A Certain Age: Twelve Monologues From the Classic Radio Series

  Scene Two: evening, at home. TV in background. She is deflated

  It was sad getting back to the house. I wonder if I should buy some humidifiers – this dead atmosphere can’t be good for the skin. I mentioned it to Sasha once, but she said it was me. “What, my imagination?” I said. And she said, “No, it’s you that causes the dead atmosphere.”

  Sasha did go to university for a while. Her father insisted on it, suddenly taking an interest after fifteen years. He wanted her to go to Oxbridge, which I found out isn’t even a place, so that shows what he knows about it, and I said Bath had some nice shops, so she went there. She’s a very very clever girl but I was right, she’s got no spunk. I’ve heard her tell people she came home because I blackmailed her emotionally, which I most certainly did not. I don’t even know what it means. But that’s her story. “You threatened to top yourself, so I came home,” she says, in the same dull flat way she says everything. If the house was on fire, she’d say, “You’d better call the fire brigade” in the same depressed way other people say “I’ve got that rash back between my toes.” It’s tremendously difficult to enthuse or even engage Sasha. “What now?” she says. “Oh, what now?” I mean, this is just an example, but say I tell her I’m desperately in love with a new man – but what shall I do, he’s married! [Pause for effect] I say it’s so ghastly he never calls. [Pause] “And what if I’m pregnant, Sasha! I’m so happy, I’m so worried, there’s a higher chance of Down’s syndrome at my age, shall I book the test?” [Pause; then angry] Doesn’t she care? What’s the point of sharing information with someone you love if they don’t take it on board? When I got home last night, she pointedly didn’t even ask how Woodlands had been so I just told her. “Darling,” I said, “I feel so happy and relaxed.” She was putting the kettle on, with her back to me. “It’ll pass,” she said. It’ll pass. To think I was going to show her the little plastic pot with the fluff. And then I don’t know, it all went wrong. I said, “I hope you’re coming to my birthday dinner on Friday.” And she said, “Can Mike come?” And when I hesitated, she said, “Well, who else will be there? Last time I counted, you didn’t have a single friend.” So I said people with fat faces shouldn’t wear V-necks, and she walked out of the kitchen, walked out and left me sitting there.

  But what is it to be a mother? It is a one-way street. If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that you must pour yourself, all your love, in your child’s direction and expect nothing in return. You must even accept the Rotter without complaint, who now appears to have moved in, to judge by the number of sheepskin jackets hanging in the hall and the way his car battery is being recharged in the dining room. It was the stress of the Rotter that drove me to Woodlands. She first brought him home about a month ago, a photographer for the glossy magazine she works on, whatever it is, something to do with having nice curtains. Her father got her the job, so we have him to thank for the Rotter as well. Anyway, Mike’s about thirty, dark, divorced, ambitious, hair stuck up like an urchin, eyes of caddish blue. And it’s such a disappointment, to see how he just has to flatter her a little; how she laps it up. Oh Sasha. Can you believe she’s started wearing eyeliner and shortie tops? It’s very hard for a mother to see her lumpen daughter putting on a show of such shallow sexuality. I’ve always told her, “Darling you are LUCKY you’re not a man magnet.”

  Because it does make life very difficult. I mean, a case very much in point. Mike. The Rotter. On his very first night staying here, what happens? I’m in my black satin dressing gown, innocently coming back from the kitchen with my second glass of Evian past the door to Sasha’s room, when the Rotter emerges. Fully clothed but not completely zipped and buttoned. And what does he do when he sees me? “Goodnight then, Janey,” he says, and looms close to peck me on the cheek, I can smell his breath and feel his crisp shirt against me and somehow I turn my head at the wrong moment, and well, it’s almost tongues. When we are disengaged, he whispers, “That’s right.” And then he puts his hands on me, just lightly. “That’s right,” says Mike again, and goes back into Sasha’s room.

  They’ve gone out, I suppose. Although they can’t have gone very far without the car battery. Gerald rang earlier. I said, “Gerald who?” as if the name meant nothing, but I knew perfectly well who it was, I just wanted to give him a hard time. I’d asked him to my birthday dinner on Friday, and he was ringing for details. He said that at Woodlands, he had noticed I had a very positive pink AURORA. I said I don’t know about that, but I am a spring person, and actually talking of pink I’m still all soft from the seaweed wrap as it happens, hurry, hurry, roll up, Gerald, anybody, it’ll wear off by the weekend – although of course I didn’t say that. I just said it’s nice to talk to someone who appreciates your aurora. I never know with the Rotter whether he’s looking at me or not. He stroked the back of my neck the next time he stayed. Sasha had gone up to bed but although I was tired I – well, I don’t know, but I particularly wanted to see the football. And we were sitting there alone watching England play Spurs I think, and he reached out and touched me, just lightly. I had on a rather good push-up bra under a beautiful cream angora sweater, so it was nice to know it worked, and besides this is my house, you know, I can do what I like.

