Getting The Picture (15 page)

It must have been just after your fortieth birthday that you moved into the bigger house, on the other side of town. Were you trying to get away from me? I thought it was just a step up, but now I wonder. Pat must have known how the red dress would have reminded you of me. It must have been like I was there, at the party. You must have thought it was a sign when you opened the unexpected present from your husband. Of course, you'd have known by then that you'd never get rid of me.

M

110.
answer phone message from nell baker to angie griffiths

Angie! More flowers. Everyone stared when Mark, that security officer, brought them into the office. He said that someone must love me, and I blurted out it was my sister. Of course, he winked at me again. ‘Nice when families are close,' he said. And then for some reason I asked if he had any sisters. He was standing there in his security officer uniform clutching your huge bunch of flowers that I didn't take from him or ask him to put down or anything.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Three.'

‘Gosh,' I said. ‘Then you must know all about women.'

I could die.
Gosh, you must know all about women
.

This is all your fault. Nice flowers, though. And thanks for the good luck wishes. I feel pathetic to be so nervous about a talk in an old people's home. Mark asked why you were sending me flowers so I told him, and he offered to help me carry all the stuff I'm taking for the talk. Don't say anything. Nothing at all.

111.
letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn

Dear Lizzie,

I am sorry for my last letter. I don't quite see why Annabel's departure upset you so much, but I suppose we get used to such things in here because we are surviving. Annabel's room has been left with her things in, and for the moment that is enough for us to keep on hoping.

Life goes on anyway, whether we like it or not.

Last night, George's daughter, Nell, came to talk to us about trend forecasting. It was quite a palaver because she had brought lots of things with her. ‘Are you moving in?' Keith asked her. ‘We'll have to do an age check because I think you might be a bit too young.' She even had a policeman to help her carry them in. ‘Hello hello hello,' Keith said. ‘The strong arm of the law.' He's got a bit tiring since he started his translating project, to tell you the truth, because he seems to feel he has to be doubly noisy to make up for being busy. And he's here more and more. I keep looking to George to sort it out, but somehow he doesn't do as much complaining as he used to. It puts more pressure on the rest of us.

Anyway, eventually Nell was all set up. Although when she started talking, I thought we were going to have a catastrophe like the sweaty gasman all over again. She stumbled and stuttered and couldn't get any words out. She always has such an air of seeking approval about her, so I didn't dare look at her father. I'm extra-sensitive because of Graham, of course, but I could hear George harrumphing at the back, and Brenda kept doing her ‘very nice' bit in the way she does when things aren't going quite how she wants them to be.

Nell had a laptop with her but none of us could see what we were supposed to be seeing on it, so she kept tilting it this way and that in a manner that made us dizzy. And then Helen got worried that the flashing lights would bring about one of Lady F's headaches, so Nell had to give up on it.

She stood there, looking at us all and I thought she might burst into tears. Robyn stood up and started walking to the front. She's too protective of her mother, that one. The others say it's nice to see, but I always did what my mother said and look what happened to me. I could have had a desk job, had people call me ‘Miss' and kept clean. Sophi tells me I could have aimed even higher, but an office would have been lovely. Sophi wants to work in ‘the field', which makes us both chuckle.

Anyway, back to Nell. Before Robyn could reach her, Nell opened her mouth. ‘My mother was a marvellous cook,' she said. ‘If I shut my eyes and think of her now, I see her in the kitchen. She used to wear a red-and-white-dotted apron and my sister, Angie, and I would rush back from school every day to see what cake she had made us.

‘Date and walnut loaf, coffee cake, banana bread, Victoria sponges oozing with jam and lightly dusted with sugar. She'd pretend not to have time to wash up the bowls so we could lick them clean.'

Robyn sat down in the front row, next to BethandKeith. You could tell he'd stopped thinking of what jokes he could make and was sitting forward, his chin cupped in his hands. I was leaning forward too. We all were. It wasn't just that her voice was light and we had to strain to hear. None of us had baked or even eaten a homemade cake for years. I could feel my hands twitching as if they wanted to be stirring the bowl. Nell was quite different from the bread lady, or the sugar-petal woman who wouldn't let us touch. I wished Annabel could have been there. It would have soothed her nicely.

