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met crabbier old people than Gwen in my time. People
at the Arnecombe nursing home who were crotchety day in, day out.
With Gwen it'll be because she's ill. I do wonder about this
Rosemary though. Like I wonder about Anne. What special qualities
does Anne have that I don't? People are always telling me how easy
I am to get along with. Well then. It'll just be that Gwen's used
to Anne.
    While Gwen's
recovering from the shock of the fall, I make her breakfast, and
I'm thinking how things were never quite the same after our big
trip up to Wimbledon. I'd be sitting there watching it and I'd say,
Where are all the mutinous tennis players these days? Tennis went
through a dead rebellious time, like rock music. Pete Townsend
smashed his guitar on stage in the sixties and in the eighties John
McEnroe slammed his racket on the grass until it bounced. He
shouted, Chalk flew up, and You're the pits man, and, I said it to
myself, taking it all one step further than his predecessor
Nastase. People used to fight and be devoted to the cause. People
stood up and shouted their anger down microphones or smashed their
rackets against authority. But what happened to them?
    I'll tell you
what happened. They became like June. Reverting back to type. Bog
standard magnolia. Safe. I didn't put it like that to June, mind.
But she knew I was getting itchy feet, without me having to spell
it out.
    I bring in the
poached eggs and tea and Gwen's face perks up. "Poached eggs. Just
what I like when convalescing. I'm not sure about the tea
though."
    "What about
some drinking chocolate then?"
    "Drinking
chocolate? Yes. Rosemary always makes me that," she says. "Bring me
my photograph box too, would you?"
    I go and make
her drinking chocolate and bring it in with her photos.
    "What did you
say his name was?"
    "Whose
name?"
    "Your
boyfriend's."
    Shit,
what did I say?
Did I tell her that my brother was called Elliot? Gwen's memory can
be sketchy but sometimes it's as sharp as glass.
    "Gordon. His
name's Gordon."
    Well, we did
kiss the once. He was even planning to father a child with me or
June once.
    "Gordon. A
gardener, you say?"
    "Landscape
gardener, yeah."
    "I was
wondering ... no ... I shouldn't really ask."
    "Go
on."
    "Well, it's
the garden. I hate to put on Mrs Parrott. She's so busy, and she's
such a little thing, and as your boyfriend is a gardener anyway I
thought ... "
    I know what's
coming.
    "I was
wondering if he might possibly have a go at it this weekend if he's
free. Only you did say you were saving up for a place of your own
and I could pay him quite handsomely..."
    "Oh ... yeah
... or there's always me brother ... "
    "Oh, but your
brother hurt his back, didn't he? No, I wouldn't trouble him. Backs
are so precious. I just thought it might be nice for you, having
your boyfriend over here. It's not as though you've been able to
get out much in the last day or two, is it?"
    "Oh, we're
used to it, Gwen. He knows to keep out of my way during Wimbledon
anyway."
    "Oh
Wimbledon," she says, all sort of derogatory. "Still ... there'll
be no play on Sunday, will there?"
    "Shouldn't
think so."
    "Is it unfair
of me to ask? You were probably wanting to spend Sunday afternoon
alone with him ... it was silly of me ... I am sorry ...
"
    "No ... you're
all right. I'll ... put it to him."
    "You can phone
him from here any time. I'm not one of these people who's stingy
with the phone."
    That's the
trouble with lies, even white ones. You can get yourself in a right
pickle. Now I'm in deep shit. I suppose I could always ask Gordon
to do the honours, to be me boyfriend for the day. We had that kiss
once, didn't we, some years back, when I felt his face next to
mine, rough as sandpaper. Mind you, I might have gone all the way
with him, me or June, if the baby thing had come off. But we don't
mention it now, the kiss, or the failed baby. Failed at the
planning stages. It wasn't meant to be is what we all said. But you
can get yourself in a right old mess when you bend