Old Rage, page 16
In 1945 there were not a lot of parties with cream teas like we are being urged to recreate in our front gardens in 2020 – if we have one. In Latham Road in Bexleyheath we did have a rather sad little street party. The banquet was tinned fruit with evaporated milk. My mother conjured up some blancmanges, made with condensed milk and set in her glass rabbit moulds, one mummy rabbit and one baby, and she daringly put some currants round their bums. Our next-door neighbour’s son was still in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, so it was hard for everyone to really enjoy ourselves until the war in Japan was over. Everybody’s fears about his treatment there were proved horrifyingly true when he eventually returned, his mind and body destroyed.
In those days people did not drink at home, or certainly not people from my background, and even though my family had lived mainly above pubs, excessive drunkenness in public was rare, so we children watched from the bedroom windows that night, fascinated to see our parents getting a bit tipsy and dancing in the street. I remember seeing my mum and dad doing a rather sedate waltz to the thin music coming from the wind-up gramophone balanced on the garden wall. I had never seen them in one another’s arms before. I would imagine the grown-ups were feeling hugely relieved, but exhausted. We heard on the radio that crowds were going mad in the West End, which sounded fun, and of course we listened to the King’s speech.
10 May 2020
My mother’s birthday. Lots of people seem to have enjoyed today, dressing up and putting out flags. I think everyone is desperate for a party and to see, albeit at two metres’ distance, another human being. Children, for whom the Second World War is something they learned in a history lesson, must have wondered why we are making such a fuss about this particular event, but they enjoyed the cakes. They are going through such an unnatural experience. No school, no sport, no playing with friends. I worry about the long-term effect of this unnatural episode in their childhood, but I suppose we had five years of massive disruption before the original VE Day, yet we survived. But damaged, I think. Judging by my grandchildren, the biggest harm will be to their eyes, which are glued to iPads and computers for virtual lessons and games. God knows what is happening to the children who cannot afford these technical supports.
The Queen did a broadcast at the same time as her much-beloved father had done seventy-five years earlier, urging us to be strong. It was lovely to see her in her sitting room being her usual unperturbed self. In her speech she quoted from a song by Vera Lynn that was very popular during the war. She finished by saying, ‘We’ll meet again.’ I remembered another song that Vera Lynn sang, supposedly to cheer up us evacuees. It made us all so miserable that it was banned, but the lyric is etched on my brain:
Goodnight, children everywhere
Your mummy thinks of you tonight
Lay your head upon your pillow
Don’t be a kid or a weeping willow
So now this eighty-seven-year-old vulnerable old bird must try not to be a weeping willow.
I can hear my mother (‘For heaven’s sake, Sheila, pull yourself together’), who brought up two girls when polio, smallpox, scarlet fever, diphtheria, TB, German measles, whooping cough and the like were constant threats, and did a lot of pulling-together of herself and her family. I must do the same for mine, in this unfolding worldwide tragedy.
With the increased threat of death to someone of my age, and taking dodgy immunosuppressant drugs, and being stuck at home with no work, no outings, no direct human contact, there never has been a more impossible time to ‘look my last on all things lovely’, as Walter de la Mare urged. In my personal morass of gloom, I am sick to death of people telling me how much they are enjoying being furloughed in their lovely homes and gardens in this extraordinary sunny spring. I, in contrast, am obsessed with, and riddled with guilt about, the many more people who are suffering terribly from the repercussions of this ghastly plague.
Enough is enough. Moping about is not helping anyone, not least myself. So, I must pay my ‘utmost blessing’ to things that bring me, if not ‘delight’, then comfort.
