How to get a life

New YorkNew York

 

 

 

Annabel had gone to the States and come back with this book called “Get out there and get yourself a life.” She had insisted she read it.  Despite her hatred of self-help books and their self righteous advice that only seemed to work for the writers she had gone through it and decided it needed another title- “Get out there and get yourself a man.”

 

The writer Kim Bradley thingy … something double barrelled who had been a high flyer in the stock exchange had met Mr Right – a brilliant neurosurgeon; decided that the cut throat world of the New York Stock Exchange had lost its attraction,  got married and lived in some gigantic house somewhere in Boston. Sounded like one of those irritating afternoon TV films made in the eighties.

 

Anyway when Kim had turned 36 her mother had been diagnosed with something serious and had said don’t let me die without seeing you happily married.  This had been enough to stop Kim from sitting down and waiting for Mr Right to come to her. She decided to get off her derriere and go track him down.

 

She had accomplished this by drawing a list of all the places where men liked to hang out or where they just could be found. She would list the American example and had helpfully included the English equivalent just to increase the transatlantic appeal of the book to other singletons across the pond. –

 

  1. Train stations/Greyhound buses/ Public Transport/London Underground
  2. Churches
  3. Supermarkets/Retail outlets/The Mall
  4. Hospitals
  5. The Jailhouse/The Police Station/Fire Station/Army Barracks
  6. Sports events i.e.- Softball/ Basketball/Football stadium
  7. Sorority Events/ Alumni Events for Universities i.e. – Association of Lawyers/Doctors/Engineer yearly balls
  8. The School/Cookie mornings/PTA Events
  9. The Library/Internet Café
  10. Bars/The Pub/Discos/Raves/Restaurants
  11. Theatres/Cinema Houses
  12. Self –help seminars/ Business world/Seminars/
  13. Banks
  14. Car Shows

 

By the time she got to 14 I was in tears. Of laughter.

 

“Ooh…number 5 looks promising.  All we need to do is to hang outside the police station down the road and look for any of the old Bill to emerge and go up and say to any fit officer….Excuse me…but I’m really lost and I need you to show me the way…

 

Annabel looked hurt.|” I should have known you will turn the whole thing into a joke….look do you like spending every Friday night at home watching Friends?

 

I thought long and hard. “Its better than hanging outside ….|”I snatched the book and read the list again in a mock American accent…”Train stations, churches, the Mall, hospitals, the jailhouse….Wow…my mum will like that …looking for men in the jailhouse…I can see shades of Jailhouse rock in there girl…..

 

Annabel’s lips were a thin red line.

 

Or whatever.  According to her mother she was too choosy or not doing enough to make herself look presentable.  Short of asking the next eligible male she saw on the street to marry her she didn’t know what else she was supposed to do.

 

She was 39 and she should be anxious about her ever advancing biological clock, the fact that she had been single for the past 15 months and that in the past few years she had only had one date which had ended in disaster – he had forgotten his wallet at home (or so he claimed) and his phone kept ringing during the date.

 

Not good.

 

“I’m out of here.”

 

“Enjoy the party.”

 

“I did invite you but you have to be such a party pooper!”

 

“It’s Friday. I want to sit down with my hair tied up in a scarf, in my old baggy dressing gown and eat lots of ice –cream while I watch footie.”

 

“You are such a stereotype.” Annabel walked off. “Except for the football.”

 

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Susannahs Box 2

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I notice that there is a spiders web forming around the door when I open the gate.  The garden is full of weeds and the neighbours flytipping- rusty stinking cans of beans, a couple of boxes from the fast food place down the road and a cat jumping out of what used to be our dust bin.

 

It is good thing Susanna wasn’t here to see this. She used to be so proud of this garden. I can remember how she used to shout at us when we used to walk on the grass instead of the pavement.

 

I don’t know why she bothered. It was only a bit of grass, I informed her once and I got a clip around the ear.

 

It may be a bit of grass to you, but it’s the only garden we have got.

 

I let myself into the house and try hard not to sneeze at the damp and musty smell that hangs in the air.

 

I stare at the Susanna’s chair.  Almost expecting her at any time to ask me to change the channel. I brought her a remote control device and she refused to use it even when the Macmillan nurse kidded her about it.

 

I draw the curtains and open the windows, making my way past boxes and black bin-liners.  I see old Mrs Semple making her way down the road and close the windows again.

 

I make my way upstairs and head for her bedroom.

 

 

There are boxes and trunks in this room.  There is a little box where our reports and school stuff were kept and a bigger trunk full of Susanna’s best clothes. I think she also kept her passport and marriage certificate in there as well. I had promised my daughter Anna I that I would show her some of my stuff; she needed it for a project they were working on in school; Education through the Ages.  Then I spot a box helpfully labelled ‘School stuff’ and rummage thorough papers yellowed with age, photographs and notebooks from a lifetime ago.

