It's hard to concentrate sometimes. In the face of unadulterated,
egocentric prattling at top volume, I am defeated. The old lady who sat
opposite the prattler was at her mercy. But so were we all. The old lady said
very little. There was no space. The big voice droned on. It was penetrating
and abrasive and I found myself shrinking in my seat, unconsciously trying to
make myself smaller to escape the unwelcome battering of the ears. In fact, it
reached further than my ears; it threatened to permeate my very soul. Does she
have children, I wondered? How have they been affected?
Publicly, and at top volume, she ran herself down. Her hair was flat; it
had no curl, no BODY. This last word she pronounced boldly, to its full
sensuous effect. No BODY. When sprayed with lacquer and brushed out, she
continued, it looked better, but she looked like a spiked hedgehog. Her mother
was beautiful: "prettier than I am!" she confessed, a tone of slight
surprise, mingled with jealousy, betrayed in her voice. Like a little girl in
her party frock, she waited to be admired, waited for one amongst us to rush to
the rescue, denying this terrible admission. But no-one obliged.
The conversation ranged over a variety of fascinating subjects, all, it
seemed, designed to show her in the best light, better than name-dropping. It
was an odd counterpart to her self-abusive comments. We started with the
lawnmower. "I'm just going home today" she began (I started to get
excited), "if I have time" (my heart sank), "to set up my
robot." My ears pricked up at this, despite myself, and I settled down to
listen. Too bad that all conversation with my husband was impossible; shame
that even private reveries were constantly interrupted. This was riveting stuff.
It was true, it emerged - or at least it seemed to be. She really did own a
robot lawnmower which she was keen to put together and set on its way, doing
what robot lawnmowers do.
Her initial, self-deprecating manner changed. She was playing to her
audience and we were all, I am sure, now obediently playing the game. The
monologue moved on, past the lawn, to the inside of her, no doubt, sizeable and
prestigious home. She spoke of robot vacuum cleaners, of one in particular that
had been no good and therefore passed on to the daughter (well, of course!).
She spoke of "the boys", who failed even to flinch as the robot came
right up to them. Octavius and Tiberias appeared, it seemed, to be her canine
friends, but no less a part of the family. She mentioned mobile phones the size
of credit cards and was evidently familiar with all kinds of up-to-the-minute
technology. I wondered what the old lady was making of all this.
My attention wandered as I noticed her, with her back to me, fidgeting a
little in her seat. She was trapped, her walking sticks placed at a distance
from her, and perched precariously on one side of a wooden bench of the kind
that pub gardens favour. We were sat out in a cobbled courtyard outside the
cafe, basking in the early spring sunshine that was reflected gloriously from
the whitewashed cottage walls. But the old lady was clearly uncomfortable and I
mentally practised leaping from my seat to catch her as I saw her topple
backwards in my imagination, splitting her head open on the stone pavement, as
could so easily happen if she nodded off.
Perhaps this was just the eventuality that her kind friend was guarding
against, keeping up her continual stream of scintillating, well no, not
conversation, maybe monologue. When my full concentration returned we were
talking about webbing and upholstery. We ranged on through the full gambit of
furniture restoration. She had an intriguing style. We passed back and forth
with dizzying rapidity. One moment she was displaying her many and varied
creative talents and the next it was like listening to a chapter of accidents
worthy of Paddington bear with a paintbrush. Having completed her masterpiece
of restoration, somehow the afore-mentioned canine friends were let into the
workshop and wrecked havoc. She should have known, she berated herself. But the
paw print, dead centre of her artwork, that she discovered next morning, was as
finely executed and as perfectly placed as if she had done it herself.
The lunchtime concert was over. The soloist helped the old lady to her
feet, disentangled her from the bench and fetched her walking sticks, so she
could totter across the cobbles, leaning on her companion's arm. They were off
to entertain elsewhere, ready for a quick look in the next door design outlet,
with its array of upper class fabrics and pure wool, tartan throws, before
going home to robots and doggies. I felt a little ambivalent about their
departure. Peace and quiet was wonderfully restored, but alas, the show was
over.
Harlech, Wales