12 May 2020
I live under the flight path to Heathrow, and near a main road to the airport or, in the opposite direction, into central London. The roads are now completely empty, and the airport is closed. No planes, no cars – an uncanny peace. Nature is being kind to us with perfect sunshine in which to bask on the one outing a day that we are allowed to take, as long as we keep moving – no sitting on the grass, no cafés or pubs open in which to pass the time with friends. As a ‘highly vulnerable’ person I’m not even allowed to do that. I am supposed to be ‘sheltered’ for three months, not leaving my house at all, but I sometimes sneak out at about 5.30 a.m., before anyone else is about, and never has the air felt so fresh, the sky so clear, the sun so gentle, the honeysuckle so fragrant, the birds so happy to be heard, as in the eerily quiet atmosphere. I stand outside the home of William Morris, just along from my house, and wonder what he would make of a world that finds this calm so remarkable. This must be more or less what it was like when he lived here. Except his home would have been a hive of activity, designing Arts-and-Craftsy things, in his quest that you ‘have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful’, and holding socialist meetings with Rossetti and Burne-Jones, Ruskin and the like. If only we could incorporate their idealistic philosophy in our rebuilding of society after this disaster. The William Morris Society still has meetings in his old home. Perhaps the revolution could be planned here? I cannot stop and think about it for long, though, because of some newcomers to the river path.
Probably because there is less pollution in the Thames, I notice there is a new carpet of green plants on the bank when the tide goes out. It looks quite nice, but it seems to have become home to clouds of small green flies that fortunately don’t bite, but do get in your eyes and mouth. That is my theory, having had time to observe them. I have started wearing elegant masks made by my friend Annie, not to defend myself and others from the virus, but to keep out the pesky flies. There are also many more birds around (it could be I have not noticed them before) and I am hoping that the balance of Nature has sent them to eat the bloody flies. If so, I could take some seagulls and whatever the other ones are up to Scotland during the midge season. With my new-found talent for biology I may have rescued the Scottish tourist trade.
13 May 2020
What with the flies, the joggers and the cyclists, the river path has started to become so crowded that social distancing of two metres is impossible. So today I cheekily took a walk inland from the river. I wandered through an area I have used as a back-double in my car but never really noticed. Bedford Park was the first garden suburb, designed in 1875 by Norman Shaw to accommodate the existing mature trees on the twenty-four-acre site, so it is now a verdant, elegant place to live and, as I discovered, to stroll around. Doubtless Norman popped down the road to chat about his plans with William Morris and co. Each house is different – the majestic fences and gates are the only common features – and the gardens now are full of roses and jasmine, making for a walk of sensory delights. The eyes and the nose are sated, as well as the ears. In the unaccustomed quiet I stood transfixed for about quarter of an hour listening to a blackbird, undisturbed by rat-runners, perched on a roof singing complex melodies that would have thrilled Stravinsky. These were then copied by another bird in the distance that I could not see. They were definitely mimicking one another. I did not know they did that. Or care, if I’m honest. But I do now. I rushed home to look up blackbirds on Wikipedia. They are amazing. And I have spent eighty-seven years ignoring them.
14 May 2020
Overdid it yesterday so my body is protesting. Today sat on the balcony in the sun. I am listening to and looking at the world around me more closely than I ever have. I have been blown away by dramatic landscapes like Suilven and Dancing Ledge, but now I am noticing the minutiae.
Every year two swans that live near us have cygnets. They are very much metropolitan birds, and previously when they took the new little ones for an outing they kept very close to the bank, to avoid the trip boats, rowers, yachts and general river business. This year the cygnets were born in April, and because of the virus rules banning rowing and sailing and motorboats, the river is completely unused by human beings. Today I watched the four little fluffy adventurers taking off from the adults and playing in the middle of the river, ignoring their angry parents who were trying to herd them to the side. Like all kids when told not to do something they deem unreasonable, the cygnets were squeaking: ‘Why?’ I watched this charade for about half an hour, something I would never have done BC. It gave me great pleasure. I will watch the cygnets’ development with trepidation. They seldom all survive, and whereas before I only vaguely cared, this time I feel a special new bond with them. If I am not careful it will become an antirrhinum situation. I am new to this naturalist stuff. I am apt to humanise animals and flowers – anthropomorphising, it is called. This is frowned upon by proper country folk. Which is why they can happily kill birds, and foxes, and deer, and cut down forests.