  Sometimes I think I imagined it. The thing on the landing. The angora moment. When I look at him when Sasha’s around, or even when she isn’t sometimes, it’s like looking into a mirror that doesn’t reflect.

  Scene Three: background sound of beauty parlour. Celtic mood music. She is very relaxed

  Sasha’s present to me was a facial (to be honest, I did hint), so I’m having it now before the birthday dinner tomorrow night. With Megan, who is an absolute dear and massages my hands at the same time and tells me all the gossip about the other girls during the part when I can’t speak without cracking the mask and ruining it.

  [Serious] There’s a moment when they stroke your face, the Megans and the Maureens – and suddenly they go down to your neck, and sort-of gather you in, smoothing your neck and shoulders, even your ears. Sort of scooping you and caressing, scooping and caressing – and do you know, it makes me want to cry. Isn’t that silly? [She is upset] I don’t tell people, but once I did dabble in colonic irrigation, and it was frightfully weird and I certainly wouldn’t do it again now I know it involves your bottom, but the woman stroked my tummy so tenderly as she operated the extractor pump, or whatever it was, that I really did burst into tears. Blubbed. In Beauchamp Place. The woman said it happened all the time. She seemed awfully nice at first. She said we’re taught to think all our feelings are deep, deep inside, but actually, for most people, they are right on the surface. After all, the skin is our biggest organ, she said. “Would it be the size of a football pitch if you rolled it out?” I said; “I think I read that somewhere.” And she stopped rubbing my tummy and said of course your skin’s not the size of football pitch, how could it possibly be? And I said, Oh, I’m sorry, I’m always getting things wrong. But I thought there was no need for her to ruin the mood like that. I was only trying to join in.

  Scene Four: evening of the birthday; she’s a bit drunk; sipping wine as she talks; music in background

  Sometimes I wonder how much I love Sasha. She won’t let me say anything to her. And of course, all her life, she hasn’t let me touch her. [Drinks] As a baby she screamed pretty well constantly, so it was hard to tell whether she was particularly distressed when I held her and nursed her. But later, there was no room for doubt, really. If I tried to pick her up, she would hit my face, or kick and scream. Doctor Hughes said it wasn’t personal. I wasn’t to take it personally. If Sasha has a touch taboo, it’s her problem, not yours. She doesn’t want your physical affection, Mrs Phipps, he said; and there’s no point feeling aggrieved. “It’s a one-way street, being a parent,” he said. That’s where I first heard the expression, I think: the one-way street. And I thought, well, I wouldn’t mind a one-way street if things moved along it. But unfortunately ours seems to be a one-way street th
at’s been gridlocked for the past twenty-one years.

  I used to watch mothers blowing raspberries on their babies’ stomachs, cuddling them, clasping them. I still do. Mothers petting their babies; holding hands to cross the road; primping the hair on their grown-up daughters. It’s such a natural thing – to reach out. [She starts to cry] She lets the Rotter touch her. She lets him touch her in front of me.

  Gerald rang. [Drinks] I was just getting ready for tonight, and thinking no, lemon socks, sorry, I really can’t lower my standards, and he rang up to say he couldn’t make it after all, he had a lecture on “Give and take in modern relationships”, but happy birthday Mrs P and perhaps he’d see me next time I was at Woodlands. I was furious. The facial. The seaweed. The incredibly clean navel. Do people think I do all this for my own benefit? I told him he was hardly in a position to lecture other people on give and take when he was clearly incapable of commitment himself, and I pitied anybody who had a modern relationship with him, I was certainly well off out of it myself, perhaps he was the one who needed professional help! He said quietly, “This is ridiculous, I hardly know you, Janey,” and I shouted, “That’s not the point. That’s not the point. I’m thinking if this is how you treat me, how must you treat other people? I’ve a good mind to report you to Woodlands.” And he said, “I think I detect a few rejection issues, Janey!” And he hung up.

  [Drinks] I do wish them well, you know, Sasha and Mike. They said they’d be back from the office at 7.30, the table is booked for nine. I’ll tell them Gerald was too much in awe of me; too afraid of what might happen. They’ll understand. Sasha has never been very keen on my boyfriends, anyway. So she’ll be happy. Or perhaps I’ll say I told him not to come? For her sake, I mean. That’s it. I didn’t want a stranger here. Because it’s true. More than anything, I want my daughter to be happy. [Listens] They’re home. [Deep breath, puts down drink] It’s not my fault if Mike fancies me. The point is, whatever happens, she must never know.