 

 Memories of St Agatha’s Primary dance in and out of my head in little disjointed patterns.  Little women in long black robes and white rims telling you what to do, detention in cold draughty rooms, being forced to drink every drop of the compulsory bottle of warm milk long before Thatcher prohibited it.  Then there was the food…we had to get school vouchers for the smudgy green peas,  steak and kidney pie, bread pudding  and fish and chips served in the canteen.  Good stodgy food – no healthy options like salad or pasta in those days.

 

I see some of our colourful artwork and  select one- a confused painting that I had done of myself, the twins and Susanna. Everybody was wearing black and Dad and Aunty Betty were standing far away from the rest of us.  There were big tears streaming from our faces, tapering away into a blue sea that threatened to drown us.

 

I never knew why Susanna kept this picture.

 

I pick up my report card:

 

“Sandra needs to listen more in class.  She is gifted and is good in most subjects apart from Maths.  Although slightly distracted this term Might be good for the caring professions in the future” wrote Miss Y Thornton now dearly departed.

 

At five I was old enough to be  ‘Distracted’  the term Dad left.  The twins were too young to notice then.  Susanna said he had woken up one day and told her that he did not love her any more.  She said she hadn’t asked him any questions because she had felt the same way for a long time.  I think Susanna was secretly relieved that he had gone. She said he changed the minute he got off the boat at Portsmouth.

 

Miss Thornton had been really kind and understanding.  Divorce wasn’t as common back then as it is now.  Despite her predictions I had done quite well in school and gone to college to study accountancy and qualified with my ACCA.  Having grown up worrying about money I had vowed never that my child would not have the same problem.

 

Susanna kept everything. There was a picture of 4A’s trip to Brighton , birthday parties, trips to the zoo as a family.I look at the photograph of myself, my sisters and my parents grinning foolishly at the Camera.

 

I take the folder and the books and put them on the broken dresser that Dad had ruined during one of his DIY enthused moments. That’s when I spot the trunk that Susanna had told me about in the letter she had left for me after her death.

 

“There is a big brown envelope there with some letters for you. Make sure you live a good life.”

 

Susanna had been really ill for a long time and when she went to the hospice she was usually sedated.  If not she became fretful, asking for God to forgive her sins.

 

She maintained that she was an awful wicked woman who didn’t deserve to go to heaven…

 

 It didn’t make sense but the Macmillan nurse told us patients were often like this; towards the end.  Susanna wanted to see a priest to confess all and we made sure Father Patrick from her diocese came to visit her.  She seemed a bit better after that but her condition worsened that weekend and she died soon after.

 

The trunk was my father’s wedding present.  Every time Susanna had a bit of money she would put something in the box.  It was her way of rewarding herself for the effort expended in looking after her family.

 

It took all her strength – and I think the fear of losing the house kept her on the treadmill.

There was also the fear of someone from the social coming to take us away if she couldn’t take care of us properly.

Samantha worked 2 proper jobs- cleaning hospitals in the morning, working in a clothes factory in the afternoon and taking in clothes in to sew to bump up the family income. She had a gift when it came to sewing and I remember how it fascinated me as she would turn the most ordinary piece of material into something beautiful with a few stitches, embroidery and a lot of care.  I take the key she left me and turn it in the lock and open the trunk to reveal neatly packed piles of shirts, trousers, suits, kente clothes, and expensive yards of fabrics.  I pull out a little pink dress and swallow hard.

 

When I was around 8, I got invited to Jenny Pollards birthday and didn’t have a proper frock.  We called dresses frocks in those days. Susanna knew how much I wanted to go and got some pink silk from Brick Lane.  She embroidered the hem, neckline and sleeves with pretty white flowers and even came up with some shiny white pumps.  My sisters were jealous because of this outfit.

 

We don’t have any money….so how come she gets a new frock and shoes!  It’s not fair!

 

  I don’t know why I had to go spoil everything by eating so much that I was sick over everything.  Must have been the sight of that table groaning with all the food we seldom got to eat anymore; cakes, jellies, sausages on sticks, ham sandwiches, and jammy donuts. Mrs Pollard was nice about it though and gave me one of Jenny’s dresses to wear for the rest of the party.  Everyone stared at me after that and when it was time for me to go home Susanna’s face was all squeezed up as if she was in pain.  She thanked Mrs Pollard and yanked me out of the house and when we got outside she looked at me for a long time and made a hissing noise with her tongue. “Why are you disgracing me like this eh? Do we not have any food in our house?”

 

I was about to say that we didn’t- well not really nice food any way but the look on her face stopped me. We went home without a word. 

 

I never did get invited to any more of Jenny’s parties.

 

Sometimes on Saturdays when Susanna had the morning off we would climb on the bed and watch as she opened the trunk and showed us her treasures.  There were laces, gauzes, delicately embroidered laces with hand stitched jewels and pretend diamante, rich velvets and chiffons.  Her wedding gown; all cream and embroidered sliver – neatly packed with mothballs and wrapped in cellophane waiting for the first of her daughters to get married.

