The Coming of Age October. Part 1.

2nd October. I am on my way out to go swimming in a fit of self-improvement as Fran, now to be called Gerda, draws up at the kerb. I haven’t seen her to talk to since she started her new job. She seems to have completely abandoned her droopy-crutch harem pants I am pleased to see.

Wonder of wonders, she asks me in for a drink. I really did mean to go swimming, but even herbal tea is preferable. I know I shall despise myself tomorrow for weakness.

She produces a bottle of white wine. Better and better.

‘How is the job? I’ve been wondering how you have been getting on.’

Fran, now Gerda, looks cross. Not soulful or understanding just cross.

‘I’ve just had this teenager in. Do you know, I found a furnished flat for her and her boyfriend, it wasn’t easy they’re like gold dust, and I took her round to show her and she complained that there were sheets and blankets on the bed and not a duvet.

Then she said she didn’t like the curtains; I suggested she could buy some fabric with her resettlement allowance and make some. She looked at me as if I was mad. So I said well you could always try the Charity Shops like Oxfam. They often have things like curtains very cheap. She started to swear at me. Did I think she was a slag?’

‘I don’t think you’re a slag.'I say. 'I often get stuff from charity shops.’

‘No, no, that’s what she said to me.’

She quickly empties her glass of wine. I empty mine and we both have a refill. After the third glass she says

‘They don’t want to be helped. I try to give them advice about how cheap pulses are and having regular exercise and they don’t want to know.’

It’s my turn to look sympathetic and make meaningless noises.

3rd October. I look after Alice and Letitia. Nanny has to visit a sick friend. Sarah and Roland have vital meetings. I have to take Alice to her ballet class. The sight of all these tiny girls in tutus, white tights and pink shoes like a flock of butterflies brings a lump to my throat. Sarah and Harriet went to classes like this, so did I and so did my mother and her sister.

The local plumber, who is quite a dish, arrives to put a shower in for me. We have long discussions about him, my girl friends and me. Val says he says to call him ‘Dave’. She cannot think of anything else for him to do in her house. Ha ha, I think to myself, but he is going to be at mine for a week. I rapidly think of extra things for him to do like putting in a new sink, or re-plumbing in the washing machine. He is in great demand from women who are always needing washers replaced or whose boilers start kettling. I think they do it deliberately. There aren’t many good looking plumbers like him who have a degree in philosophy and like to listen to Radio 4.

The phone rang at 11 am and it was the helpful man, The Actuary, from Jean’s party asking me if I would like to come out for coffee.

‘I had great difficulty in finding your telephone number’, he says.

I put the telephone down in a daze.

Gosh, I thought, a real date. As far as I knew he was heterosexual, not married, literate and well, gentlemanly (if a little short of words, but never mind, I could talk for two). I was so pleased with myself for having attracted the attention of an available, normal man in this town where they are rarer than ginkgoes that I inadvertently gave the plumber a large melting smile as I offered him a cup of tea. He looked a bit startled like a rabbit caught in car headlights, and shot back into the airing cupboard, banging his head on a pipe as he did so and mumbling ‘Yes, no sugar.’ from its depths.

Then I come to my senses. Obviously he wants to talk about Poppy. So I pull myself together and decide to be sensible. Perhaps I won’t have to say much. Besides I have looked up actuary in the dictionary - did I say he was an actuary? - and it sounds daunting, especially for someone who was so unnumerate she wasn’t even allowed to sit ‘O’ level maths. Actuaries have to make calculations concerning human longevity and present statistics about the likely chances of death and disease etc. I don’t think that would suit Poppy. Or me either.

9th October. I walk into the cafe where we have agreed to meet and he is there already, stands to greet me and ushers me to a chair. It was the sort of thing my father did, Martin never. I feel instantly womanly and appreciated although I know that he is not interested in me.

‘I’ll have a hot chocolate, with cream’ I say.

Well, what the hell, I might as well comfort myself in advance. But he starts to talk. Asks me all about myself. Tells me about himself. This is very different from my imaginings. We have both been left by our spouses, me three and a half years ago, him 14 years ago. We both have grown up children. We talk as we leave the wine bar, talk as we walk down the main street until our paths diverge and stop and talk some more. He never mentions Poppy.

I return to my plumber, a smile on my face. Luckily he has gone to have his lunch or he might have felt impelled to retreat further into the airing cupboard and find himself stuck between the hot tank and the back wall.

I feel so confident I decide to put up some simple bookshelves in my new meditation room. I can’t afford the Lovely Young Man again but it must be easy, Martin once did it. I measure the wall and make marks and lines on it, carefully using a spirit level. Then I drill holes to put the screws in. The drill doesn’t go in very far but I can’t make it go further. I screw in the uprights, add the shelf brackets and two shelves. Then arrange some books on the shelves and stand back to admire my work. I feel wonderfully macho and independent. Husbands. Who needs them?

The telephone rings. It is Sarah.

‘I am sixty three and have just put up my first set of shelves,’ I said. ‘I am feeling very proud and I’m going to have a gin on the strength of it.’ I do not tell her about my date.

‘Well done, Mum, she said, ‘but are you sure you should drink alone?’

‘You do.’

‘I’m married,’ she says.

‘Well, so was I’.

‘Herbal tea is very good’ she says. I couldn’t think of a reply to that. There probably isn’t one so I changed the subject.

I went back into the room to admire my shelves and added an extra book. There was a rending sound and all the books toppled forwards, landing on my left foot and bruising it. The shelves hung at odd angles and the uprights leaned towards me. It looked like an exhibit from Tate Modern. I wondered if I should photograph it but decided to put a cold compress on my foot instead.

Tomorrow I shall ask the plumber if he would mind redoing the drilling for me with his big drill.

Later that evening the phone rings. It is Harriet.

‘Are you all right Mum?’

‘Of course, why?’

‘Sarah says you’ve taken to solitary drinking.’

‘And why aren’t you in bed?’I say, attack being the best form of defence.

‘I’ve got to wait up for Jake’s feed, so I thought I’d just ring you. Haven’t spoken to you for a day or so.’

‘No, I’ve had the plumber. I was going to have a drink to celebrate putting up a shelf that’s all. But it’s just fallen off the wall, so I’m going to have the same drink to cheer myself up.’