Notes to my Mother-in-Law and How Many Camels Are There in Holland?: Two-book Bundle. Phyllida Law
at the age of fourteen. She had a scar on one hand from when an irate employer had biffed her with the handle of a broom she had left standing on its bristles. I loved her stories of cruel cooks and horrid housekeepers. It was like having lunch with Catherine Cookson.
Between the juicy bits we organized our days, and it was some while before I realized she was just a bit, as she would say, ‘Mutt and Jeff’. It was quite a few years before we all grasped that shouting wasn’t enough. After some hilarious misunderstandings, and to avoid confusion, I stuck comprehensive lists on the fridge door beside a large calendar marked with coloured crayons. It still wasn’t enough. Gran always said she’d rather be blind than deaf, and aware at last that she was becoming increasingly isolated, I began to write out the day’s gossip at the kitchen table, putting my notes by her bed before I went to mine.
One night my husband wandered off to his, muttering darkly that I spent so much time each evening writing to Gran that I could have written a book—‘And illustrated it!’ he shouted from the stairs.
Here it is.
Your suspenders were 50p. John Barnes only had pink ones. Got these up Post Office. Change on kitchen table.
The chiropodist is calling at 1.30 p.m. tomorrow (Tuesday). Inconvenient creature. We will have to lunch early and you can have a snooze when he’s gone.
Dad is golfing tomorrow. Emma is going to spend the day at the library. I think Sophie and I should be home about teatime. Lamb stew on stove. Kettle on about quarter to five? Ta.
Dear, I honestly don’t think they would make a mistake like that. They only took a wax impression of the deaf ear, and that must be the one you are meant to put it in I think. Why not try Vaseline? I don’t think licking it is a good idea.
I’ll get some pearl-barley tomorrow, Gran. Sorry about that, the kids hate it, you see. It’s a bit slimy. I suppose it is very good for you. There was a woman in Ardentinny who used to boil it and strain it and drink the water from it every day. I think she had something wrong with her kidneys.
The piano tuner is coming tomorrow at 3 p.m. so when you are dusting don’t bother to put back the photos as such. He usually moves everything himself but I’m not sure if he can see terribly well. He seems never to look me straight in the eye and there is something odd about his glasses. It would be awful if he dropped Churchill. Let’s give him the last of the rock-cakes. I’ll be home so there is no need to stay downstairs for the bell.
Dusters aren’t all that expensive. Perhaps we could use that stockingette stuff the butcher sells? Don’t sacrifice your bloomers in this rash manner. Heaven knows where we’ll get interlocking cotton now Pontings is closed. I might try that haberdasher’s next to Woolworths in Hampstead. She still keeps those skeins of plaited darning wool. Last time I was in she told me she was one of the first sales ladies in John Lewis. Apparently they lived over the shop in those days in some sort of hostel, which was very strictly run. She got something like 17/6 per week, I think. You probably got that for a year.
Listen, we must practise. That Mr Parnes said we must. Ten minutes every day in a carpeted room, he said. Preferably with curtains. So I will come upstairs with your tea tomorrow and we will have ten minutes’ practice in your room. The kitchen is far too noisy.
I have to sit directly opposite you and speak slowly. As soon as you get used to my voice I’ll send someone else up with tea and we’ll do a few minutes longer each day. It is essential that we go about this sensibly.
You may have to hold it in your ear for the moment and I’ll ring Mr Parnes about other fitting arrangements. He agrees that the main disadvantage is the tiny switch. The tips of one’s fingers do go dead after a certain age and how one is supposed to adjust the beastly thing when there is no feeling in one’s fingers I can’t think.
I’ll mark the little wheel thing with a biro when you feel it’s about right and we can adjust it before you put it in. That’s settled. Practice will commence at 5 p.m. precisely tomorrow, Wednesday 9th inst., 1978.
Thank you very much, Gran. I will go round to Kingston’s tomorrow as they close Thursday afternoon. Is it collar you want? Or is it slipper? Green or smoked? Middle gammon is something like 84p per lb. It’ll be a great help to have something to cut cold on Saturday.
I found your splint in the hall drawer.
I tell you what I suggest. Just give up knitting for a while and see if that doesn’t help. The physiother-apist I went to for my shoulders thought knitting was really bad for you. Especially with aluminium needles. Aluminium gets a very bad press these days. Mother has changed to enamel because she thinks Uncle Arthur is going potty. She says if you put cold water in a hot aluminium pan it pits the metal and you are swallowing chemicals with every mouthful. She says Aunt Avril used to put bicarbonate in with rhubarb and cabbage and an evil green slime used to rise to the top, which was poisonous. And that’s what’s the matter with Uncle Arthur. I could suggest a few other things.
I didn’t know Aunt Min was deaf. I thought she just had diabetes. You must ask her how she gets on with the NHS box model. Maybe the knobs are bigger. Let me put a new battery in for you. They are such wretched fiddly little things and apparently it’s only too easy to leave them switched on when not in use. Mr Parnes says one should last you six weeks, but you could have left it on overnight, and that would explain the difficulty. I had a deaf landlady when I was a student and she was forever leaving her apparatus on, when it would give piercing shrieks and she couldn’t hear and we would all have to look for the box. It was nearly as big as a wireless.
If there was a thunderstorm she used to unplug herself, cover all the mirrors with dishcloths and shut herself in the larder under the stairs. Nice woman.
Now, don’t forget to make a list of worries for Mr Parnes and we will sort them all out on Friday morning. I’m afraid your routine will be very much disturbed. Let’s do the floors on Saturday and the brass before we go on Friday. Variety is the slice of life, as Aunt Avril used to say.
We used the wooden knitting needles for propping up the house-plants. Remember?
Nothing much of note to report. This weather will kill us all. Take an extra pill. Be a devil. Called on Mrs Wilson as I passed to check on her wrist. She broke it on Tuesday, did I tell you? She tripped on one of those proud paving stones opposite number 48, and in order to stop herself from falling she put out her hand to steady herself against one of the lime trees.
‘It just snapped like a twig,’ she said.
Being Mrs Wilson, she clattered on up the road and did the shopping before stumbling back home with a wrist like a whoopee cushion. The doctor showed her the X-ray. She says it looked like a crushed digestive biscuit.