Dear Family and Friends  

Thank the Lord, Jay decided not to buy the 40 acres up the lake. (For details see 2008 post.) However, a couple of days ago, I heard his voice spark with interest as his visiting physiotherapist mentioned that she might be selling her house down the lake. Ah, yes. His visiting physiotherapist, you ask?

It all started in January, when I went off to London for a week to celebrate my birthday. I was sitting in a lovely restaurant with my family and friends and one of them asked me whether Jay was planning to break anything else this year. I roared with laughter, and said “No chance,” knowing he had made a bet with his personal trainer that he wouldn’t - and he never loses a bet. As I was uttering these words, Jay was back in New Hampshire, falling off a snowmobile and stopping his onward flight by hitting a fairly sturdy sapling with his knee. It stopped his onward flight, all right.

Here is Fred demonstrating how to do a wheelie and still stay on the snowmobile...

When I got back from Las Vegas to chilly New Hampshire - Oh, I forgot. It was my 60^th birthday (some mistake surely) and in an effort to cheer me up, my daughter Helenka had arranged a girl’s weekend in Las Vegas, with Jay’s sister Judy (whose birthday is two days after mine) and her daughter Laurie. We were there to see Bette Midler, a busty American chanteuse who’s been a favourite of mine for years, and to win a lot of money. Bette Midler cancelled on the night of the show, but I did win some money. Three dollars, to be precise, which was almost enough to buy me a cup of coffee in the casino. I worked out the system, though. I put the coins into the one arm bandit in front of me, and Judy took them out of the machine next to mine.

Meanwhile, back in chilly New Hampshire, Jay was staring moodily out at the magnificent view and contemplating spending the next few weeks recovering from surgery while tethered to the house. It wasn’t long before he was accompanying me to the supermarket, where he took to driving those electric chair things at very high speeds around the shop. I followed in his wake, apologising and explaining that this was the kind of driving that had caused the accident in the first place…

He decided we should venture further afield. After rejecting Montreal, (close, but icy) we settled on Bermuda, (close-ish, but warmer). 

 

Rush hour on Lake Sunapee – they actually built a road…

 

                      Rush hour in Bermuda – that’s Bertie on the right

 

 

 I popped back to London in April and May. Just for laughs, and to see my mother, 89, and still driving, cooking, running errands and the Liberal Party single-handed. I  arrived back home to find we were leaving again for Jay’s 55^th class reunion at his prep school, Andover. In July, we travelled to Los Angeles, for a wedding and a trip up the coast to Oregon. The wedding was like something from an American film - outdoor ceremony, followed by dancing under the stars and a terrific firework show (it being July 4^th).  Having persuaded Jay that we really didn’t need to buy Hearst Castle, we drove north to Big Sur, a place we had visited over a quarter of a century ago. We came across Nepenthe, a restaurant where we’d eaten, and Jay remarked chummily to the maitre d’ “We had a reservation here 28 years ago.” Without missing a beat the man replied: “So you finally showed up, did you?” Nice to know they remembered us…

And here we are, still waiting for a table...

Onward to visit more friends in the Napa Valley, California’s famous wine-growing area. Don and Nina live in the middle of a vineyard (or so it appeared to us), and generously shepherded us around to wonderful art collections and a funny little place in a garage which sold hand pressed (or something) olive oils and vinegars. They recommended a small but charming hotel for our next night. It was perched on a cliff near Montecito, and the views were stunning. I wish I could say the same for the foghorn out in the bay. It blared every three minutes all night long, but failed to stun me. Jay snored peacefully through it. Finally, in desperation, I found my recording of some waves (supposed to help me relax) and listened to the sound of a fake ocean until I finally fell asleep. We are still speaking to Don and Nina…just.

A day later, we were in Oregon, having checked out the California redwoods on the way. Here’s a picture of Jay holding up one of the trees - a mere sapling by comparison with some of its older relatives.