My ornithological discoveries have not been limited to swans. I have not encouraged birds to visit my balcony, as they seem to think of it as a lavatory, but now I am desperate for company of any sort. Two wood pigeons (I looked it up – they have white splodges on their necks) have taken to sitting on my balcony railings. They adore one another, billing and cooing and nuzzling their heads together. I am very jealous. I am touched to see that today they are perched with their bums over the river, after I told them off yesterday for making a mess. I’m slightly less friendly now, as I read that they carry a disease that is very dangerous to old people. Everyone is out to get us.
Just now a crow arrived, gave one squawk, and they flew off. Maybe the crow knows about the virus-carrying pigeons and he was protecting me? Maybe I should make friends with the crow? I’ve seen him around the area quite a lot. I rather like the way he swaggers around on the road outside, unafraid and cocky. I’m sorry that I don’t get more birds visiting. A blue-coloured bird (I didn’t have time to look him up) came and perched on my Sky television dish for about ten minutes. I sprinkled seed around, but he never came back. He probably returned to Dover. Despite my very expensive birdseed – or ‘world-class’, as Boris Johnson says about all his failures: apps, tests, second-rate Cabinet members. Where are the sparrows and robins? Why don’t they come and keep me company? Maybe the crow has seen them off too? I see him looking covetously through my French windows at my lounge. Maybe I’ll be the next to go? The survival of the fittest – and I am ‘extremely vulnerable’.
This is what two months in isolation does to you. I have gone from admiring a blackbird to an Alfred Hitchcock horror film.
15 May 2020
‘Stay alert, control the virus, save lives.’
That poses a bit of a mystical challenge to us all. I certainly feel incapable of alertly being so powerfully controlling, especially while stuck in my home forbidden to go out. In his televised press conference one could practically see Dominic Cummings’s gun in Boris Johnson’s back, as Boris tried to look stern – he had even combed his hair – whilst ordering continuing ‘lockdown’ and also loosening up. But it is all right because he has a ‘road map’ to get us back to normal. I wonder if the road map will be on Google Maps for those who have no idea what a road map is.
16 May 2020
Felt desperately lonely today. It is difficult not to slip into a dystopian-nightmare way of thinking when you have no one to use as a sounding board for your thoughts. I like solitude, but not enforced. For an indefinite period. Even in prison you have a release date. I wish John were here. I disapprove of attributing possible opinions and behaviour to dead people, but I can’t help thinking John would have quite liked this situation. Driven, as we both were, by the Protestant work ethic, he would have enjoyed an excuse not to do thirteen hours a day on a film set. He did not have friends, apart from those he worked with, so having people round for dinner or drinks never happened anyway. He liked it that way. For my part, I would love to hear his doubtless sardonic take on all the political shenanigans. I would sell my damaged soul to hear his comments on the daily briefings that we are receiving on television. Anxious medical puppets weakly trying to restrain Boris Johnson’s desperation to give good news, even when people are dying and our economy is collapsing. They want us to take it deeply seriously, but his apparent inability to resist a lie, especially if it gets a laugh, has forced many a U-turn or retraction, for which he tries to blame The Science – those helpless experts trapped behind rostra either side of him, aghast at his misjudged off-the-cuff remarks. The same thing happened in the US when Trump put forward his theory that injecting with disinfectant was a possible cure, to the visible horror of a woman scientist on the platform. One can’t help thinking there must have been some relief when Boris caught the virus and was whipped off to hospital, then down to Chequers to recover and play with his newborn son for several weeks. Not to mention be with his probably fed-up fiancée. John’s impersonation of Boris – as people still call him, albeit more derisively than chummily of late – would have been cherishable; upper-class twits were his speciality. He would have had even more fun with the wretched Matt Hancock – no relation, I hasten to add – chosen as secretary of state for health, one suspects more for his support of Brexit than any qualification for that or indeed any job in government, and unexpectedly confronted by a catastrophic problem way beyond his skill set to deal with. On days when the news is dire Boris does not appear at the daily briefing, lumbering Hancock with announcing all the bad stuff. To begin with he was quite perky as he read out manipulated statistics, but gradually his eyes have glazed over, and he is stiff with fear when confronted by questions from the press, as he tries desperately to stick to the party line, rehearsed with Cummings, and cunningly constructed to avoid answering any questions truthfully, or comprehensibly, or, when at a loss, at all, ignoring the question completely and rambling on with another random set piece.
