listen to me. There’s no fool like an old fool. When I
come to you, let’s plan our next trip away. I was wondering about Swanage. Helen Elliott said she once went there with her husband. They stayed in a hotel facing the beach and when they came back from a walk, the chambermaid was asleep in their bed. Apart from that, Helen said it was very restorative and you get chocolates put on your pillow every night. It would be worth going just for that. There are some good mini breaks advertised in our local paper so I will look out for some bargains. It’ll do me good to get away from here for a bit.

  Yours aye,

  Florence

  P.S. What a pity young Brian has caught your cold. I’ve always found a slurp of whisky in tomato soup is a great cure. I suppose Laurie will think Brian is too young for whisky although it would make him sleep, which might take a weight off her shoulders. And it’s full of healthy things. I remember my Graham telling the Colonel’s wife that once when she’d asked if he hadn’t had enough. He was furious with her, but of course he couldn’t show it. Not until we got home, anyway. Still nothing unnatural about nature’s goodness, so Laurie might not mind that. Wishing you all well.

  13. answer phone message from george griffiths to angie griffiths

  Dear Angela,

  This is your father, George Griffiths, here, talking to your answer phone from England. It’s four thirty-five on Tuesday afternoon, Angie. I was thinking it might be more convenient for you to give me your work number. I have called your home several times already and I cannot always get to the phone to receive your calls here. Sadly, I do not trust anyone to pass on the messages you have no doubt left.

  I am ringing about Nell. She misses you. I am concerned about her and also about young Robyn. She seems to be running wild to me, and for all her virtues, we can hardly say Nell is a disciplinarian. I try to help but I think Robyn needs a woman’s sense. It’s at times like this we miss your mother.