The Girl who loved too much – continued

Chris

Chris was a funny guy. We had gone to University together and dated briefly. It hadn’t worked out but I had introduced him to Sandra – the love of his life with whom he had 2 beautiful children. Sadly he lost Sandra to cancer and was widowed 7 years into the marriage.
It was a funny thing. Chris fancied Betty and Betty liked and respected Chris. They worked in the same office. Now where things could go after that I wasn’t too sure but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. Betty was a sweet sensitive girl who loved kids and Chris was a now a middle – aged workaholic with two confused hurting children below the age of 7. His heart was in the right place and for a man who had been through quite a few things in life, he had still remained his sense of humour, optimism and sense of fun. I liked that. I felt that Betty needed someone who did not take life too seriously, loved children and wanted more.
What I wasn’t too sure of was whether Chris fit into the ideal man image that her parents had embedded into her subsconscious.
They wanted a young professional who spoke Twi and knew the culture – I didn’t know how they would cope with a tall, fair English gentleman with two children who didn’t speak any other language but English and whose only contact with Africa had been a package holiday to Egypt in his teens.
How would it all turn out. I guess we would find out after my get together.

What’s love got to do with it?

The swell of rousing music fills the air as a gasp of appreciation escapes from some lips.  Others crane their heads to get a better look at what is going on. Photographers hustle, for good vantage points to get a good picture.

The young woman leaning on her father’s arm is accompanied by a train of ten couples dressed in turquoise satin and cream suits respectively. Their steps are co-ordinated as they move in slow steps to the mellow notes of To God Be the Glory for the great things He has done.

The young bride is dressed in a long white dress heavily embossed with diamante beads – off the shoulders and revealing much more than it should, in keeping with the latest fashion. The dress, like her shoes and the pearl and gold tiara is from abroad. It is that kind of wedding where a lot of stuff comes from abroad – the outfit, the wedding cake, the invitations and the guests. There are dignitaries, family, colleagues, old schoolmates, lovers…friends, enemies …everybody who is ‘somebody’ has packed themselves into the church.  They are all present to witness this young couple take their first steps into the well and tested road leading to matrimony.

The old Pastor who has seen so many stand before the altar and make vows that are legally, spiritually and emotionally binding, gives them a reassuring smile as the procession ends and they stand in front of him.

The brides father reluctantly relinquishes his second daughter to her groom.

The Pastor begins to read the vows, those irritating little details that are meant to have an impact on two individuals and that of generations to come, but no one seems to  be listening. The bride is actually a very beautiful girl under the layers of chocolate soufflé powder mask, but it is a hot day and her bridesmaid dutifully brings out her handkerchief to wipe away the sweat running down her face and spoiling her make up. She doesn’t want her first pictures to look anything but perfect.

Someone is arranging her veil and another is making sure that her silk train doesn’t get too rumpled. The Bride is wondering whether all those haters and backbiters that swore that this day would never happen, are getting a good look at her and how beautiful she looks and regretting being so nasty to her.

What about another key player on this life changing event – the Groom?  No one seems to really pay much attention to him, as he stands tall and handsome, clutching the hand of his new bride and looking into her eyes like a man who has just paid dearly for a new car, and wonders whether it’s going to last the distance of a long journey.  He shuts out the voices of his single bachelor friends that are echoing in his head and tries to ignore the rising fears of what might lay ahead, by looking ahead to the honeymoon – no sorry I meant holiday to come.

He is a very modern 21st century kind of young man, so he doesn’t have the delights of the marital bed to look forward to, having sampled and exhausted the charms of his beautiful bride long ago. He is thinking about the tourist attractions in Hawaii, as there is nothing left in his wife that is worth anticipating. He has sometimes wondered in the past, why every woman has to make such a big deal over an event that lasts a few hours, yet alters a man’s destiny forever.

He hopes that she is worth the colossal sacrifice and expense he is making to marry her.  His mother had pleaded with him, asking him to ensure she was pregnant before marrying her but he had decided to go ahead.  He felt a bit guilty and sorry for the girl. They had been together for almost seven years and he had been her first.   So he felt obligated in a strange kind of way to make her his wife.  As for children, she was in her late twenties, a good time for motherhood.  There was loads of time.

There is another woman whose pride and joy on the day is slightly eclipsed by that of the Mother of the Bride. Yes. It’s the Mother in law.  She is a regal and authoritative as a queen as she surveys the crowd in the church.  It is truly a great gathering, one that has cost thousands of pounds and dollars. As she dances down the aisle as her son and his bride make their way out, she sends up a silent prayer to God that this very crowd will congregate here for the thanksgiving of her grandchild, in nine months’ time.

Three years later…

The pretty young bride hardly smiles nowadays. The slim girlish figure is more rounded but the light in her eyes has gone. She had certain expectations when she got married and in five years every one of them has been dashed. She didn’t marry for this. For Better for Worse…and it has been for worse.

Sometimes, she remembers the words of that timeless song from Tina Turner.

What does love have to do with it?

Part two to follow.