No praise of older women
I once saw Rose, whom I have unkindly described as Cambridge’s most accidentprone old woman, throw herself in front of a bus. She denied that she did this but I saw her with my own eyes. I suppose she wants to die. I don’t blame her. If I was as incapacitated as she is, I would want to die too.
Julia sits up front at our midweek (Wednesday) Eucharist at a church on the fringes of Cambridge. She has the Communion brought to her by the priest, but Georgia, in her late nineties, who sits next to her, still manages to struggle up to the altar to receive. She denies that she wants to reach 100, but we all know that, in her heart of hearts, she can’t wait to get there. Then she may die peacefully.
Next to Georgia sits Susanna, a posh lady who dislikes her name. So I have christened her Fleur (from The Forsyte
which she quite likes. She is of indeterminate age, plump and rather flirtatious. Next to her sits Virginia, who is our pastoral advisor and married to an old friend of mine, an EX-BBC man. I once tried to talk to her in her pastoral capacity and explain that I was (and am) a sex addict who lusts uncontrollably after young (often under-age) girls, but she refused to listen to me. ‘You should consult a psychiatrist,’ was all she had to say. Not very much help.
Next to June sits Chloe, heir to an industrial fortune, to whom I was once engaged. She broke it off at the last moment and I don’t blame her. She said she had had enough troubles with her first husband and didn’t want to risk it again. Also, I expect my reputation had preceded me. But she is still fond of me. (There was no physical attraction on my side; I don’t fancy old women.)
Next to Chloe sits Hannah, another very old woman. I know nothing about her except that she wears surgical stockings. Next to her sits Elizabeth, in her seventies, the only sensible member of these Wednesdayites, as we call ourselves. She is a retired fellow of a Cambridge college. She makes us all coffee and helps me with the Times crossword. She is really the only one whose company I can stand.
I am a churchgoing atheist – I find the services soothing – but I really can’t stand the other people, even though I am old myself. I got into a very abrasive conversation with one of these ladies – I won’t say which – one afternoon. We were discussing Paris and I happened to mention that I had been there that morning. (This is perfectly possible: petit déjeuner at the Gare du Nord; Eurostar; lunch in London; fast train from King’s Cross). She thought I was making it up and spread the word that I was a fantasist. I might as well have said that I had been on Mars. I suppose she had led a circumscribed life. I wondered if she had ever been to the centre of Cambridge, in whose leafy suburbs she dwells.
I, however, have led the opposite of a circumscribed life. If anything, I have had too many experiences, rather than too few. One is as bad as the other, I suppose. But if you really question old people about their lives, their one expressed regret is that they didn’t take more risks. I could never say that.
The Oldie