I was driving. I couldnt see very well. There was a slipstream of lights coming towards me. I was driving fast, dangerously but with style. Tom was beside me, laughing that lovely laugh of his. We were like kids in the dark, excited but a little frightened. Oh my God, this was how it should be.
Then I woke and I was sitting on my balcony. It was getting dark, and I could see the car lights in the distance. Well, I dont know if they were in the distance. I cant see that well, Im nearly ninety-six. My neighbour at the home, Nancy, she hates being so near the road, but her hearing is much better than mine. I cant hear the cars. Its a distant, silent vista, which can be whatever I like, because my eyes and my brain arent too fussy.
Ive never driven in my life so Im used to relying on the public transport. I can get round the place, despite being ninety-five.
I like being ninety-five. At least, I like it better than not being ninety-five. Some of them here, they moan and groan about wanting to die until youd like to put them out of their misery personally. Whingers, theyve been like that all their lives, you can tell. Im a believer in euthanasia, but not yet thank you.
I like to enjoy myselfBingo! I yell, even though its such a stupid game, I like it. And clothesI still love clothes. I flaunt myself, to no-one in particularto myself, to the world. But I do have some sadness in my life at present, an understanding, a realisation. I realise I failed my most important task. Which is a bad realisation at 95, because theres not much you can do to fix it.
It comes from my cheerful nature, thats the irony. Im always smoothing things out, saying they dont matter so much, telling myself things arent important. But I should have taken more notice.
They serve dinner at five oclock here. Suits the night staff. I always have the soup and bread and cheese. I like that. It reminds me of Sunday night tea round the fire. My father was a school teacher. He was loved, he was respected, he taught the twelve times twelve, reading and spelling and poetry, encouraging the bright ones to bigger and better things, cajoling the slower ones.
I never went to school. I was sick, but I heard about it when he came home. Larger than life! What a man! And my mother, a saint, a singer, a woman with a heart of gold. Everyone knew her, loved her, admired her. We were such a little family, the three of us, proud of ourselves, maybe a little full of ourselves.
I came from a line of only childrendaughters, far back as my mother remembered. I think about my marriage when I go to bed. I have a TV in my room, but I never watch it. A lot of the old dears sit round the TV all day in the lounge. Itd drive me to distraction. I go out sometimes on the bus. I love to look at the frocks, maybe layby something for my 96th birthday. When I get into bed, I just pick up the Wind in the Willows and read a little and drop off with the characters in my head.
I married Tom. He was a butcher, a cheeky, flirty butcher who put on a performance for all his customers. We wanted to break that line of daughters. We were going to have a dozen kids. But we didnt. We had trouble as they called it then, but we made the best of it. We had our fun together, like kids. We used to get into the bath togethernaughty fun. We used to chase each other. We used to read childrens books to each other in bed. We gave up on having children and we worked on being children.
Then Tom died suddenly, and I found I was pregnant with Susan. Life was dark, and so was Susan. Whats wrong with Susan? I kept asking myself. She was a pretty baby, but sullen. I didnt understand her, I wouldnt bother. I was a mother to her, but truth is, I didnt love her enough and worry about her as a mother should. She wasnt my sort of person and I blamed her for that. Itll be alright, I told myself. I was intent on being cheerful.
And later, when Susan wanted to talk about it, I brushed her off. Dont dwell on it dear. For Gods sake.
And she married, and she married again, and then again and again. Then, she had the twins and they were too much for her. So I brought them up, while she limped along with half a life. Drove me mad. Why didnt she? Why couldnt she? But really, I failed her. I completely failed her with my blind and stupid optimism, with my Bingo, with my everything will be alright.
And I cant make it right. Im ninety-five, and I cant make her life right. Today though, I put a dress on layby for her. I didnt think about what I like. I thought about what she likes. And I felt so wonky and emotional when I came home, I thought maybe I wont make it through to pension day, let alone to ninety-six. So I bought a card, and I put the layby ticket in it. And I wrote a note to her, saying I was sorrysorry I took her children and her life, and to pick up the dress with her inheritance. The thing is, thats all I can do now, a change of clothes and a sorry note. Its not quite enough though, is it?
Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Helen Townsend.