Getting The Picture (10 page)

‘Yes,' he replied, slowly now, as if I wasn't quite getting the message. Which of course I wasn't. ‘A walk, with me.'

‘I suppose so,' I said. ‘But give me a bit of time to get ready first.'

‘I'll be downstairs in half an hour,' he said, and then he left without another word. Not even good-bye.

I've got five minutes left before I should go. I just want to finish this letter and then I need to think. The mountain has come to me and I have to play this one right. It's like when Frank Bradley came to the studio that day and told me to come in with him on the magazine operation or stop altogether. I didn't hold my nerve then, but I will now. Wish me luck.

M

72.
letter from nell baker to martin morris

Dear Mr. Morris,

Robyn has told me how much you helped her with her poem. We are very proud of her recent success, but I had no idea she has been pestering you for help. She has assured me that you have encouraged her visits but please let me know if she is being an inconvenience.

With best wishes, and thanks again,

Nell

73.
email from nell baker to angie griffiths

God forbid, poor Robyn should actually be allowed to have something good happen to her for the first time in years. I can't believe Dad's been saying she stole from him. As if she would. What on earth would he have that she might want? His athlete's foot cream? After your last email, I asked her straight out and it turns out she was visiting another resident at Pilgrim House who's been helping her with poetry. She'd wanted to thank him.

Anyway, it proves Brenda Lewis was right with her theory that nothing was ever taken from Dad in the first place. He must have been imagining things. Robyn doesn't even want him to know about her poem being published now, and I'm inclined to agree. We are pretty practiced at keeping family secrets, after all. She says he's made it clear he doesn't want to see her too. That's why she's been talking to Martin.

Strange about this Martin Morris, though. Do you think I should be worried he's taking such an interest? I've written to him just to let him know I know about him and Robyn. Best to have it out in the open.

I've just been up to her room and she's ripped Dad's schedule off the wall. Instead she's put up a photograph of a baby fox blinking out from its hole. I guess that's what she feels like and I don't really feel like sticking up for Dad this time. I took the bits of the schedule, though. I didn't want to see them just thrown away.

Where are you by the way? Are you ever at home? You can't be out having fun anymore at least. Not now you're pregnant!

74.
letter from martin morris to nell baker

Dear Nell,

It has been my pleasure to spend time with Robyn so please don't apologise. She must make you very proud. I have been interested in poetry for a long time, and it is especially heartening to find a young person nowadays who appreciates my old favourites and doesn't find them – and me – too boring. She mentioned that you often quoted from some of the poems we have been looking at. She even thought you might have told her my own particular favourite line, ‘Love lies beyond the tomb, the earth, which fades like dew! I love the fond, the faithful and the true'. If you ever had time to join me for a cup of tea and a talk about poetry, it would make me very happy, but I understand that family visits come first, and, of course, your father may not want to share the pleasure of your company.

Yours,

Martin

75.
letter from martin morris to mo griffiths

Dear Mo,

I've just written to Nell. It was so strange. I wanted to ask if she remembered coming to my studio when she was a little girl. She must have only been about three or four. Remember how you made me take all the pictures down from everywhere and put them in a cupboard. It took hours. You brushed her hair, and sat her on the stool but you wouldn't let me take her photograph. I loved to see you brush her hair, the comfort you gave her, the love. Many years later, I watched you both walking down the street. She was a teenager by then, too old to touch really, but I saw you just lift your hand and touch her hair at the back. I don't think she even noticed, or if you wanted her to. You held your fingers a few inches from her head and then, I'll never forget this, you put your hand up to your face and shut your eyes. You were inhaling your daughter.

It doesn't look as if anyone has brushed Nell's hair or loved her like that for years. But don't you fear, if I couldn't save you, I'll save her.

M

76.
email from nell baker to angie griffiths

Me again. Just to say how wrong can you be? I got a letter from that old man at Pilgrim House. You know, the one Robyn had been talking about poetry with, and he's only invited me to have tea with him.

His letter made me shiver because he quoted that line Mum always used to go on about, you know, the one about loving going on after you've died. Hah, I wish James had listened to that being-true-and-faithful bit. Anyway, this Martin made me cry, saying I should be proud of Robyn. I can't remember the last time anyone told me that. And to think I told Dad to make friends with him. What have I let this Martin in for?

I think I'm going to accept his invitation to tea. Just him and me, away from Pilgrim House. Dad doesn't need to know. You could be right about Robyn looking for a father figure but she knows she can see James whenever she wants. It's her decision, and neither of us have put any pressure on her either way.

And about the other thing, I'm glad you've decided to have the baby. You're not alone and you can always come here. Anytime. We can make arrangements when you're over. It's not too late for us to be a family, surely. Robyn would love it. In his defence, Dad asked her to go to tea the other day but I said she didn't have to if she didn't want to, so she said no. I told her I was proud of her. Perhaps I should start saying it a bit more often.

77.
letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn

Dear Lizzie,

Well, you can release your breath and uncross your fingers. George and I had our meeting and that's all it was. A business meeting. He'd even drawn up an agenda. Point number one was ‘Explain that investments can go up as well as down'. It felt like the time I had to go in and see the bank manager after Graham died and he asked me if I knew how a credit card worked. Admittedly Graham never liked me to shop, but who did the manager think had been balancing the books for years? Rather well too it seems, according to this manager. ‘Do you know how much money your husband has left you?' he asked, and I got a little satisfaction from seeing his face when I told him the exact amount down to the last penny.

Remember that investment club we started on the army base when the men were away on the German tour? We made a fair packet, and it taught me a lot.

