Getting The Picture (2 page)

He lifted the camera, put it to his eye and clicked. Then he reached across and with the lightest touch of his fingertips, he ran them across her cheekbone, backward and forward. A butterfly kiss.

‘Mo, is it?' he asked, and she nodded. For some reason, she wanted to cry. ‘You're a beautiful woman, Mo,' he said.

‘That's what you say to all the girls, Martin,' Pat called out from behind the curtain. ‘But we love you for it.' Maureen winced as she waited for the giggle.

Martin shook his head, and put one finger against Maureen's lips so she couldn't say anything. She raised her hand to his, as if to keep it there. She was right. His eyes were gray like the sea out of season, with flecks of light brown like sand. A shifting tide.

By the time Pat came out of the changing room, Maureen was standing at the door, ready to go. She clattered down the stairs, and waited for Pat outside in the street.

‘You're awful quiet,' Pat said as they walked to the bus stop together. ‘Cat got your tongue? At least old George has got nothing to worry about. You're a good girl. Not like me, eh?' She let out a hoot of laughter.

Maureen shook her head. Her hands were thrust deep in her raincoat pockets, the fingers of the right one were playing with a ball of paper, as if they could make out the telephone number Martin had scribbled out for her just before she'd left.

The worst thing about swings, she remembered, was how, when you were going really high, the ground below seemed to turn to water so it became frightening to step back onto firm ground. You wanted to stay swinging forever, suspended in midair.

1.
letter from dr. michael croft to brenda lewis,
house manager, pilgrim house

Dear Mrs. Lewis,

Please find enclosed the medical details for my patient, Martin Morris, who moved successfully into Pilgrim House with you on Monday.

Although there have been situations in the past that have been of concern, he has no current medical problems. You will notice, however, that he has a tendency to introspection. I am hopeful that the varied social program at Pilgrim House will encourage him to form social links, and that this will have a beneficial effect on his health. He is, as you pointed out in your assessment, young to be in an establishment like yours, but unfortunately a lifetime of personal neglect has taken its toll. He has never married, and has no immediate family. His landlord, Mahad Jefferies, has always kept an eye on him, but he will shortly be retiring to Birmingham to live with his daughter's family.

I should say Mr. Morris has been very concerned about whether, should he change his mind, he could leave Pilgrim House. I have assured him that it is a home he will be living in, not a prison. However, in any discussion with him about this it is important to remember that Mr. Jefferies has sold the shop and therefore Martin no longer has a room to move back to.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Croft

2.
letter from martin morris to mo griffiths

Dear Mo,

Do you remember that first time we met? It was in the old studio in Brunson Road. The look on your face was so fierce that I wanted to take you in my arms right then and there and tell you everything was going to be all right with the world. There was no need to fight anymore.

We've been through it all over the years, haven't we, angel? Had more than our fair share of heartbreak. And here I am writing to you at the start of a new adventure. You'll laugh because it's an old people's home. Me – finally living with other people. Old ones at that. I never thought I'd see the day. Well, I hoped I wouldn't.

It's just that I was listening to this music on the radio. A proper concert with black tie and everything. Of course, you couldn't see what they were wearing but the class shone through. You would have loved it. And it was coming from one of the new flats they've built opposite. They are a bunch of yuppies there, but this music was beautiful. I pulled my chair over to the open window to listen. It was like being a bird, floating up above everything and everyone. And then, daft old fool that I am, I started to cry, thinking how you and I had never danced. And probably you never danced without me either, stuck with that dry stick of a husband of yours. How much did we miss, love, by not being together?

So the next morning I went to my doctor and said, put me away. He's young enough to have been our grandchild, although I don't think any child of ours would be a doctor. More a painter, or a poet. Anyway, although he was relieved because he's been on about my so-called options for a bit, he was surprised when I told him I wanted to come to Pilgrim House, and that I wouldn't go anywhere else. Although he said not to get my hopes up, he rang then and there, and it so happened there was a place just come open. I had a feeling in my veins that it would be OK because there's a reason why I need to come here. One I don't think you'll like. You see, George is here. Your husband, George.

I just need to understand what he had that I didn't. Of course I know you had to look after the girls, Nell, and then later Angie, but it wasn't the same as being with me, was it? And I had no one. All those years with no one to talk to.

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.