The Coming of Age. October Part 3.

16th October. I have never served supper at 1 a.m. before. The reason for this delay and the somewhat lengthy procedure before it was that every few minutes I had to get up and go for a pee. In between he got up and went for a pee. Otherwise it was very satisfactory. Mozart arias in all the right places.

Spend the next day in a weepy daze. I never thought anything so delicious would happen to me.

17th October. Mavis is passing the gate just as I am going to Marks & Specer to buy new underwear which suddenly seems essential.

'My left leg is hurting.' she says. 'It could be sciatica.'

'Or lumbago', I say helpfully.

'No I've had lumbago. I know what that's like and this is quite different.'

'I know just the thing,' I say, 'I read it in a book the other day. You scourge yourself with nettls - it's supposed to take your mind off the pain. It's very popular among native Americans. There are plenty of nettles growing on the waste land by the footpath to B & Q', I add, helpful as always.

She gives me a very jaundiced look. 'I am on my way to the doctor', she says, 'I think I'll wait and see what he says.'

Ah, I think. That's it. It is just an excuse to go and see George Clooney lookalike, Dr Pude. I wish I could think of one but I am feeling quite wonderful at the moment.

First go to the chemist however. Worried about body hair. I haven’t bothered for several years and blades of old razor are covered with rust. I come out with Body Care Razor with retractable hanging hook.

In M & S I am in a dilemma. Should I choose peach coloured, as advised by Colette in one of her books? Her heroine Lea was all of thirty something but thought she could no longer appear to advantage in white underwear. I am over 60. Black or red seems a bit obvious. I wonder what Colette would advise for me.

Then of course, there are the shapes. Knickers are about to come full circle. Apparently in Tudor and Stuart times, such things were not known. Queen Victoria wore long bloomers, white cotton and decorated with lace and such. My grandmother wore knee length peach coloured rayon locknit; my mother wore either jaunty cami-knickers or slim-fitting woollen ones -‘Next to my skin I wear Vedonis’ - both of these came to about half way down her thigh. I wore navy knickers to school for many years – but then graduated to waist high, hip length white cotton interlock, which I still wore, except for a few excursions into black silky things, until a holiday in Brittany.

We had taken a villa outside Concarneau and Harriet and Russell came out to join us later. They didn’t know the number of the house, but apparently our rented villa was instantly recognisable ‘by Mum’s big arsed-knickers hanging on the washing line’.

There was another brief excursion, ha ha, this time into half height lacy things like Harriet wore, but it didn’t last long. They did not really suit a mature, rounded stomach. I was proud of them when they were hanging on the washing line though. It made me feel quite youthful. Then the knickers ended up in the back of my underwear drawer. It’s one of the great advantages of being alone nowadays. I don’t have to share an underwear drawer with piles of y-fronts and odd socks.

Anyway even my daughters have not taken to thongs. I examined several pairs carefully and they looked as if they would be very uncomfortable.

I end up with cream satin cami-knickers as more flattering and a sporty little vest thing which I have realised looks better not tucked into waist of knickers but left to hang flatteringly over the waistband. I am just coming back with incriminating green M & S bag, when I see Fran. Will she recognise it? Do I care?

18th October Cannot open my new ‘Razor with retractable hanging hook’. Eventually attack it with pair of scissors. Will it fight back?. Now I know how Mother feels. She cannot open anything and has to ring the emergency bell round her neck every time she wants to open a bottle of wine.
I peer at it and cannot understand how to fit it together. I can work the retractable hook though. It should be most useful. What can I hang on it I wonder.

19th October. I ask The Actuary to tea. He stays till midnight.

21st October. I go to The Actuary’s for lunch. I stay until 7.45 when I have to go to a meeting.

25th October. Then The Actuary suggests I spend the night at his house. We are too old for all this getting up and going home in the middle of the night he says.

This seems a lovely idea until I start contemplating the depth of intimacy entailed. What if…? What if…? There are any number of what ifs, all personal and possibly embarrassing. I demur. He reminds me that I am the person who invited a near stranger to come and ravish her. That wasn’t really me I say it was a dybbuk who had invaded my body. The real me is shy and modest. He laughs and gives me a hug. It would be lovely to be hugged all night and I remember that I have my new underwear, so I agree.

26th October. He decides we shall have an Indian takeaway which he fetches. I sit there and am waited on. This is rather nice. Then it is time to go to bed.

Right, he said, you go to the bathroom first.
When I have finished cleansing and toning, he is in the bedroom, hanging up his clothes and folding them neatly.

He goes to the bathroom to clean his teeth and I rip off all my clothes at once, dash to the bed and jump in pulling the bedclothes up to my chin. When he comes back, he is slightly shocked to see the heap of crumpled garments on the floor and my head on the pillow.

‘That was quick,’ he said.

Later, his big brass bed pounds rhythmically against the wall. Thank goodness this is a detached house. If it was mine, all the neighbours would be listening. I start to giggle. So does he.

‘I didn’t realise it did that.’

Some minutes after my stomach gives a long moan like a soul in torment.

‘Your stomach is noisy tonight,’ I say quickly.

‘That’s you.’

‘Not it’s not. I am sure it’s you.’

There is another gurgle.

‘That is definitely you.’

Why didn’t I take acidophilus tablets myself instead of just recommending them to Mavis? I shall get some tomorrow and definitely no more take-away curries complete with inflationary dhal.

Just as I am beginning to go Ummm, ummm, there is a piercing pain from the region of my hip. Aargh, I shout. The Actuary jumps like a demented kangaroo. I cannot move my leg in any direction without excruciating pain. My hip seems to be locked in this curious position. I am stuck.

He will have to call for an ambulance. They will have to take me away on a stretcher. I shall be the laughing stock of the town, or at least of the ambulance station. My children will find out what I have been up to and be shocked. This is a salutary thought. I try and think properly.

The Actuary is standing by the bed looking worried and muttering about poultices and aspirin. If it had been Martin he would have been furious, thinking I was deliberately attacking his manhood. He got in a rage once when I had violent abdominal pains as he was making love to me. I actually had acute appendicitis.

‘If you could just take my leg, I say and rotate it very gently towards the centre.’ The Actuary does this. ‘And then straighten it.’ This works, my hip joint unlocks and I am so relieved I burst into tears.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘You didn’t. I am so relieved not to have to be taken down your garden path on a stretcher in full view of all the neighbours in a very undignified position.’

The Actuary was not a whit fazed by the upsets of the night. This morning however he is shocked to the core when I say I do not usually sit down for breakfast at all, let alone with The Times, a pot of coffee and the juice of two freshly squeezed oranges.

Since I have been on my own I just walk around eating a bowl of muesli, opening the post, watering my plants and generally pottering in a slatternly way.

I tell him I am very happy to sit down with him and have breakfast his way, especially as he has prepared it all. I feel very lucky, but then return home and feel sad.