‘Shepherd's pie, meatballs, bangers and mash and gravy. Roast beef with horseradish sauce on Sundays. Rhubarb custard, apple and blackcurrant crumble. Yorkshire pudding.'

I looked at Nell's policeman. He had his eyes shut. Ay-oop, I thought, there's a man falling in love. ‘But my daughter here,' Nell pointed at Robyn who I guessed would be blushing if she wasn't wearing so much white makeup, ‘she doesn't know about any of these. I don't cook for her, the way my mother did for me. This is because of the way our lives are all changing.'

Get back to the food, I wanted to shout. I was surprised at the rage I felt with Nell for changing the subject. I was thinking of the meals my mother had prepared for me when I was still at home. You and I both tried our best in our little army kitchens but it was never the same. Remember how we would rush in and out of each other's kitchens exchanging eggs and sugar and family recipes, but I could still never get anything quite right for Graham. I don't think I ever told you how he once threw a plate of roast across the room because the gravy was lumpy. It dripped down the walls but he wouldn't let me clear it up. I had to watch it instead just so he could point out each lump to me. It was almost a relief to wake up the next morning and see it still there, to have to work extra hard to scrub it off before Graham came down. I needed to suffer in order to make a fresh start somehow.

So I wanted to hear about how it was done properly. I wished I knew what George was thinking. Would he be proud or would he be sad, missing this wife of his? No wonder he gets sore sometimes, being in here and putting up with the food we get.

Battenberg cake. That's what I remember Mum making for very special times. We called it window cake because it had those four little squares. Like looking through a window at what the rich children ate every day. When I was in service in Biddleborough, the kiddies there used to have cake at teatime. We would finish off what they'd left over for our supper. Our favourite one had walnuts on top. If we'd worked well that day, cook would let us have a walnut each although usually someone had picked them all off before it came back to us.

But I'm rambling now. It was a lovely talk Nell gave us. She even showed these little silver packets they took up into space with whole meals in them. She asked us whether we thought children in the future would be having pills instead of food. ‘Like us now,' a voice said, and we all turned around because it was Beth speaking. She never normally speaks when Keith's there. Or when he's not. He was beaming, turning his head from side to side as if to tell us all it was his wife making a joke this time. I wasn't the only one who laughed extra loudly. Having a noisier Beth filled up the vacant space left by Annabel.

It was only then that I noticed Martin had gone. I guess all the talk of domestic bliss wasn't really his cup of tea, but the rest of us clapped and clapped when Nell finished. ‘That was very nice,' Brenda kept saying, but this time I think she meant it. And Robyn hugged her mum while the policeman put everything back in the boxes, and when Brenda said, ‘Shall we have a cup of tea?' Beth made another joke. ‘Will we have cake with it?' she said, and everyone laughed again. Even George.

But here's a funny thing. Robyn came and sat next to me while we had our cuppa. You get used to her face and grumpy manner, just as you must have got used to Troy's skirts by now, pet. Anyway, we were sitting there, nice and quietly, when she said to me, ‘I'm going to get a tattoo. Did it hurt when you got yours done?'

I stared at her. ‘Tattoo?' I asked, and she nodded. ‘I haven't got one, love,' I said. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?' She wouldn't say and although we had a giggle about it, I could see her looking puzzled. I told her to talk to Steve about tattoos. Have I told you he's got LOVE written on one hand and HATE on the other? ‘Which will it be today?' we tease him now. ‘Is Sophi getting all your love and are we left with hate?' Even Lady F joins in. After all, we're old enough to get used to most things after a while.

