The Not So Secret Emails Of Coco Pinchard (11 page)
Read The Not So Secret Emails Of Coco Pinchard Online
Authors: Robert Bryndza
Tags: #Love, #Book Club, #British, #iPhone, #Women's Fiction, #Comedy, #Diary Format, #Chicklit
She has been declared fit enough to be an Outpatient and thus a ‘bed blocker.’ She has to go for rehabilitation three times a week for the next couple of months. She can’t manage the stairs to the loo, so she is in the living room on a camp bed with one of my lovely never-been-used Jamie Oliver pans. I know I never cook but it hurts me to think of the first, or second thing that pan will contain. Are you home tonight? She’s looking forward to seeing you.
Saturday 28th March 12:01
I came out of the bathroom naked this morning as the computer was ringing and Meryl and Tony appeared via Skype.
“Tony look away!” ordered Meryl from the screen. I screamed and ran into the bedroom. When I came back in a dressing gown, I could hear Meryl yelling at Tony to go and have a cold shower.
I sat down and tried to compose myself.
“Coco,” she said. “Do you always walk around naked?”
“Only when I’m alone.” I said, vowing to tell Rosencrantz to switch off the computer when he is finished.
“Large bosoms always put Tony at sixes and sevens,” she said, as if it were my fault he saw.
“You got my messages then?” I said, trying to change the subject.
“Yes,” she said. “The Hospital
did
phone me this morning but I said you were the closest kin, for her Outpatient appointments.”
“What about Nursing Homes? Both Ethel and I would rather she is in a nice home.”
Meryl then told me that Mrs. Braun has gone ahead and written to the Local Authority, effectively blacklisting Ethel in the London area.
“I can’t be a full time carer.” I said. “I need to start thinking about working again.”
“Oh Coco!” she said. “If you were an Indian you wouldn’t think twice about caring for
family.
”
“Well, um,” I said momentarily thrown off.
“Look,” she said, flashing her Margaret Thatcher smile. “You need to acclimatise yourself to the day, and put your bra on. Let’s just agree what I have said on principle and we can talk more. It’s just short term, that’s what family does, well at least whilst you still
are
family.”
With that, the screen went blank. I will find Ethel a home if it kills me. Otherwise, I will kill her.
Saturday 28th March 16:45
The cheapest private Nursing Home is seven hundred pounds a week!
“I’m not forking out that,” said Ethel.
“Me either,” I agreed. She then waved a copy of Rosencrantz’s Stage
newspaper,
with an article about a new council funded Nursing Home for retired theatricals. I am going to write a suitably dramatic email and hope it will land her a place.
Sunday 29th March 09:00
Dear Miss Jeanie Lavelle
I have just seen your article in this week’s edition of The Stage. Your Nursing Home for retired theatrical artistes looks marvellous. I am seeking suitable accommodation for my Mother-In-Law, Mrs. Ethel Pinchard
Ethel doesn’t have an Equity card, or any TV/Theatre/Film/Radio experience but I think she would fit in well in the world of elderly show biz. She is very outgoing, opinionated, and prone to over excitement. As far as her theatrical pedigree is concerned, she was a formidable player on the Catford Karaoke circuit in the late nineties, often winning first prize singing I’m a Red Toothbrush, You’re a Blue Toothbrush. She was recently forced to leave her Nursing Home of five years when it collapsed due to subsidence, losing many of her beloved possessions, and her Local Authority medical records.
With best wishes
Coco Pinchard
Sunday 29th March 14:48
I didn’t know you had given Christian a key! Your Nan was dozing in the living room, when he let himself in the front door. He woke her up as he was stuffing your iPod and some CD’s into his bag. She thought he was an intruder and whacked him over the head with a Jamie Oliver Milk Pan full of wee.
He’s lying down wrapped in a sheepskin rug. His suit is dry clean only, and being a fashion expert, he has refused all of your father’s clothes. The living room is a no go area so your Nan is draped across a beanbag in the music room. She is kicking off because the portable TV in there doesn’t have Sky. Could you come home please?
Monday 30th March 12:03
There are further ructions between my new houseguests. Christian offered to do some Reiki healing on Ethel’s new hip, as an apology. Halfway through, lying face down on the sofa she broke wind so violently that Christian, who has a hyper sensitive sense of smell, was taken ill. He is still retching in the bathroom. Rosencrantz is furious. Ethel is still laughing and I must admit I had to keep a straight face. She keeps saying,
“It was a ripper, I’ll give him that.”
