No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club: Diary of a Sixtieth Year (31 page)

Occasionally a nurse came in and looked at the monitor and pressed a few buttons. James said: “It’ll all be over in quarter of an hour”—and sure enough it was.

All three of us were surrounded by large plastic barriers, to shield us from the other people. I sat on one side of the bed holding Hughie’s hand; James sat on the other, his arm resting against Hughie’s paper-thin skin. “It’s like being in a swimming pool,” said James. He kept turning away to cry. Poor old Hughie. He already looked like a corpse, gasping away with his mouth open, the yellowing whites of his eyes showing. Some of the tubes had been taken out of his hands, and he was covered with sticking plaster to protect the wounds. Very, very slowly, he faded away and all the machines came to a halt.

And as he died, I had the most curious feeling. I was aware of dying being the most natural thing in the world. It was as natural as—as, well, going to the lavatory. Dying was just something one did. The only different thing about it was that we do it just once in our lives.

As Hughie died it was as if a light chiffon scarf had been thrown into the air and—poof!—he’d gone. In an odd way it wasn’t sad at all. Just a normal part of a day.

July 1

The funeral took place in Golders Green Crematorium. I am now so dreadfully familiar with the place that I no longer have to get out the map to find it. On the way there, I had a strange experience. I allowed a huge container lorry beside me to pull into the traffic in front of me. The driver put on his winking lights as thanks. I was suddenly overcome with emotion. It seemed to signify all the kindness of strangers in the world. This great big dirty lorry, from God knows where, a grisly warehouse in the suburbs of Rotterdam perhaps, and yet this sudden burst of human warmth emanating from it. I found myself starting to cry with gratitude.

Hughie’s death is making me so tender.

This great sadness, what a treat it is to feel like this…what a kind of honor. Grief isn’t a curse, it’s a blessing. To be so connected that you feel true loss—what is there to commiserate about that? Why should you want to make anyone “feel better” when they’re unhappy in this way? This grief is only another side of loving, one part of what it is to be human. I can’t help being angry with people who try to claim sympathy when they are feeling bereaved. This deep fruitcakey, purple pain is a sort of joy, such a luxury.

When you are feeling the pain of being bereaved, you are still connected to life, you still want the dead person to be alive, you still believe life is worth living.

Though on second thought, I bet James wouldn’t agree with me.

The moment I left the car and walked toward the group of mourners outside the chapel, I saw Archie. Tall. In his lovely dark coat. This time he was wearing a black scarf as well. He towered among the rest, a quiet group, all looking dazed, with their sad faces on, speaking in low voices.

When I reached him, “I’m so pleased to see you,” he said, hugging me. “Let’s sit together.”

We went in, and the funeral started. James read out a lovely piece by Cicero, which went:

I got up and spoke about Hughie, feeling rather like Tony Blair because I left significant pauses between phrases and adjectives. I am becoming sickeningly adept at this kind of thing, having now given four funeral addresses in my time. I find that after each point I make, I have to wait a bit to let a speck of emotion rise up in me. It does the whole drama thing good for the tears to fill the eyes. Indeed, so affected was I by my own words, that when I left the pulpit, gray-faced, I kissed my hand and pressed it to the coffin. I kept finding myself saying to myself: “Goodbye old boy. Poor old chap. Oh, you poor dim ducky. Oh, you brave old potato.” Just bits of rubbishy, affectionate nonsense. Returned to my seat next to Archie, who was blowing his nose violently. He said: “You certainly know how to get us all going. And five minutes max. I timed you. Perfect length. Brilliant.”

For one moment I looked at the coffin. My connection with Hughie had been so special, I felt it was something that no one else had. And then I was aware of the fact that everyone else in the congregation almost certainly thought the same. They imagined that they all had some unique relationship with Hughie. And that was what made him so extraordinary. His ability to make each of us feel privileged to have had such an intimate relationship with him.

I turned to look at Archie and smiled, but as I did so, I caught his eye. Then something very odd happened. I was suddenly overcome with a strange longing to kiss him. And felt extremely embarrassed about it. It’s awful how, the minute you fancy someone, you imagine that they must be aware of it. I hardly knew where to look. Then I remembered from other times how sexy funerals make you feel. Loss is such a turn-on. So I tried to dismiss the flicker of attraction as a passing mistake.

At the party in the flat afterwards, all the sadness was temporarily gone, and we talked in relieved burbles, as if we were at a great reunion cocktail party. I had a long chat with James, drank a couple of glasses of wine and ate about six smoked salmon sandwiches.

Penny was there with, oddly, Friedrich, the trainer who had been persuaded, for once, to get out of his vest and put on a suit. He looked about thirty years old. Penny appeared blissfully happy.

“Have you ever seen
The Wizard of Oz
?” I asked him casually, as we passed in the corridor.

Luckily, he looked utterly baffled.

There was a bit of a scrum by the kitchen. And as I was squeezing by toward the front door—I was feeling a bit funeraled out—I noticed Archie was squeezing by in the opposite direction.

“You’re surely not going, are you? So soon? We shall all be totally bereft,” he said. “Have another drink with me. Won’t you? We haven’t had a chance to have a real chat.”