Anyway, I was a good girl and played dumb with George. I couldn't quite manage the ‘you're so clever' line, but I sat still while he went through points two to ten, pretended I'd never heard of an ISA or compound interest. Trouble is, for no reason at all, I got this picture of George pleasing himself on a bed of pound notes, and that was it. I thought I was going to burst with giggles. Daft of me. He looked a bit cross and put away his file. Did I tell you about his file? He's got this black clipboard, with a pencil taped to a piece of string. He does make me think of Graham. He was always tying ballpoints to the phone, or to the calendar in the kitchen because he thought I would hide them to spite him. Well, I did, but it's in the same way I take things from George's room. Some men need to worry about the small things, otherwise who knows what they'll get it into their heads to start accusing you of.

So to cut a long story short, George has left me to have a think. He's written out some notes and I'm to come back to him. He's got it a bit wrong because I'd be leaving myself open on the futures front with the plan he's given me, so I'll have to come up with a way of not letting on about that, but at least we managed to spend some time together without me losing my temper at him too much and there's another meeting planned. Martin will be pleased about that.

The only time he seemed human was when he mentioned Robyn towards the end. Apparently she's refusing to come to tea with him, but I said I was sure I'd seen her around. He went a bit blustery then and said he had to go. Teenagers are always awkward.

And now I'm off to read the financial pages again. Slowly slowly catches tiger, or is it lamb. I can't remember.

Yours aye,

Flo

78.
letter from martin morris to mo griffiths

Dear Mo,

Silly old fool that I am, I was enjoying keeping you waiting until I told you what went on with George. But then I thought hang on a minute, who am I kidding? If I don't speak to you, then you're not exactly going to come chasing after me.

And now it's your husband knocking on my door.

I thought he was joking when he said we could go for a walk because it was raining brass monkeys out there, but it turned out he meant it. He was actually tapping his fingers on the reception desk by the time I got down, his coat all buttoned up and his scarf neatly wrapped around his neck. He gave my getup a bit of a look. I've taken to wearing tracksuits because elasticized waists are a godsend now my fingers aren't too clever, but I could tell he thought it was letting the side down.

We set off around the garden. I could see Brenda Lewis looking out at us from her window so I started talking lively-like because I thought that on the whole it might do me good if it came out I was friendly with George. The others would be relieved I was taking him off their backs. Keith Crosbie in particular is always threatening to deck him, although when Keith's with Beth and they're Bethandkeith, it's all smiles and let's keep everything lovely for Beth, so I don't think George realises.

‘So,' I started, but then I couldn't think of anything to say and I just nodded a few times. He looked at me a bit strangely though, so I had to go on. I've learned to talk about children and families with the other residents, but I didn't want to go there. Not with him. ‘I didn't always want to take photographs of women, you know,' I lied. I was going to say I wanted to be an accountant like him, or something that would make him feel easy, but then the words kept tumbling out. It was nerves, of course. There I was walking around the garden with your husband, and all I knew was that I shouldn't mention you.

‘I can understand that,' he said. ‘It must have been a strange profession.'

That got to me, but I managed to keep my temper. ‘No,' I repeated, ‘I wanted to be a dancer.'

Well, that was a shock. Even to me. I could see him trying not to laugh and I had some sympathy. A dancer, me? I was thinking of you, Mo, and how much I would have loved to dance with you. ‘Yes, a ballet dancer,' I pushed on. ‘You know when they spring up so they're frozen in midair for a moment, and then they land firmly back on two feet as if they're discovering their strength all over again. It's like a miracle. You wouldn't believe the muscle power involved. Every bit of your body joining in for that one moment. I'd have liked to have learned how to use my body properly.'

The funny thing was that the more I went on, the more I really did want to have been a dancer. George was shaking his head, though.

‘Have you ever really looked at dancers?' I asked. I was determined to make my point now. ‘Well, they even hold their heads, open their eyes, their mouths differently from the rest of us.'

He looked down at the ground and I could see he didn't want me to see he was smiling. I decided to press home the advantage by taking umbrage.

‘It's not funny,' I said.

‘No, I'm sorry.' But he got out his handkerchief and snorted into it so I could tell he wasn't convinced.

‘So what did you want to be?' I asked him.

He stared at me. Stopped laughing then. ‘An accountant,' he said.

‘What, when you were four?'

He nodded. I couldn't believe it. Imagine one of those little kids next door wanting to sort out figures rather than be a cowboy or the king or a chimney sweep. Did I ever tell you about the chimney sweep who used to come to my home? I used to follow him around placing my feet on the black footsteps he left behind. That was a bit like dancing, I suppose.

‘It was what my father did,' George said. ‘He always wanted me to take over his firm.'

Well, my father was a steelworker but I never wanted to follow him to the works. Anything but. I wasn't going to tell George that, though. He'd only have looked down his nose at me because I wasn't from a professional family. He was, after all, the only professional in Pilgrim House, as he must have told us several hundred times.

‘Right,' I said instead. I wanted to keep George on my side and I guessed the whole dancer thing wasn't exactly working in my favour. ‘I suppose it must have been quite exciting sometimes.'

But then he surprised me. ‘Not really,' he said. ‘A train driver. I wanted to be that once.'

I tried to look interested but not even his dreams were original. Remember you telling me you wanted to be the fairy at the top of the Christmas tree? And how you once spent all holiday crying because your father wouldn't put you up there. I would have made a tree big enough for you to stand on if you'd have spent even one Christmas with me. You know that. I felt like breaking down your window one Christmas when I saw you'd put up one of those artificial trees. I knew that wouldn't have been your choice.

Anyway, we're going to do the walk again tomorrow and he's going to explain exactly how double-column accounting works. The things I do for you, Mo.

M

79.
email from nell baker to angie griffiths