Notes to my Mother-in-Law and How Many Camels Are There in Holland?: Two-book Bundle. Phyllida Law
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never have a normal wrist again.’
‘My dear,’ said Mrs Wilson, clutching my arm, ‘I’m deformed.’
Boot has been sick under the hall table.
All set for tomorrow, then? We should leave by 10.30 a.m. so we’ll have to forget the brass this week. It seems very early to leave for a twelve o’clock appointment but I’m worried about the parking. Gloucester Place is one way and tremendously long as streets go, which means we’ll have to go right down Baker Street to turn into it and cruise along trying to find the right number. Let’s hope it’s not raining but the forecast is frightful. I think the brolly is in the car.
I’ll try to park as close to the house as possible, of course, but what we will have to do is to stop the car by the door and see you inside. Then, while you sit in the waiting room for a bit, I’ll park the car comfortably and come back to go in with you. We should have hankies in handbags and some wine gums. Also a biro for the Daily Mail crossword in case we are kept waiting. Most importantly, do not forget the box with deaf-aid, batteries old and new, and the grotty earpiece. Any change you have in your purse will likely come in handy. I think we’ll need two-bob bits for the meter. Lots of them.
I plan to make a slight detour on the way home to pick up fish and chips.
Apparently if I fill in the bit on the back with all the extenuating circumstances I may not have to pay so hang on to your pension for now, darling.
The wee warden was very stricken. He would never have given us one if we’d got there in time but he was writing it out when I arrived, and once they’ve started they can’t stop. They have to complete the beastly thing, you see, because it’s numbered and in triplicate or whatever and he can’t destroy it, or the Authorities would run him over or something. He’s written our story on the back of this piece and I’m to do the same with mine and they will review the situation. He says we might get away with it and we are to apply for one of those orange disabled badges. This means a visit to the doctor and the town hall where apparently they look at you in case you’re a fraud. We’ll do it. Then we’ll park on yellow lines and block bus lanes.
Our Mr Parnes is ex-RAF, did you know?
Could you hear him or were you just pretending? You said, ‘Yes,’ a lot.
I suspect him of speaking quietly to test your apparatus.
He says you mustn’t wash it, darling. No harm done apparently but the battery had to be replaced again. Do you remember when I washed the coffee-grinder and wrecked the engine?
We’ll start the Waxol treatment tonight. He says we should use it for a week each month and I will check the earpiece with cotton-wool and a toothpick.
Mr P put a biro mark on the earpiece and it’s miles further up the wheel so it’s nearly at full blast and I am going to fix it with some sticky tape as I think it is liable to slip. There is just a possibility that we may have to pad one leg of your specs.
Maybe it was a bit silly of us to leave it on in the car. It was Mr P’s idea but then he probably doesn’t drive a Volkswagen. The plan is to train your ears again to accept different levels of sound. We’ll start in the garden with the birds and progress to washing-machines and Hoovers.
I notice that when he plays selected noises on his machine you seem to nod more often at the treble end of the scale, which accounts for the fact that you can still hear me calling you for lunch.
Also, I thought he was reassuring and sensible on the subject of nerves. Apparently that’s why you hear the first words of a sentence and then everything fades. You have always said it was fright that stops you hearing Fred on the phone. ‘Hello’ is fine and then it’s pure panic. It’s the ability to relax and concentrate at the same time, which is needed here. Good training for tight-rope walking. I always do deep-breathing when I’m nervous. It was a terrific help in my driving test but God knows what it would do to a telephone conversation.
Everything is easier in a familiar place with a familiar face. Then you can sit and relax and we must sit directly in front of you and in a good light. If you can’t see someone it’s very difficult to hear them.
Mrs Wilson says that’s why the minister is difficult to hear, and he will put his hand over his mouth. Mind you, he is a bit deaf himself, the church echoes and his microphone is faulty.
Mrs Wilson says Mr Wilson is getting deaf and she is trying to keep it from him. You are not alone. Beethoven was deaf. Did you know that? Stoners. Deaf and German. What a disaster. Quite a lot of musicians go deaf. Perhaps you think that’s not so surprising.
I’m sorry the drops hurt but I think we must persevere. I’m sure the crackling noise is the wax dissolving and moving about. I’ll warm the bottle tonight. Then you can put a little bit of cottonwool in your ear to hold it in.
Mother rang to say that Mrs Lees is laid up. She was painting the ceiling in the bathroom and she got on to a chair in the bath to do it. Makes me dizzy to think about it. Paint everywhere and severe bruising.
No, not gardening. I was burying the contents of the Hoover.
Eleanor said I was to dig a trench for the sweet-peas very early on and fill it with anything I could find. Sweet-peas are gross feeders, she said. I hope they like carpet fluff, hair and bits of old Boot.
The gunge was everywhere. I took the Hoover into the yard, plugged it in with the bag off and gave some sparrows a very violent dustbath.
I remember Aunt Ella once used her Hoover like that to dry her hair. Unfortunately she used egg whites as a conditioner. She used to rinse them off with vinegar or camomile tea to bring up the colour. (She had glorious auburn curls.) Anyway she still had the egg whites on when she bent over to switch the Hoover on and test the air-flow so she ended up with what looked like a grey fur bathing cap. We were enchanted.
Her beauty tips were legion. She used to wrap bits of lint soaked in witch-hazel and iced water round old shoe trees—the kind with a wooden toe at one end, a knob at the other and waggly metal in between—and then she would sit biffing her double chins with the padded toe and saying, ‘QX, QX, QX.’ Wonderful woman.
So, anyway, I’ve buried it all. I expect the minister’s cats will dig it all up. No sooner do I turn fresh earth up than they all waltz in and pee. He has four, you know, and I saw the big ginger one with feathers sticking out of its mouth. There’s a fiendish wall-eyed tom from the flats who dug up all my hyacinths and the banana skins under our roses.
Mother’s neighbour at Ardentinny went all round the coast to pick up a dead rat found on the beach so that she could bury it under her rosebed. They’ll eat anything, she says. Roses, that is.
I tipped your button box on to the Times to search for curtain hooks. Found plastic and brass. You know, it’s an historic collection. There’s that big green button which belonged to the first coat we bought you at C & A’s. You were horrified by the price but it was a great success. Where the hell is it? Did we leave it in Scotland?
Soph came in and started a personal treasure hunt. She has chosen eight different coloured buttons and is presently cutting off the ones on her pink cardigan to replace them with this rainbow set.
Good