  Scene Five: steam bath/sauna; she’s agitated; it’s hot

  They said I can have a few minutes in the sauna before I see Maureen. It’s so hot in here! I mean, I know that’s the point. But there’s a limit, surely. It’s dark too. And they sent me the high-fibre muesli when they know I prefer the fruit. They’ll say, well, that’s what happens when you turn up at a health farm in the middle of the night. And I’ll say, yes, but it costs a fortune to come here to Woodlands, and you ought to make sure the night receptionist is properly trained, and besides you trade on people having a bad self-image, that’s what Sasha says, you trade on people having a bad self-image, so if my self-image is really really bad at the moment, if I turn to you because I need you, I shouldn’t have to face an inquisition to get in! But that’s what it felt like, like arguing your way into Soviet China or something. “No luggage?” he said. He seemed quite suspicious, just because I didn’t have any luggage, and was still in my cerise birthday taffeta. But in the end, he gave me a key to a top-of-the-range chalet; said they’d try to fit me into this morning’s massage schedule. “This isn’t a hotel,” he explained, more than once. “I know!” I said. “I’m a regular patron! For heaven’s sake, I only went home on Wednesday!” “I just wondered if you thought this was a hotel. Some people do. There’s a Travelodge up the road.” “I want to stay here!” I said. “I want to see Maureen! I know precisely what I want. Thank you!”

  So why doesn’t it feel right? It doesn’t feel right at all. Perhaps when I’ve seen Maureen; when she’s stroked it all away? Or Gerald! I could talk to Gerald, I’m sure of it. I mean, obviously we’ve had our ups and downs lately, but if I’m big enough to put them behind me, I’m sure he ought to be too. Life without drama wouldn’t be very interesting, would it, that’s what I’ll say to him. It’s what I used to say to Sasha, of course.

  So they turned up at 7.30, and I was ready. The backless taffeta was something I’d been saving for ages, and when she came in Sasha was so nice about the effort I’d made that I was truly quite touched. “Happy birthday, Mum, you look foxy,” she said, spotting me in the sitting room and leading Mike in with her. “Great shoes,” added Mike. I was touched, but the moment I started to show it, “Oh don’t cry, Mum,” Sasha said. “Don’t start.” So I sniffed a bit and dabbed my eyes very carefully. But it was lovely to hear her say something nice. “You look lovely too, Sasha,” I said. And yes, all right, it wasn’t exactly true, but there was no need for her to get so impatient straight away. “Like, RIGHT,” she said. “I look ‘lovely’.” “But you do,” I said. She took a deep breath and started to leave the room. “Mike,” I said. “Tell her she’s lovely.” “I’m going to the off licence,” said Sasha. And although she walked quietly out of the house, I noticed she slammed the door.

  Which left me alone with Mike. “Sasha hates attention, I don’t know why,” I said. “She’s a lovely girl. She’s always hated having her photograph taken; I’m surprised she’s going out with a photographer.” Mike made a square frame in the air using right-angled fingers and thumbs, looked at me through it with one eye closed. I smiled at him. Struck a pose. He rolled off the sofa, and pretended to take urgent pictures from the floor, on his knees, while I did the fashion model thing of turning, smiling, frowning, simpering, pointing my chin at different corners of the room. It felt quite natural. “You’re very game, Janey,” he said. I took it as a compliment. Of course it was an odd moment to remind me he was a photographer, but on the other hand, I was beginning to think he was an odd chap altogether. Sasha is no catch, as I may have said already. Even as her own mother, I have to admit Mike’s the first person who’s shown the slightest interest in her. “I wonder if I should go after her,” I said, getting up. But I didn’t get far. He pushed me back down, sat beside me. “I need to say something, Janey,” said Mike. “I know,” I said, softly. I knew what he was going to say. He was going to say that it was madness, but he couldn’t resist me. He took my hand. I held my breath. “Janey?” “Yes, Mike.” “I want to say this in the nicest possible way, Janey. But basically, could you stop coming on to me, please, because it’s really, really embarrassing.”