Monday 30th March 13:45
Please can I put in an order for The Socialist Worker newspaper. My Mother-In-Law appears to be staying here now.
Also could I stop my order for Nuts, Loaded, and Zoo. Rosencrantz came out over a year ago and I never got round to cancelling them.
Thanks
Coco Pinchard.
Tuesday 31st March 10:00
Dear Rosencrantz
I know you are under pressure with your play starting on Friday but it doesn’t mean that you can be disrespectful to your Nan. Ignoring her this morning was rude. She adores you.
I am going to ask the doctor about her noxious emissions when I take her for physiotherapy this week. Luckily, it’s sunny and warm outside, so I’ve put her on a chair in the garden. Christian needs the kitchen to finish your costumes.
April
Wednesday 1st April 11:01
Ethel just came into the kitchen with an article from The Daily Mail
.
Apparently, scientists have engineered a silent crisp, which makes no noise when eaten.
“It’ll be a boon,” she said excitedly.
She asked me to hot foot it to the Tesco Metro on Baker Street and get some for Rosencrantz, as his noisy mouth manipulation of crisps drives her mad.
I pointed out that today is April Fool’s day, and that it’s probably a joke article but she refused to believe me saying,
“The
Daily Mail don’t lie!”
Then I had a phone call. A strangulated Margaret Thatcher style voice came on the line. She congratulated me on reaching the top of the waiting list for a local Allotment, with three sacks of manure as a welcome gift.
“Ha ha, Rosencrantz,” I said. “You won’t April Fool me with that stupid voice.” There was silence. Then the voice said it was no joke, that her name was Agatha Balfour, and she was calling from the Augustine and Redhill Allotment Association.
“You and your husband put your name down for a local Allotment in 1991,” she said. “You’ve just reached the top of the list.” I babbled around, apologising and said that I couldn’t even keep a Virtual Cactus alive on Facebook. She advised me to take it. Allotments are like gold dust and she has been bribed by all and sundry to jiggle the list.
“Just this morning I turned down tickets to see Leonard Cohen at the O2,” she said. “And I do love Leonard…”
I asked how much it was.
“Fifteen pounds.”
“Is that per week?”
“No, Mrs. Pinchard,
per year
.” She went on to say that it has unparalleled views of London and a well-equipped shed with furniture. I had a vision of writing in the shed and gazing out at the view. I said I would take it, and apologised for thinking she was an April Fool.
“Not to worry Mrs. Pinchard,” she said. “My son is the same, I’ve spent the morning pulling cling film from all my lavatory pans,” then she rang off. She must have a big house.
Ethel snorted when she heard.
“You? Gardening? Those poor earth worms.”
You and Marika can come and help dig in your wellies and I can start writing again. I need to do something apart from drive Ethel to and from the Hospital.
Thursday 2nd April 13:44
This afternoon, I took Ethel to see a room in The William Shakespeare Rest Home. The manager, Miss Jeanie Lavelle had replied enthusiastically, saying a space for Ethel had come available. The far from Shakespearean home is in a yellowing Victorian terrace, on a dirty street in Penge.
Miss Jeanie, as she asked us to call her, is what you would term a frustrated actress. At the back end of her fifties, but heavily made up, dressed in a mini skirt and a tight flowery top with a plunging neckline, which looked as if it was slowly regurgitating her enormous crinkled bosom. She greeted us like old friends and led us down a hallway, filled with the smell of old school dinners and disinfectant. We passed pictures of Miss Jeanie showing her acting achievements; posters for long forgotten plays and several stills of her in television shows Prime Suspect
,
Cracker
,
and Silent Witness
.
In all she was pictured on the mortuary slab.
“
Guess what my casting type is?” she said.
“Old floozy?” said Ethel, giving her the once over. There was an awkward pause, and Miss Jeanie showed us through to the ‘dayroom.’
Six elderly actors and actresses were sat in a dingy lounge in high backed chairs staring listlessly at a television. A film with Oliver Reed and Vanessa Redgrave was playing. If I remember correctly, the film is called The Devils and has been banned since the 1970s due to its story of sex-crazed Nuns in seventeenth century France. Daniel took me to a special BFI screening of it at the Barbican a few years back, for the art, of course, nothing to do with the huge amount of nudity.