‘But Susan Reed was in the circus, wasn't she?' Robyn asked. Oh, I had to bring out my hankie again then because I was laughing so much, and Brenda called over to find out what was so funny. I was going to tell but I caught Robyn's hurt expression and just shook my head at Brenda. ‘No, love,' I whispered to Robyn. ‘Susan Reed was a dental assistant before she got married.' I looked across at where Susan was stirring her tea and blowing into it the way she does like a frustrated walrus, and I had to bite my tongue from going off again. Imagine her on a tightrope. And so today was a good day here. Before I went upstairs to my room, I said to George, ‘You must be proud of your girl,' and he said he was, without even mentioning the other one and how much better she did everything. I think we all went to bed dreaming of cakes. We shall have tea and cakes in Bournemouth, darling. You and me. Just sweet things. Sugar and spice.

Yours aye,

Flo

112.
note from robyn baker to nell baker (left on kitchen table)

Dear Mum,

You were supercool last night. I would rather have a mother like you than any homemade cake. You are spicier than a ginger slice, softer than a Victoria sponge, and nuttier than a fruitcake.

Only joking about the last one, but not about the rest. You make me very proud. I hope when I am older, I can be like you.

Love ya,

R

P.S. I like your new boyfriend!!!!

113.
note from martin morris to florence oliver (slipped under florence's door)

If you would really like some photographs taken, come to my room at 2 p.m. on Wednesday. As you have said yourself, we will tell no one about this.

Martin

114.
letter from martin morris to mo griffiths

Dear Mo,

I can't remember the last photograph I took. Or the very last one, at least. But it should have been special. A fanfare. It should have been the shot that made me put down my camera and say I have captured Woman here. I have done enough. What it shouldn't be is just a blur.

Did I even have film in the camera? There were times when I didn't bother to develop the shots. People stopped asking me; even Sam gave up on me. Mind, it was all changing so quickly then and the big boys were moving in. He had to protect his position before Frank Bradley had everything sewn up. Amateurs like me just got in the way. It was some months after you left, I remember, when every day crept into the next one, each one making the studio seem dingier and dingier. And me too, I shouldn't wonder.

The girls didn't forget me, though. After Mahad brought me home from the hospital, one of them would pop around. I'd never know when, and I never knew who it would be, but I'd still be conscious enough to register their little moment of hesitation before they stepped over the threshold and started bustling. Why do women always bustle when they're not sure what to do? And then they start telling you what to do. ‘Martin, you should really...'

It's supposed to be for your own sake. But it never is. It's to stop you making them feel uncomfortable. They need you to prove they've not failed in the caring stakes. ‘Martin, you should really take my photograph.' So I would. They'd slip off their clothes behind the curtain just like they used to. ‘How do you want me?' they'd ask. And we'd do all the poses they'd done before. The look over their shoulder, or the one where they were surprised when doing housework. Even in my half-dazed state I could tell they were humouring me.

So I gave it up as much for their sake as mine. I put down my camera, along with my dreams, and I just lay on my bed. I didn't answer the door for two whole weeks. Mahad would leave a newspaper, pint of milk, and a loaf of bread on my doorstep every morning. I'd take them back to my mattress on the floor, and soon I'd be swimming in a nest of newsprint and crumbs. One day I even woke up to find I'd become a photograph. A front page shot of some politician picking up rubbish had imprinted itself on my naked belly. I couldn't even be bothered to rub it off. Funnily enough, it was Mahad who got me moving again. My old enemy. ‘Hey you, fat ass.' He knocked on my door one day and started shouting. ‘I need someone to take care of the till for just five minutes.'

I never knew whether he did it in the spirit of friendship or as some kind of great victory over the white man upstairs, but I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't a bit of both. Probably one of the girls had gone in and told him they were worried. He'd have ignored the girl, he always did, but he'd have taken the message onboard in that inscrutable way of his.

And then one short session behind the till led to another, and another, and soon it was taken for granted that I'd be on early to sort out the papers for the paper-boys and -girls. I handed the news out to commuters too bleary-eyed to notice my own lack of focus, until by lunchtime I could go back to bed and drink.