How It All Began by Penelope Lively

Author:Penelope Lively [Lively, Penelope]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780241957288
Google: hlCUUw3H0W4C
Publisher: Penguin Books Limited
Published: 2011-11-03T01:42:26+00:00

9

‘No,’ said Charlotte. ‘There is absolutely no need. Minicab there and back. Helpful driver. On arrival, I can demonstrate my crutch abilities.’

Charlotte was to go to the hospital for a check-up. Rose frowned: ‘Why couldn’t they have given you an afternoon appointment. Then I could come – no problem.’

‘Clinic is mornings, I suppose … I shall be fine. Think of it as the first step to independence.’

In fact, independence seemed still a distant Utopia. Charlotte had had a near fall, though she was not going to mention this; she felt weak and unsteady, at moments. And pain forever growled, of course.

‘I’m going to tell Henry I need to –’

‘No.’

Interesting, thought Charlotte. Role reversal. Now I am the one to be pig-headed, obstinate. I know how she feels.

Rose, like her mother in the past, capitulated in the face of determination. ‘All right, then.’ A little exasperated shake of the head. ‘I’ll sort out a minicab.’

And interesting also the shifts in negotiation, mother versus daughter, over time; the ebb and flow of power – no, not power exactly – the way in which authority tips from one to the other. When she was a child, you were the fount of wisdom, of instruction. In old age, you have stepped to one side, it is you who looks for sustenance. Trying not to, silently complaining, aghast. How has this come about?

But grateful. Bear with me, she tells Rose (silently). I am only doing what you once did – trying to stake out my own ground, establish myself. I will go to the hospital alone to show that I can. To look time in the eye.

So that is settled. And, meanwhile, days progress. Rose goes to work, Gerry goes to work, Charlotte exists. At least, that is what it feels like. Before the mugger’s intervention, daily life was considerably more than mere existence; it sparkled with event – things seen and heard, conversational exchanges, going somewhere, doing something, news and views and stimulus. Not so, now. Oh, but that is not true. There is conversation with Rose and Gerry, there is news, there are views. But there are tracts of solitude, with only pain nudging its presence.

Charlotte found that her reading had undergone a seismic shift. She read now purely for distraction. She had had to scupper the plan to revisit familiar territory: The House of Mirth became hard going – goodness, surely not?; Howard’s End had no appeal whatsoever. As for Paradise Lost – forget it. But distraction took curious forms. High voltage thrillers did not work at all – but then she had never much cared for crime. P. G. Wodehouse did the trick, but Rose’s shelves could only throw up two titles, quickly devoured. She read Gerry’s Telegraph from end to end, surprised to find herself visiting the arcane suburbs of Business and Sport, and it was a nice diversion to quarrel with the letter writers, and most of the columnists. Rose often brought back a Guardian, and Charlotte fell into that with relief.

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