 

On the Oregon coast, I had to restrain Jay again (I should travel with handcuffs, really) from riding up and down their enormous sand dunes on a tiny tractor known as an ATV (all terrain vehicle)The tiny speck on the right is how Jay saw himself, but he settled, after I threatened to damage his other knee,  for a ride in a kind of land rover, driven by a former marine. That was terrifying enough.

 

We got back in one piece, thank goodness, and Jay started planning his next trip, to Quebec City, where he’d been thousands of years ago. This time, Fred and I accompanied him, while Bertie stayed in New Hampshire, relaxing after a strenuous vacation with his friends in North Carolina. Quebec was delightful, now designated a World Heritage site, so that the old town can’t be changed. The Quebecois were celebrating their 400^th anniversary (it’s one of the oldest cities in North America), and the streets were full of people dressed in 17^th century clothes. We saw one family, dressed in their finery, eating pizza in a very 21^st century café. A magnificent Native American headdress in a shop window caught Jay’s eye, but I persuaded him that it might lead to comment in downtown New Hampshire. As for the (real) bear skin with savage teeth, I pointed out that our dog Dougal would probably have a heart attack if forced to cohabit with it.

Autumn saw the boys, Fred and Bertie, head off to college. Fred went back to the University of Connecticut, where he is now starring in the Formula one racing club, where they build a racing car and then race it against other university teams. He’s also the tallest member of the Korean club which he joined (he says) to practise the language, but I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that there are lots of interesting Korean girls there.

Bertie went cheerfully off to enormous Boston University, having decided in favour of that instead of the very rural University of Vermont. He was all set to study neuroscience, but phoned me on the first day of term to ask if it would be OK if he took astronomy instead. Apparently he decided that he’d always hated chemistry, and realised there would be much too much of it if he wanted to be a brain surgeon. 

 And Jay and I were off again. This time to England for the wedding of my oldest friends’ daughter. It was another perfect wedding - small country church, smashing marquee with dancing. The bridegroom was on crutches, with a broken leg. Jay was delighted to compare notes on the various sporting activities which accounted for their war wounds. I think he felt his injury put him in with the “in” crowd (or whatever they’re called these days). This wedding ended in fireworks, too - must be a trend.

 I have been trying to write in my spare time and leisure moments, and had a story published in the San Antonio Review. I also won a local poetry contest, much to my surprise, since this was the first poem I’d written since I was a love-struck 16-year-old.

And so back to the beginning. Jay had his whole knee replaced in November, a week before Thanksgiving, and now, having sorted out all his current business affairs (yes, he’s still working) he’s staring moodily out at a magnificent view of falling snow and wondering how soon he’ll be able to go out on a snowmobile again. As if….. Luckily, Christmas will cheer him up, since we’ll be hosting all the children and grandchildren over the holidays (Not all at once! I’m good but not that good!)

Here’s wishing you a very Merry Christmas, and a year to remember for all the right reasons in 2010.

 

 

Published Fiction - Making Peace

This was published in the Rio Grande Review, a University of Texas literary journal 