I see that look in my mirror too. Rabbit in a headlight. A very shabby rabbit. I am not a pretty sight. My Social Services Outfits, which I favour in France, are positively Vogue front page compared to my London Lockdown Look. I wear tracksuit bottoms which are two sizes too big for me since I became a shrunken vegan, so I either roll them at the waist or, for a change, turn up the trouser legs, or, on particularly wizened days, both. With them I sport old, only occasionally washed T-shirts, one saying, ironically, ‘Funny Women’, coming from a goodie bag given to us at the show a few weeks ago when Lola and I were so happy.
People often say I look young for my age, an effect mainly achieved by having a good haircut. My hairdresser being closed, I now have to sport a cute headband to keep my growing thatch from obscuring my vision, and I look like a disturbing, ancient child. My body is brown thanks to extraordinary weather and having time to sunbathe, but my face is ashen, because I get cold sores if I expose it to sunlight, so when I go out I wear a big battered brown felt hat. It was actually a beautiful hat once, made for me by the very trendy George Malyard, whose revolutionary designs are now archived in the Victoria and Albert Museum. When I wore it in the sixties I was the height of chic. Now, worn over my wan face, a mask over my mouth and nose, and with straggly wisps of dead white hair escaping, I look as though I too should be in a museum. Maybe there is a History of Plagues Department somewhere in which I could feature as a 2020 Pandemic Victim.
18 May 2020
Conscious that my mind is ailing even if my body is not, today I broke all the rules, made a desperate break for it and drove into the West End. A journey that in rush hour can take forty-five minutes or more took me ten. Instead of sitting in the customary traffic jam, I only passed about three other cars. I parked easily behind John Lewis – it really is upsetting to see that stalwart national institution closed down – and I walked to Oxford Circus, half expecting to be arrested, but not only were there no police, there were hardly any people at all. I actually stood in the middle of the road on Oxford Circus and looked down Oxford Street. In the middle. Something that has probably never before been possible in daytime. No buses, taxis or cars, nobody on the pavements. For the first time I noticed that the street is lined with trees. Without all the usual tourists and out-of-towners – Londoners usually give Oxford Street a wide berth – the street is an impressive avenue; a sort of Champs-Élysées. Regent Street too was silent, some shops ominously boarded up in a way that suggested they are permanently closed. There was nowhere to have a coffee. I passed a fabulous Indian restaurant near Regent Street, and it had signs of life. I looked through the window and the waiters, who would usually be the acme of elegance, were lounging around in shirtsleeves. The manager came out and we chatted, at a distance, and I was upset at the awful calamity this is for people who have worked hard for years to build up a much-loved business. Ahmed told me that if they were not allowed to open soon, they would have to go bankrupt. The same thing is happening to my son-in-law, who recently celebrated ten years’ work to create a successful theatre production company, and now has to close down, there being insufficient support for the arts from the government. It is not even mentioned, despite being a huge earner for the revenue, providing thousands of jobs, attracting tourism, enhancing British reputation abroad, and especially helping disadvantaged children with all the outreach groups throughout the country, a few of which the John Thaw Foundation is proud to support. The theatre, music, museums and art galleries are vital to the well-being of our nation. For the Boris/Cummings lot, getting the pubs open takes priority over preserving our cultural life, or even our kids’ education. They think that is what the public wants. Their numerous focus groups have misjudged a lot of the public’s reaction to the situation so far, so they may be wrong. But I suppose our arts and entertainment institutions will remain some way down the list of priorities for a while.
