WILD R ICE
Ican lose a whole afternoon in the spare room. “Just going to do some sorting,” I call to His Nibs. He’s already away, having his postprandial 40-winks with David Suchet. Won’t get a peep till I bring him his Yorkshire Gold and a couple of Rich Tea fingers at 4. I clear a path through the bin bags of old clothes, coats and what have you. Lord knows where it comes from, all this stuff. Really must have a good clear out…
Bath towels, hand towels, beach towels… you’d think we’re running a Guest House! Now then, what’s in here? Old Bluey. Well I never. Picnics at the coast, His Nibs, me and the kids all sitting on it, pretending it was a magic carpet. Faded, threadbare, but still so soft… mmm… smells just the same. Ambre Solaire. I’ll just pop it back for now.
What else? My lemon yellow mini dress. Whatever next. Short? I’ve got a chill in my kidneys just looking at it.
That stain on the hem is the spit of the Isle of Sheppey. Beaujolais.
Friday night. Summer 1960. Me, Joan Willis and Pat ‘Tommie’ Thompson at Guy’s Hospital Nurses’ home.
Shifts so long we’d fall asleep with our girdles still on.
But not on a Friday night. Friday nights we were wild.
Tommie found a way to jimmy the meter with a coat hanger – all three of us had baths. Not just a teaspoon of water covering our nether regions, either, but right to the top. Bubbles, too – a whole bottle of Avon’s Wild
Rose between us.
Then Tommie got the records spinning: Johnny Mathis, Elvis. Dancing, drinking, singing. Laughing so hard I spilled my wine. Breaking the 10pm curfew and sneaking out. Hell to pay if we got caught. Wild! The three of us squeezed on Tommie’s Vespa, warm breeze in our hair, Summer sky strewn with stars. Driving out to Ally pally. The whole city shimmering before us. Ours for the taking.
Oh bugger, there’s the phone. It’s set on ten rings but
I still have to Usain Bolt it to get there in time. If it’s the Dementia Lady wanting me to count back from a hundred in increments of seven then I’m afraid it’s not today, thank you! Haven’t got the time! I’m sure she’s very nice and all but really, what can she tell me? I was on Women’s Gynaecological for forty years – I’ve seen more fannies than she’s had hot dinners!
“What sort of rice do you want, Granny?”
It’s the Grandson, little poppet.
“We’ve already had our lunch, love. Boil-in-the-bag fish with parsley sauce. Very nice.”
“No, for the Ocado – they don’t have the rice you usually get. You can have…” I hear him clicking away on the computer. I remember when he used to sit in the garden in his plastic orange car, “Anything from the shops, Granny? I’m off in my tar!” … “You can have jasmine, risotto or wild?”
Sundays, His Nibs does a chicken curry. Madhur Jaffrey. I’m forever asking him to empty his trouser pockets yet am still picking half-dissolved Polo mints and old hankies from the washing machine drum, but if Madhur wants him to mix half a crushed star anise into a paste with a pinch of cumin and a dab of coriander he’ll do it with bells on. So, if Madhur asks for basmati…
“Granny? Sorry, it’s just that I’ve got my swimming lesson in a bit.”
Outside, the sound of women’s laughter, glasses clinking on next-door’s lawn, a riff of music from the open window of a passing car. Summer. Even now there’s something about this time of year that flutters the heart; short skirts, bare legs, warm nights.
“Wild,” I say. “Let’s get wild.”
Helen Paris works in the performing arts and has toured internationally with London-based theatre company Curious. As research for a performance she shadowed employees in a lost property office which inspired her life-affirming debut novel, Lost Property (Doubleday).