It was a lovely day for a walk, and Alice was trying to enjoy it. She wished Arthur could be here to enjoy it with her; he’d always looked forward to the spring, but he’d been gone these twelve years and more. She missed the way he used to call her Alice Blue. He’d called her that because she’d always liked the song. She still hummed it sometimes: “In my sweet little Alice blue gown...” 
Alice had become used to living alone. Mostly, she quite liked it, although sometimes the house seemed too quiet. Still, at the age of eighty-three, she knew that each day was a blessing, and she tried to be grateful for every minute. Some days were easier than others. Today, even putting on her wool coat took a real effort; Alice wasn’t sure why, exactly. But she had worn that coat for years, no matter what the weather. The coat would see her out, she was sure. 
Right now, she was focusing on the way ahead of her, making sure she didn’t trip on an uneven paving stone. Her heart seemed to be beating rather harder than usual, and she was starting to perspire. Take it easy, old dear, she told herself, and stopped for a minute, to get her breath back. A light breeze blew some of the cherry blossom off the trees toward her, and cooled her faded cheeks as she continued her slow but resolute steps. She was making her way to the new postbox on the corner of Clarence Road. Why they’d moved it from Acacia Avenue, she had no idea. All she knew was that it was further away from her house now.
Walking didn’t come as easily as it once had. When she and Arthur had been courting, they’d thought nothing of climbing Shooter’s Hill with a picnic, which they would eat at the top, while they surveyed the London skyline. Alice recalled the smooth flat rock where she and Arthur had been sitting, looking at the view, when he’d first kissed her cheek. She blinked a tear away, remembering. 
She hadn’t expected him to die when he did. She had taken for granted, when they were young, that they’d both live forever. That was before the war, of course, and the bombs that fell during the Blitz. Arthur had joined the navy, and had spent much of the war on the convoys that escorted the bigger ships across the Atlantic and through the North Sea. He didn’t talk about it much, but he’d survived, that was the main thing.
Alice had always said that she’d follow him to the ends of the earth. Not that they’d traveled far, when it came right down to it. After he came back from the war, Arthur said he’d seen as much of foreign lands as anyone could want to see. So, for twenty-odd years, they’d taken their summer holidays on the south coast, and sometimes in the Lake District, until Arthur had fallen ill.
Even then, Alice had decided that if she didn’t live forever, she’d still live for a long time in good health. After all, her parents had lived well into their eighties. And she was still healthy, really, she supposed, apart from the old ticker, which acted up a bit every so often. The doctors wouldn’t operate, because of her advanced age. They told her to keep taking the pills, but mostly, she didn’t bother. Anyway, she still had time for what she needed to do.
She wanted to tie up loose ends. She didn’t like leaving things undone. So, a couple of weeks ago, she’d made a special visit to her daughter, Mandy, taking the bus all the way to Ashford and back by herself. She wanted Mandy to know that she was doing a fine job of raising her children. Alice hadn’t been sure, to start with, what sort of a mother Mandy would make. She’d always been so flighty when she was young. But her kids, Terry and Sheila, had turned out great, though Alice didn’t see much of them anymore. After all, teenagers always had so many other things to do. But they’d been at home the day she’d visited, and even sat down to have a cup of tea and piece of cake with her and Mandy. Alice felt a warm feeling in her chest as she thought about that day.
Today, it was warmer out than she’d expected. Alice paused for a minute to catch her breath again. A greengrocer’s van drove by, trailing a cloud of exhaust fumes. “Australian apples – good on ya”, it said on the side of the van. Alice wasn’t sure what “good on ya” meant, but she thought Ruby would know.
Her old school friend Ruby had moved to Australia a long time ago, but they’d kept up. Ruby wrote regularly, still inviting Alice to visit, as she had for the last forty years. Only last week, Alice had written back again to explain that it was still too far to come, though she would always treasure the oldest friend she had. And she had written to her wartime friend, Maggie, who was Canadian. They had met in the ATS, driving ambulances around London after the bombing. Maggie had come all the way from Canada, to help the war effort. Five boys, Maggie had, all grown up, now. How on earth had she managed with five? 
Alice had barely coped with her one boy. He’d been a lovely little lad, John, always smiling, always trying to please his mum. And then he’d gone away to college, which was only right, because he was brainy. He’d studied rocks – geology they called it. The family used to tease him about being a know-it-all. But he really did know a lot, thought Alice. Still, it had never been the same after college. He’d met that stuck-up girl, Isabella. Alice had always known that it was the girl who’d been ambitious. It was obvious to Alice from the first that she was out to snare John. And she’d succeeded. Alice had tried to warn John that Isabella wasn’t right for him, but it made no difference, of course. Perhaps she should have kept her own counsel, because that’s when John had really started to become a stranger. Alice had never liked Isabella, and thought she was a bit of a gold-digger. Well, diamond-digger really. She smiled wryly at her own joke. That was what John did for a living. He was paid to look for diamonds for the largest diamond company in Africa. It was an awfully long way to go, so far from his home and family. If it hadn’t been for Isabella, he might have taken that job he was offered with the oil company in Scotland. That was far enough, Alice thought, but not as far as Africa. Still, Isabella had decided that diamonds sounded more posh than oil, and so they’d gone to live abroad, instead of staying close to his roots. He’s never asked me to visit, Alice reflected. Probably because of Isabella. 
And now she’d written one last letter. After sealing the envelope, she had hidden it carefully in a side pocket of her ancient black handbag, so as not to mislay it. It was addressed to a post office box in Africa, and Alice wondered, as she stopped again to lean against the carefully clipped hedge of Mrs. Wilkins’ garden, whether they had the same sort of post offices in Africa as here. She thought they probably did. And maybe they had boxes on a post at the end of the drive, like those American ones she’d seen in the pictures. 