  [Pretending to make light of it] Crikey, it’s hot in here. They should do something about the thermostat, it can’t be good for you. Hard to breathe. Anyway, we were side by side on the couch, Mike and I, and the lights were low – that’s just the way it was, I hadn’t arranged it. And I suddenly felt this awful desperation. Mike might say he didn’t want me, but I knew he did. I get things wrong a lot, I know I do, it’s true, but I don’t get that thing wrong. I’ve never, ever got that thing wrong. So I leaned across, put my hands to his face, and kissed him. And for a few seconds I had him, he put his arms round me, held me tightly, oh so close, and kissed me back. And then, then he quite roughly pushed me away. At which point Sasha walked back in with a bottle of champagne. And I felt something heavy drop out of my body and roll away.

  Patsy, the cool lady who runs the steam room, just told me Maureen isn’t on duty today. She peered through the heavy-aired gloom to see who was using the sauna, and did a double-take – surprised to see me back so soon, you see. “Did you not go home just a couple of days ago, Mrs Phipps?” she said. I laughed yes, yes, couldn’t keep away. Patsy frowned. She came in and shut the door. “You don’t want to get addicted to treatments, Mrs Phipps.” Don’t worry, I won’t do that, I said. It was hard to concentrate on the here and now, I had been thinking of all those times on holiday when I rubbed sun cream into Sasha’s infant back and she screamed and struggled and ran away half done. “I’m only doing this because I love you,” I used to say, as I held her wrists. “I love you, Sasha. Why do you have to fight me?”

  Patsy was still going on, though. “I’m serious,” she was saying. “There’s a limit to the benefits—” and then she stopped. She could see I was on the verge of crying, I suppose. So she sighed and sat next to me on the bench, even though she was fully clothed, and the place was burning hot. “What are we going to do with
you?” she said, sitting down. I looked down at my slim arms, my smooth legs, the beautiful manicure, the all-over skin of a thirty-year-old. “You look lovely already, Mrs Phipps,” she said. “I’m a spring person,” I said. And Patsy the steam-room lady put her arm around me, and squeezed me very tight.

  The Father

  JOHN is nice, and quite funny; a bit slow and often charmingly self-amused, as if he’s done a lot of drugs. While he talks about being dynamic, he isn’t. His big problem is that he’s always trying to suppress unpleasant feelings and worries, but isn’t very successful at it. Because of what’s recently happened to him, he is very vulnerable.

  Scene One: cello practice in background; low-ish level with occasional scrapings; very persistent, however. A simple, sad piece. Whoever is playing this – it’s actually John’s twelve-year-old son David, heard from another room – is determined to learn. John is attempting to sort some vinyl records; he is having a fag, and very relaxed

  [Inhales] The thing about these old records, [he flips a couple of albums] is that half of ’em I don’t even recognise. Which is a bit disturbing, if you know what I mean. [Flip] I mean, I’m not gonna let it bother me, but in among me Sex Pistols and me Paul Weller and what have you, I seem to of got, look, Rostropovich doing the Elgar, [looks at it, a bit confused] and I’m not being funny, but when you fancy a nice old head-bang at midnight, like, which is when you normally start rummaging through this sort of old stuff, it’s not Rostropovich doing the Elgar that you automatically reach for. [Looks at it again] Must be Kaff’s. I’m not gonna let it worry me, though. No, no, not worth worrying about. “Some fings are worth worrying about, John, and some fings aren’t. Your trouble is you’ve got too much imagination.” It’s a mystery, that’s all. [Smokes] Perhaps a burglar broke in and left ’em, eh? Ha. Coz there’s loads more, look. [Flips] Jacqueline Du Pré. [Flip, flip, flip] Pablo Casals. Paul Tortelier. Well, at least I’m starting to spot a theme, eh? Kaff must of forgotten to tell me about them, that’s all. The thing is, they can’t be David’s, can they, coz, well, he’s twelve. And twelve-year-olds, even when they’re [proud of him] top-of-the-class prodigies on the old vi-o-lon-cello like David is, they don’t go in for scratchy Deutsche Grammophon at thirty-three and a third. It’s all digital with kids. Oh yeah. Twenty thousand tracks on a device the size of a stick of chewing gum, that’s the way of it now. Mrs Watson, she’s David’s cello teacher, she was telling me about it, kids downloading the equivalent of all the music in this room – hours and bloody hours of it – onto these tiny white machines. Amazing, really. A lot of the kids at work have got ’em. You’d think, at a call centre, you’d get enough of headphones, wouldn’t you? I know I do. I got ears like hotplates by the end of the day. You could put me on me side, like, and use me as a hostess trolley. [Inhales thoughtfully] Yeah, stick of chewing gum! Or packet of chewing gum. Or packet of fags anyway. [Thinks about it] Either way, ha, I can’t think of anything worse.