“The residents are enjoying one of my performances,” said Miss Jeanie, “I played sexually crazed Nun number four.”
Most of the residents were snoring, an elderly gent called out for a commode.
“Ooh! We’re just in time!” said Miss Jeanie ignoring him. She turned up the volume as a scene began, with Nuns ripping off their habits and engaging in an orgy around a statue of Christ. A shiny-faced ginger haired nun (and you could see she had been an authentic ginger) romped past the camera.
“There! That’s me!” said Miss Jeanie grabbing the remote and rewinding. Her pendulous bosoms swung backwards slowly then leapt back to life.
“Oliver Reed was wonderful,” she said.
“Have you got Sky?” said Ethel, disgusted.
“No, but we have a lovely big box of videocassettes which you would be free to rummage around in,” she said, as if Ethel were five. “Let’s go and see your new home!”
“They’re all bloody out of it,” hissed Ethel as we went up in a lift.
The free bed was in a shared room Miss Jeanie barged into without knocking. A sad looking old lady was sat in a wheelchair. Miss Jeanie seemed annoyed to find her there, and pushed her out into the corridor.
“There, now you can see,” she said closing the door.
It was a squash for the three of us between the single beds and it stunk of urine. A small window overlooked a square of concrete, which had once been the garden.
“I would need you to write me a cheque today, for six months in advance,” said Miss Jeanie hopefully. “There is a queue of people wanting the room.”
Ethel’s face crumpled. I couldn’t leave her there.
Friday 3rd April 10:31
I came down this morning to find the kitchen awash with shoes and material. Christian and Rosencrantz are frantically finishing the costumes for Rosencrantz’s play, which opens tonight.
As I put the kettle on, I noticed Christian sticking a Swastika onto a jacket with his hot glue gun. I realised with everything that has been going on, I know nothing about this play.
I asked if Ethel would enjoy it, as she wants to come along too.
“Course!” said Rosencrantz. “ It’s all about stuff in the Second World War.”
I left them to it. After the shock of seeing Miss Jeanie’s watsit on television, Ethel will enjoy a wartime story. Do you want to come? Marika has parents evening.
Friday 3rd April 23:36
Just back from Rosencrantz’s play. I say play, it was called Anne Frank: Reloaded
.
What a shocker. Rosencrantz played Anne Frank! For a story set during World War II, there were an awful lot of disco tracks. Ethel looked very confused. She had been looking forward to singing along to ‘Roll Out The Barrel.’ I watched most of it through my fingers.
It
was
fairly faithful to historical fact until the wall behind the wardrobe slid open, a huge disco-ball descended from the ceiling and lots of male Nazi’s burst out with their tops off. Then Anne and the rest of the Frank’s escaped in a giant glittery roller skate, made from a shopping trolley, which rolled into Berlin and squashed Hitler. I had made a big thing about wanting to come backstage and say hello afterwards. It hadn’t entered my mind that it might be awful. We waded through the throng in the student bar and found Rosencrantz amongst some fawning luvvies. Everyone was telling him what an amazing piece of theatre it was; most vocal in his praise was the Drama School Principal, Artemis Wise. He was red in the face and obviously pissed. When he saw me, he slammed down his Campari shouting,
“It’s Mum! What did you think, Mum? Don’t keep mum, Mum!” I didn’t know what to say. I said it was a spectacle.
“You mean specta-cu-lar,” he laughed flashing the bits of crisps in his fillings. “Your son is going to be a huge star!” Christian saw my face and I gave him an awkward smile. Artemis leant forward to ruffle Rosencrantz’s hair, but slipped off his bar stool. The Students rushed to help him up, and I used the diversion to leave. Luckily, I had the excuse of taking Ethel home. She’d had a bit of a turn. I think being pinged in the eye by a G-string emblazoned with a Swastika did it. The last time she saw Rosencrantz act was in 1985 when he was a chick in Mother Goose. All he did then was pop out of a papier-mâché egg and do a little dance. We drove home. Chris had stayed on to chat to the actors, (mainly the ones in the G-strings). I made Ethel a cup of Bovril to steady her nerves, and then Rosencrantz and Christian came home to pick up some wine for their first night party.