She worried too much, that’s what Arthur had always said, when she wondered why John didn’t write. Arthur kept saying that youngsters today had no idea how to write any more, and it wasn’t that John didn’t love her. Alice wasn’t so sure. And she wondered why this letter of hers had been so hard to write. It wasn’t as though she was upset with John, or even Isabella, come to that. Well, not any more. Not after all these years. He was her son, when all was said and done. It would be silly to hold a grudge for so long. It was simply that…
She paused again for one more rest before she reached the corner. She used to make this walk in five minutes. Funny, how slow she’d become. A bench stood nearby, one the local council had failed to remove when they instituted the big clean up of the neighborhood. That’s when they’d moved the pillar box, too, from Acacia Avenue to Clarence Road. She sank gratefully onto the bench, and gripped her handbag a little harder, pulling it in towards her chest, making sure she still had the letter.
It was time to make amends now – to say she was sorry for everything she’d said. The letter was here in her bag. She was going to post it today.
Alice closed her eyes, letting the spring sun play on her face. Her eyes fluttered open a few minutes later to see a young man walking towards her. It was hard to see his face because the sun was in her eyes. He had red hair, like Arthur’s. She’d always liked a redhead.
“Mind if I sit here?” he said.
“Help yourself, ducks,” Alice murmured. She was feeling a bit drowsy, truth be told. 
“Taking a walk then?” the young man asked. His voice sounded oddly familiar.
“Going to post a letter.” 
“You look done in. Would you like me to take it? The postbox is just over there.” He pointed to the corner of Acacia Avenue.
Alice frowned. She squinted at the corner, and sure enough, there was the pillar box. 
“I thought they’d moved it,” said Alice. Maybe she was getting forgetful.
“So, shall I post it for you?” he said, rising from the bench.
“That would be kind.”
Alice fumbled with her bag, which released a smell of the extra strong peppermints that she favored as she opened it. She took out the letter, and handed it to the young man. She watched him as he walked away, rolling slightly as he did so, like a sailor. He turned as he reached the letter box, before dropping the letter into it. Now he was on his way back. Alice felt a little flutter in her chest. He seemed like a nice young man, but you could never tell these days.
“That’s done,” he said, and sat down on the bench next to her. 
Alice closed her eyes again. She felt a cool hand close over her own warm one, but she didn’t feel nervous. Nothing to worry about, now. The letter was safely on its way. And she could be going on hers.
As though he’d heard her thought, the young man spoke again.
“Time to get going, my lovely,” he said, then leaned across and kissed Alice gently on the cheek.
 Alice felt a warm glow on the spot where he’d kissed her. 
“I’ll see you soon, Alice Blue.”
Alice’s eyes flew open, but the sun was too bright and everything looked hazy. She closed them again.
“Arthur?” she whispered. 
The sun seemed to be glowing, suddenly hot, through her eyelids. Her head fell forward. Her bag dropped to the ground. 

THE END