He took me, strangely, by the hand, and pulled me into the sitting room.

As we sat down, I felt utterly confused. It was true. Archie was looking particularly dishy. His hair might be white, but it was very silkily white, he had a nice mouth…and with a lurch, as we looked at each other, I realized that I fancied him just as much as I ever had done when I was fifteen. Not only that, but it crossed my mind that he fancied me. We didn’t talk for a second, just looked at each other.

“I have to tell you something,” he said. “Hughie and I had a chat before he died. And he said that you once had a schoolgirl crush on me.”

What was I to say? I felt like an overblown rose, petals flying in all directions. I didn’t know whether to giggle or get all stuffy. Instead, I said, blushing: “Oh, rubbish. He was raving. Terribly ill. Full of chemotherapy. Went to his brain.”

“He seemed OK to me,” said Archie, smiling very slightly. “Anyway, I thought he didn’t have chemotherapy? But look: The thing I have to tell you is that when I was fifteen, believe it or not, I had a crush on
you.
”

“Oh, ha ha,” I said, completely beflustered. This couldn’t be happening to me, I told myself. I’m the one who’s got the single bed, remember, Marie? I’m the one who’s hopeless at relationships. I’m the one who’s renounced sex after sixty for good.

“Fifty years too late!” I heard myself saying foolishly.

“If I promise not to take you to Pulli, would you have dinner with me the week after next, when I’m coming up again?” he asked. “We could talk. We could—ah—talk about old times.”

And then: “Oh,
yes!
” I heard myself saying, all defenses finally completely down. “Any day would be lovely!” Inside I was cursing myself and saying: “Marie, how could you? At least play it cool!”

“What about Thursday of that week? Pick you up at eight?”

“Lovely!” I said, gulping and blushing. I realized that I meant every word. Even if I’d asked fifteen people to dinner that night, I’d happily put them all off.

Archie got up, reached down and took my hand, giving it a squeeze. Then he leaned over, put his mouth to it and kissed it.

“Good-oh,” he said. “I’ll count the days.” He looked me in the eyes, then turned away and left me, reeling, on the sofa.

Later

Of course I just couldn’t stop thinking about him. I tried to focus on the funeral, or puzzle about Penny’s relationship with Friedrich and even tried to tidy up Gene’s toys, which were scattered about the room from his last visit, but my brain seemed completely taken over by Archie.

“We could talk about old times”! He’d “count the days”!

I’m afraid I found the whole thing utterly thrilling and goofy making and tender and lovely all at the same time, one moment feeling like dancing inside and the next berating myself for breaking my resolve about relationships.

When I turned on the computer I found I had an odd piece of spam, so odd that I wondered if it hadn’t come from the Other Side, sent by Hughie:

tying finished conduct silence clock intelligent

from shoulder imagine

fill control enough by

July 2

I sat in the garden, thinking about Hughie and how lucky he was, in a way, to suffer only for a few weeks. I have a Living Will stashed in almost every room in my house, in my wallet, with my doctor, with my solicitor. Jack has been told so many times how much I want him to get rid of me if I become a burden, I’m sometimes surprised he doesn’t seize a cushion and do it now, just to shut me up.

But here I am. With a date on the horizon. A proper one. With a friend. With, it seems, a grown-up. With a lovely bloke I’ve known for years and years and years. My only worry is what on earth I’m going to tell Penny. Not to mention everyone else to whom I’ve been banging on smugly about my chosen state of celibacy. I feel such a total idiot.

Later

In the garden, staring at my roses, which are blooming bright scarlet, I was feeling pretty blissed out, when a loud drumming started across the way. Suddenly the sounds of “Amazing Grace” came bursting into the garden, great roaring live music with tambourines and a choir. All the blackbirds and pigeons flew into the air with horror, and Pouncer’s ears went distinctly back. I became extremely irritated. I
knew
Praise the Lord! Inc. was a dreadful idea.

Later

I was just going out to the shops to get some more loo paper—Michelle had taken the last two rolls up to her room to do unspeakable things to her face with her “products”—when I bumped into Father Emmanuel, coming out of church after the service. A surge of resentment filled me as I said crossly: “You know, Father Emmanuel, whatever you say, I can hear all your hymns in my garden. All the words, everything.”

He broke into a smile and clasped my hand with his, all black knobbly fingers.

“Oh, Mrs. Sharp,” he said. “That is wonderful news! I am so glad you can share in our joy! That is jost wonderful!”

I was about to burst into a grouchy tirade, but looking at his beaming face, it was impossible not to respond with a smile.

“Just wonderful,” I repeated, trying it out. Then I found myself—corny or what?—giving him a hug.

Because it dawned on me that there are worse things than sitting out in the summer sunshine, in your sixties, with the sounds of “Amazing Grace” drenching the garden, with a real date with your first love on the horizon.

I know that seeing Archie will be friendly and funny and sexy and loving all at the same time. We both know it. Indeed, if there’s a slight blip it comes only when I think of the size of my minuscule bed. But as I write this, I remember: Michelle is moving out. And in her room there is a
very
large double bed.

So would I go so far as to say it is “jost wonderful”?

Well, I jost might.