therapy they’ve devised?’ But this doesn’t draw her out either; she only gives me a funny look. The funny look. The look you give dying people who’re seeing things.
Now, here come Richard Elvers and his missus. See how fine they look together – all the deportment and elegance that money can buy. You’d have to say Charlie’s chosen wisely, because they complement each other well. Both fleshy, both anally retentive, both driven. Elvers is a big, sandy-haired man with a safely red complexion (he doesn’t drink). He favours dark, double-breasted suits which rationalise his fat. So does she. ‘Hello, Lily’ – he leans and pecks at me, as if I’m carrion already – ‘I’ve just spoken to Molly and she’s given the family seat a good seeing to.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’ Now the Filipino’s got her act together – I shall return!
‘The car’s right outside on a double yellow – so we’d better get going.’
‘Upsy-daisy,’ says Natasha, and she and Richard lever me to my feet. I bestow a few valedictory smiles on the supernumeraries in the other beds – no need to say au revoir. Sister Smith is at the nursing station together with the two nurses who’re coming on for the night shift. ‘Good to see you up, Mrs Bloom, and on the arm of such a handsome gentleman.’ She has, presumably, assumed that Elvers is one of mine. For shame – really the woman is a fool. Still, I smile as best I can, give her a flash of the plastic. After all, this will probably be the penultimate time I leave the hospital.
Chapter Two
I ’m glad he’s got a ticket – although sad it’s only an interim, sixteen-pound, fine. He deserves an unfixed penalty, our Richard; a free-floating axe should swing permanently above his head, ready to cleave him if he ever does anything wrong. And wherein lies his fault, this upright entrepreneur who’s had the good grace to marry, look after and even be faithful to a daughter I myself could frankly do without? He’s successful – we don’t like that. After all, anyone can be a success, but it takes real guts to be a failure. Richard is gutless – which perhaps explains his boyish buoyancy. There’s nothing in that puerile belly of his save for the gas of marketing, without which – as any fule kno – there can be no oxygen of publicity.
So, we settle ourselves and our tumours in the blue confines of the Mercedes and set off. Richard is fuming a little – but only internally. The car is like Richard himself: stylishly unstylish, corpulent, solid, efficient. And navy – part of the senior German service. Mercedes pride themselves so much on the longevity of their vehicles it surprises me they bother to bring out new models at all. One would rather think that now, as we power down the home straight – I say ‘we’ advisedly-towards the millennium’s end, they’d reintroduce the older models again. ‘Ladies and Gentleman, meine Damen und Herren, Mercedes-Benz of Düsseldorf, for a few seasons automobile-manufacturers by appointment to the Thousand-Year Reich, are proud to present the all old, all new, Horseless Carriage! Assembled lovingly by three ancient artisans, veterans of the Battle of Sedan, the Horseless Carriage features an entirely wooden body and a solid metal dashboard! Vases and reticules are optional, but every single Horseless Carriage comes with antimacassars as standard – ‘
‘Look, Mumu,’ Natty breaks in – she’s in the back with me, the grown-ups are in front – ‘there’s Jewmar.’ And indeed there, on the corner of Prince of Wales Road, is Jewmar – or what used to be Jewmar when the girls were kids. All that remains now is the black outline of lettering stencilled on the brickwork. Jewmar – or Lewmar, to give it its correct name-was a dry-goods store owned by Lewis and Mary Rubens, the couple who lived next door to us in Hendon in the sixties and seventies. Lewis and Mary – hence Lewmar; hence, to our anti-Semitic wits,
Now, here come Richard Elvers and his missus. See how fine they look together – all the deportment and elegance that money can buy. You’d have to say Charlie’s chosen wisely, because they complement each other well. Both fleshy, both anally retentive, both driven. Elvers is a big, sandy-haired man with a safely red complexion (he doesn’t drink). He favours dark, double-breasted suits which rationalise his fat. So does she. ‘Hello, Lily’ – he leans and pecks at me, as if I’m carrion already – ‘I’ve just spoken to Molly and she’s given the family seat a good seeing to.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’ Now the Filipino’s got her act together – I shall return!
‘The car’s right outside on a double yellow – so we’d better get going.’
‘Upsy-daisy,’ says Natasha, and she and Richard lever me to my feet. I bestow a few valedictory smiles on the supernumeraries in the other beds – no need to say au revoir. Sister Smith is at the nursing station together with the two nurses who’re coming on for the night shift. ‘Good to see you up, Mrs Bloom, and on the arm of such a handsome gentleman.’ She has, presumably, assumed that Elvers is one of mine. For shame – really the woman is a fool. Still, I smile as best I can, give her a flash of the plastic. After all, this will probably be the penultimate time I leave the hospital.
Chapter Two
I ’m glad he’s got a ticket – although sad it’s only an interim, sixteen-pound, fine. He deserves an unfixed penalty, our Richard; a free-floating axe should swing permanently above his head, ready to cleave him if he ever does anything wrong. And wherein lies his fault, this upright entrepreneur who’s had the good grace to marry, look after and even be faithful to a daughter I myself could frankly do without? He’s successful – we don’t like that. After all, anyone can be a success, but it takes real guts to be a failure. Richard is gutless – which perhaps explains his boyish buoyancy. There’s nothing in that puerile belly of his save for the gas of marketing, without which – as any fule kno – there can be no oxygen of publicity.
So, we settle ourselves and our tumours in the blue confines of the Mercedes and set off. Richard is fuming a little – but only internally. The car is like Richard himself: stylishly unstylish, corpulent, solid, efficient. And navy – part of the senior German service. Mercedes pride themselves so much on the longevity of their vehicles it surprises me they bother to bring out new models at all. One would rather think that now, as we power down the home straight – I say ‘we’ advisedly-towards the millennium’s end, they’d reintroduce the older models again. ‘Ladies and Gentleman, meine Damen und Herren, Mercedes-Benz of Düsseldorf, for a few seasons automobile-manufacturers by appointment to the Thousand-Year Reich, are proud to present the all old, all new, Horseless Carriage! Assembled lovingly by three ancient artisans, veterans of the Battle of Sedan, the Horseless Carriage features an entirely wooden body and a solid metal dashboard! Vases and reticules are optional, but every single Horseless Carriage comes with antimacassars as standard – ‘
‘Look, Mumu,’ Natty breaks in – she’s in the back with me, the grown-ups are in front – ‘there’s Jewmar.’ And indeed there, on the corner of Prince of Wales Road, is Jewmar – or what used to be Jewmar when the girls were kids. All that remains now is the black outline of lettering stencilled on the brickwork. Jewmar – or Lewmar, to give it its correct name-was a dry-goods store owned by Lewis and Mary Rubens, the couple who lived next door to us in Hendon in the sixties and seventies. Lewis and Mary – hence Lewmar; hence, to our anti-Semitic wits,
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