Jamie arrived early to drop Archie off. Apparently he has a busy day and doesn't like to leave Archie at home on his own. Of course, we enjoy having him.. We're waiting for the Coles man to arrive with our order but, otherwise, we have nothing else planned. The weather is staring to become colder and I think Summer is fading fast into the background.
I had an email this morning reminding me that there is a probus meeting next week so need to sort out the financial statement. It's the time of year when we pay our annal subs and these can come by cash or cheque, or deposited directly into our bank account. I tried to resign from the Treasurer's job at the last meeting but without success. You'd think it would just be a matter of throwing the books on the table and saying Goodbye but I'm a mug and tried to be accommodating. Of course, the club took advantage of my good nature and I'm stuck with the job, probably until I kick the bucket. That'll show them!
MRS MINIVER JULY 9, 2021
Old Tom was in his ninetieth year. He couldn’t remember when people started to
attach the ‘Old’ to his name but it was probably a good while ago. He felt as if he had been old for most of his
life and now he wondered whether great slabs of his memory were
disappearing. He could still remember
days of his childhood in great detail and could even recall the smells of
rotting seaweed on Blackpool Beach or the reek of stale fat in the bins outside
the chippie on Scorton Avenue. But when it came to remembering what he had for
lunch yesterday, his mind was a blank.
Funny, that he could remember so clearly the smell of Blackpool Beach but not something
as important as what he had for lunch – even though he didn’t eat much these
days and all the food tasted the same.
His mind wandered back to the days when food tasted better
and he thought of the newspaper-wrapped fish and chips his mother would allow
him to have on special occasions. The
fish was always cooked in crisp batter and the steam that came out when he
stuck in the knife would tickle his nose.
The chips were fat and soaked in vinegar.
Tom’s mum sometimes helped out in the chip shop when it was
busy and, on those days, there would be nobody in the flat when Tom came home
from school. That was OK. Tom’s mum would leave him a glass of milk and
two ginger biscuits and he would read a book or get on with his homework until his
Mum or Dad came home. One day, when he came
home, he discovered that his mother had forgotten to leave him the door key
under the mat. Settling himself down
for an uncomfortable wait, he heard someone come up behind him.
“Hello, Tom,” the person said. “Are you locked out?” It was Mrs Miniver from upstairs. Well, it was the lady who called herself Mrs
Miniver. Mum said it was a made-up name
and the real Mrs Miniver was in a film starring a famous film star whose name
started with G.
“Yes,” said Tom, “and Mum won’t be back for another hour.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.
Would you like to come up to my flat and have some hot cocoa and maybe a
biscuit?”
Tom didn’t know what to say.
He knew his mother didn’t like Mrs Miniver and he had overheard her
telling his father that “she was no better that she should be.” He thought that his mother wouldn’t like him
to go but it was cold on the landing and he didn’t want to be rude so he said
Thank you and went upstairs.
His mother was upset that Tom had gone with Mrs Miniver but,
because she had forgotten to leave the key, she couldn’t say very much. Tom
visited the flat upstairs more and more as time went on. He liked Mrs Miniver’s flat. It was always a bit untidy, unlike his place. His mother was always angry with him if he
made a mess and he was frightened to even leave a book lying about. One day, Mrs Miniver had left the door of her
bedroom open and Tom saw her unmade bed.
It had black sheets! Tom thought
all sheets were white and these ones were much shinier than the ones on his bed
downstairs.
Occasionally, Mrs Miniver would ask him to leave a little
early as she had a friend coming around to see her. Sometimes, Tom would pass the friends on the
stairs. They didn’t look like the sort
of people Mrs Miniver would know: sad little men in shabby coats, big men in
fishermen’s jumpers, frightened men looking at him furtively. Tom wondered what was going on and then
realised that Mrs Miniver might be something like a fortune-teller and that
would explain why she had so many visitors. Tom’s mum had been to a
fortune-teller once and she was told that, when Tom grew up, he would wear a
white coat.
“That means you’ll be a doctor,” she said excitedly.
“More likely he’ll be selling ice-cream on Blackpool Pier,”
his father had replied, grumpily.
When you’re a child, you grow up very quickly and Tom soon
realised what was really taking place in the bedroom upstairs. Like all boys he was fascinated by the
frequency of the visits and struggled to reconcile his impression of Mrs
Miniver as a kindly woman much like his Mum with the femme fatale image
conjured up by the lurid language of his mates.
Of course, that was a long time ago and Mrs Miniver must be
well and truly dead and buried. Tom has
always hoped that she passed away peacefully and is mourned by someone who
loved her. He can’t forget her, like he
has forgotten so many people from his past.
One of the young women in the nursing home, by chance, wears the same
perfume as Mrs Miniver wore and, like the smell of stale fat or rotting
seaweed, the faint aroma of her perfume in the air takes his mind straight back
to his home in Blackpool and the warm memories of Mrs Miniver, the lady
upstairs.
