I have posted this many times because it once
brought me fame and won me a silver cup! It was published in a monthly magazine
and my dear husband had great delight in showing it to all the neighbours.
A MAN IN MY LIFE
(Lady Denman Cup Winner 1988)
The room is so
quiet that if you stood outside the door you would suppose it to be unoccupied;
but there is an abundance of sound: crackling firewood, squealing chair
springs, the vibrating window when a plane takes wing, the tap of steel
needles, and the expletives when I drop a stitch. You might hear these sounds
if you listen hard but you would not see Jeffrey's wicked endeavours to
make me lose count, my voice rising with each enumeration as I walk two fingers
along the pin, determined to outwit the arm-waving comedian and cursing the
misfortune of being saddled with an imbecilic brother. The mantel clock
proclaims its own opinion, issuing dull thuds, which are supposed to be
reverberating chimes. Two o'clock, and the rest of the day to get through.
Even the fire-logs serve to emphasise the hour, a pair of
charred timber chunks spilling to the hearth. I toe to safety the smithereens
of charcoal and inhale the intoxicating smell of burning wood as I study the
flames, remembering my youth, when Jeffrey persistently devised new
ways to destroy my concentration and the strife at school when homework was
inadequately completed.
The dreadful
clacking of Jeffrey's dentures infiltrates the reverie, transporting me to
present time like an exploding bomb. First, I am ensconced in daydreams, then,
suddenly, I encounter reality head-on. Unexpectedly, my brother's grinning
countenance brings a swelling to my throat. Family features: grizzled hair,
bristly brows and pointed nose, except that Jeffrey now has pendulous
jowls, skin dark with liver-spots, and hazel eyes mottled with age. At
eighty-five he should be past indulging in puerility, but it is too late for
him to change and, anyway, I am fond of his desultory ribbing. Occasionally.
While he gazes
at me in his silly fashion, I set the rocking chair in motion, anxious to start
the next stage of the complicated pattern yet hesitant in
case Jeffrey renews the struggle for power. He looks docile enough,
sitting erect like a spectator waiting for the show to begin, but I never know
when he will embark on another wild prank. In two minutes, I could be despising
him; in three, I could be storming to pack his bag and return him to the home
from which I delivered him, beseeching the dear Lord to explain why a man in my
life is so essential.
My confession
might shock you. If you could witness this scene of cosy domesticity you might
think I am satisfied with my life, that my days consist of snug tête-à-têtes
and happy reminiscences or that the daily woman's duties give me ample time to
knit and amuse my brother. But how can I expect her to clean the mess that
incontinence affords, or supervise his eating, and encourage him to aim for his
mouth instead of his shirt? And yet, on reflection, your assessment could be
right. Beneath the grievances, you might detect a glimmer of the affection I
feel, for despite intensifying bouts of wrath and irritation I love the old
fool to pieces.
Pleased
that Jeffrey has settled to read I resume my occupation. Pins
clicking furiously, my thoughts roam the years, evoking instances of his
outlandish behaviour. Though his impaired mental state drives me to distraction
he can be enormously entertaining; like now, as he absorbs the printed word,
contorting his lips and nose as if they are moulded from rubber.
In the shadow
of a frivolous father and two ebullient brothers, Jeffrey grew vague
and bewildered before his time. As a consequence, he relied on me for support,
seeing me as an island of sanity in the midst of a chaotic existence. That's
why I never married. The concept of leaving my guileless brother to fend for
himself was inconceivable, though lately I long to be free of obligation.
Notwithstanding, the good days outweigh the bad. In fact, until the onset of
true dementia, most were agreeable; funny even, if an old man's waywardness can
so be called.
As dotage
accelerated, Jeffrey became quite adventurous. At seventy, equipped
with his pensioner's pass, he toured the county for bargains. But his logic
left much to be desired. He once travelled a distance to save twenty-pence on
melon, then spent ten times that amount on chocolate. I still remember his
gleeful look when he produced the melon and the box of chocolates, and my
incredulity.
The fingers are
flying now and the rocker's going like a swing as I call to mind the day we
waited in Woolworths for our brother to end a discourse with a chum.
Thirty minutes trudging round counters, failed attempts to
resist Jeffrey's pestering at the photograph booth and the endless wait
for obscure pictures. Secretly chuckling, I recall Jeffrey's restlessness
and his entreaties for a go on the weighing machine - several times - for the
sheer joy of cramming weight cards in his pockets, which on the journey home
were distributed among the passengers on the bus, his laughter so infectious
that the whole of the upper deck joined in.
My feeble eyes
are filling up; it always happens when I reproduce the images of bygone days. A
pity they couldn't stay the same.
You should
see Jeffrey now, playing peek-a-boo around the Daily Mail. I pretend
not to notice his buffoonery. I could curb him but he's been in enough trouble
since the episode next door. Unbeknown to me, on the days when I allowed him
out alone, he developed the custom of going in the neighbouring gate and
walking into Miss Smedley's house demanding tea. Initially she
humoured him with biscuits or a cake, but when he burst in and ordered tea and
toasted soldiers, with no regard for her undressed state, she ceased to think
it amusing. He's now on tight rein lest the woman carries out her threat to
call the police.
The room is
dimming now that the winter sun has disappeared, and the fire needs banking.
The clock thumps its message home. Four o'clock, it says. Time for tea. My
daydreaming has taken me to girlhood and back, through teen-years to adulthood.
And Jeffrey's cardigan is almost done. If the Almighty is willing I will
finish it tomorrow, that is if Jeffrey deigns to let me get on. But then I'd
worry. Since silence is an alien characteristic I wouldn't know if he was
behaving or indisposed. Oh, if you could see him playing his game, retreating
behind the paper like a guilty schoolboy whenever he catches my eye. I cannot
help sniggering at his expression, a fooled-you kind of look, the sort meted
out when my counting goes completely awry. I am tempted to teach him a lesson
and leave his cardigan sleeveless but I cannot succumb to spite. You see, he
won't have many more birthday gifts, and I won't have the foolish fun that life
with him has brought.
See his face, see the way
he peers at me like the simpleton he is. My throat constricts at the sight of
him. Dear God, don't take him yet. For my sake, give him a year or two
more.
