Angela Howe - Upstairs And Downstairs

Upstairs

AND

Downstairs

Upstairs

AND

Downstairs

ANGELA HOWE

Copyright 2017 AngelaHowe

Published by Angela Howe Publishing at Smashwords

First edition2017

All rights reserved. Nopart of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form orby any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,recording or any information storage or retrieval system withoutpermission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made everyeffort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. Inthe event that any images/information have been incorrectlyattributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify theseomissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by the Authorusing Reach Publishers services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck,South Africa, 3631

Edited by Cathy Eberle forReach Publishers

Cover designed by ReachPublishers

Website:www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail:reach@webstorm.co.za

Table of Contents

In memory of Mum

who encouraged me to keep a journal

Goosey gooseygander,

Wither shall I wander?

Upstairs and downstairs

And in my ladyschamber.

What sort of diary would I like mine tobe?

A capacious hold-all,like Virginia Woolfs?

A full journal in thehope that my life will perhaps seem more interesting when it iswritten down, like Adrian Moles?

A convenientdumping-ground for my grievances, like Jilly Coopers?

Or my travellingcompanion, in order to have something sensational to read on thetrain, like Oscar Wildes?

Accidents Will Occur in theBest-Regulated Families

There is a little stream in the middle ofthe park, over which arches a narrow bridge. The water has frozeninto huge shards of ice.

Lets go over thebridge! suggests Gladys. Backwards.

I assess the situation warily. The bridgelooks pretty slippery and treacherous to me. But, obediently, Iturn the wheelchair around, step backwards onto the bridge and, asI tilt the chair back, my foot slips from under me and we gocrashing down, me on my behind with Gladys and the wheelchair ontop of me like an upside-down turtle. (Fortunately, no-one isaround to observe the sight.) With mammoth strength, and stillclutching the chair handles, I manage to lower Gladys down to earthand engage the brakes, while I extricate myself from my supineposition.

How on earth have I ended up here on mybottom, on a freezing bridge in the middle of an Englishwinter?

Home is Where the HeartIs

With one last look around mybeloved home, I close the door behind me and drag my new,easily-identifiable red suitcase and my black and orange KaiserChiefs hand-luggage up the steps to the waiting car. After manyanxious months of preparation, involving resigning from my job atthe doctors surgery, gathering references, completing interviewsand awaiting a police clearance, my journey has finally begun. Withonly three weeks annual leave, it has become impossible toaccommodate visits to my ageing mother and family in Zimbabwe, andmy son and daughter in the UK.

Every time theyd visit me inKwaZulu-Natal, Id be working. Id return home at the end of anexhausting day to hear an excited little voice: Dad! Shes home!Five-year-old Robbie would be waiting at the door, clutching GulliversTravels . Iwould rush to relieve myself before the reading session commenced,Robbie hot on my heels, waiting impatiently at the open bathroomdoor. Grangie, where did you get those old legs?

My last visit to Zimbabwe had been after mydaughter-in-laws mother, Granny Carol, had died very suddenly.

Robbie and I had been racing each other onthe Health Walker on her verandah when the house alarm went off.There was a hoot at the gate.

Go and see whos at thegate, I instructed. He returned within minutes.

It was the securitycompany, he said, they wanted to know where the madam is. I toldthem shes in heaven.

The solution to my dilemma? To become acarer in England for several months a year, thus freeing me tospend more time with my family...

As the plane soars into thecloudless blue skies above Durban, I realise that there is now noturning back; the die is cast. No amount of imagining will be ableto prepare me for what lies ahead. As I trek to JohannesburgInternational Departures, my overweight Kaiser Chiefs bag slung over my saggingshoulder, my eyes follow a beautiful young Emirates air hostess, impeccably dressed inher smart uniform, with the veil under her hat lying loosely acrossher chest. I watch her walk to the pavement, as an old, rusty,clapped-out Toyota , belching smoke and driven by a large, weather-beatenwoman in a bright purple hand-made cardigan pulls up to the curb.My lovely hostess tosses off her hat and veil, throws her bag ontothe back seat of the Toyota and off they splutter in a cloud of smoke. Myromantic illusion is shattered: expectations are rarely fulfilledaccording to ones imagination.

Tell me where is fancy bred inthe heart or in the head?

After a sleepless night, I watch the dawnbreaking over Heathrow Airport. The thick-set, swarthy woman besideme takes out her hand-mirror and tweezers and begins to pluck herbeard while I pluck through my images of a carer:

a stern, bony figure ina cape, carrying a cardboard suitcase, knocking on the huge door ofa dark stone house;

an eager, elderly woman with agrey cauliflower perm, wearing a beige Crimplene jacket, hairy legs in Velcro healthsandals;

a weather-beaten, world-wearywidow in a worn-out grey tracksuit, lurking in the background of astrangers lounge, dishcloth over one arm;

guileless Lou in LittleBritain ,pushing pasty, cunning Andy in his wheelchair.

None of the above.

London Spread Out in theS un

Dear Tom (my daughter, Kates,boyfriend) has vacated his bedroom with its king-size bedand memory-foam mattress. I lie on it like a board (the mattress doesntremember me yet), listening to the constant roar of traffic downEuston Road, wailing sirens and raucous students drinking on thepavement downstairs, their voices getting louder and louder as thenight progresses.

After a leisurely breakfast,Kate and I, with her indefatigable little dog, Mac, stridedeterminedly through the crowds down Euston Road to Regents Parkand along the canal, with its brightly-coloured houseboats andyouths with green hair and multiple piercings, sunning themselvescontentedly on its banks as they munch on greasy takeaways. Katehas tickets for a matinee performance of Richard III , starring Kevin Spacey, so wedeposit Mac at home and, make our way to the Old Victheatre.

As King Richard meditates on hisfast-approaching death and the fact that not a soul will care, Iquietly resolve that none of my future charges will ever feel thatno-one cares.

Railway Termini! Our Gates tothe Glorious and the Unknown

As the train hurtles through the Englishcountryside, I gaze through the window, frequently turning aroundto ensure that the red suitcase is still in the luggage rack, lestit be stolen. Will I ever get used to not having to look over myshoulder all the time? The sky is a clear, bright blue, while greenfields roll into the horizon with rows of golden stone cottages andfarm houses in the distance. Striding along the country lanes arelone figures walking their dogs.

How will I know where to go?Will my taxi be waiting at the station? How much should I tip thedriver? Wonky-Wheels is indeed waiting at the station: a friendly,chatty young man who has visited London only once in his life on aschool outing at the age of ten. Do I know that lots of famouspeople live in Gloucestershire? I do. Like Princess Anne, PrinceCharles and Jilly Cooper.

I smile, as I recalldiscovering an ancient, yellowing newspaper cutting of an interviewwith Jilly while cleaning out my cupboards at home. I had lovedreading Jillys diary, The Common Years , recording the ten years of her daily walks onthe Putney Common before she moved to Gloucestershire. Whileconducting research for one of her salacious novels, she had phonedher local constabulary to enquire whether the male member wouldstay erect if the said sexually active male died during fornication- the very same constabulary district to which I am now headed withWonky!