Request Blessed

Ida’s grouchy old washing machine sticks half-way through a cycle. Cursing, Ida manoeuvres to her knees in the frigid utility room and jabs its buttons.

While prayerfully positioned, she seizes the holy moment. Implores: Let Ivan be free, if that’s what he wants. And let me be free of him!

Sudden sunlight through a grimy window. The washing machine starts chugging again.

Rude and Ungrateful

While towelling late-autumn condensation from a bedroom window, Ida glances down, notices two large crows and a magpie. Jabbing at – what, an old bit of fish skin? – ignoring their tray of nuts and seeds.

Off the ingrates flap, landing in a nearby tree but still hanging around the garden. “Go then, go!” shouts Ida, normally afraid of confrontation. Proud of herself. Maybe it will be this easy with Ivan.

Fuss

Ivan says “NO!” He won’t go to the hospital on Thursday. NO to the blue-and-white NHS envelope on their doormat, NO to being fast-tracked by the GP for tests, NO to a meeting with the cardiology consultant.

Ida performs Wife: she soothes and coaxes. Lalala.

On Thursday, Ivan will squirrel his anxiety and go to the hospital. “Nice chap,” he’ll say afterwards. “Very reassuring. Plays golf.”

Tail End

A pigeon flies by the kitchen window. Not here, here, gone. Ida is doing the washing up, thinking: we dissolve into sparkly fragments, becoming one with the universe, like the tail end of a shooting star. Ida isn’t religious in the Heaven-and-Hell sense, but she trusts in dissolution.

“In a good way, I mean,” she tries to explain to Ivan, who’s just dunked his empty coffee cup in the washing up bowl.

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Ivan has been singing in the shower since his final visit to the heart specialist. He’s bought a massive camper van. Calls it “The Desert Rat”. Pops into Mr. Ant’s for a Smoky Mezcal Margarita. Listens to Dylan’s Desire in the van.

After Him, the Rabbits

Once Ivan’s gone, Ida will buy dozens or possibly hundreds of Beswick china rabbits. Right now she only has two – Benjamin Bunny and Flopsy/Mopsy/Cottontail – hidden in her knicker drawer, burrowing under briefs. Ivan’s predictable opinion: twee and sentimental. Also (theory derived from Baudrillard), collecting china rabbits is a way of trying to duplicate oneself beyond death. But “Après moi, le déluge”. After he’s gone, a rabbity living room.

Flower Forecast

Bluebells clustering in the east, a few peonies late afternoon. Overnight, purple hellebores may be attacked by slugs. A daffodil moon will bless gardens, tubs and window boxes. In the morning, a light dusting of cherry blossoms. The world is abloom with living colour, but Ida is curled on the sofa holding Punch, her comfort monkey, the two of them watching reruns of Coronation Street.

Red Dress

The one thing guaranteed to enrage Ida is her wedding day photo album, its mundane contents sparkled up by sister Karla’s red dress. Wrapped with pizzazz in bodice-tight midi, Karla’s whizzy outfit matched her lipstick and unsisterly aura, and magnetised all eyes.

Since then, Ida’s life has been branded by her determination to wear a red dress to Karla’s funeral. She imagines herself in a fuchsia number, standing at the open coffin, kissing her sister’s chilly cheek with dark cherry lipstick. Leaving a forever stain. When the time is right (no rush, Karla’s irksomely still alive and thriving, on marriage four to a quant who’s a quarter her age and earns quadruple her salary), the dress and lipstick will appear. 

Blossoming

Half-way through March, the least cautious, most uninhibited trees have started to blossom. Ida, sitting alone on her park bench with nobody else in sight, feels inspired to get up and dance by herself, like a braless hippy chick from another era. Her dodgy knee twinges an advance warning. OK.

Exports of Bitterness

Ida’s mother, former Playboy centrefold, keen birdwatcher and even keener observer of her non-winged progeny, once informed Ida: “Unlike Karla, you have very little bitterness in your nature.” Sitting well wrapped up near the sports field, Ida ponders the resonant word. Bitterness: a polite coastal landform, a hybrid German/Scottish island or near-island. Main exports: pickles and sauerkraut. And –

“Stormy Warmer?” offers an athletic-looking senior, plonking himself down on Ida’s bench and waving a paper bag at her nose.

“No thanks.”

“A very wise decision. Bad for your teeth.” 

New Woman

Digby again takes shape on Ida’s bench. A cough and he’s there, ruminating on social affairs, world politics and pickleball injuries. Weighing the merits of home care / assisted living / retirement villages as pioneered in Sun City, Arizona. Entranced by Ida’s idea of a hippie commune for the over 60s. Querying society’s strictures re so-called age-appropriate behaviour. Calling her “young lady”.

Ida says that right now just getting up in the morning is an almighty struggle. “But once I’ve relieved my bowels, I’m a new woman.”

Digby nods reflectively.

Spring Bonfires

Digby asks Ida if she’s married. It’s a yes-or-no-answer question. Ida replies in the affirmative but goes on to explain her life in a sequence of non-linear scenes.

The park air is smoky with the output of spring bonfires. Ida coughs, because her lungs hurt and also because she’s been told her throaty cough is sexy. Digby blows his nose.

She Flew

Digby’s wife, Margery, was a highflyer, a grey goose. Last tagged location: her evening roost by the picture window in their lounge, admiring a dazzling salmon-pink sunset, while Digby juggled saucepans and hummed songs from Cats.

Typical Activities

Digby grows cauliflowers and rhubarb in his handkerchief-sized garden. Hates the peppery tang of watercress but once won a watercress-eating contest, the lightest moment of his youth. Vanishes down digital rabbit holes as evening shadows loom. Stares at spammy robotic women promising to give a mature man a nice time. Gnaws his fingernails and shyly covers his mouth while conversing with a group of Western Jackdaws. 

Tethered Soul

Leashed like a large-breasted balloon to her galloping old English Sheepdog, a whisking by woman waves at Digby. The breasts put Ida in mind of her mother’s worldclass rack.

Ida: “Who’s that?”

Digby: “Alma. She’s a free spirit. Former bunny.”

Ida glances down. Her own breasts are like scoops of frozen yoghurt partially melted. Piddly by comparison.

Awaiting Feedback

Digby mumbles something behind his hand as if he’s talking to ghostly Margery. Ida fixes her gaze on a limping pigeon who reminds her of Ivan when he broke his leg. Thinks: Speak up, man. Please provide star rating and comment.

End Of

On a murky afternoon: “Ida, where have you been all my life?” demands partially clad Digby. He asks the same thing every day and it’s growing less adorable. Does he really want to know? She waves away his proffered bag of Stormy Warmers, which just about blow your head off.

Where in fact has Ida been? Married to Ivan. Doing the “Ivan Is Everything” dance. End of. All her friends are long-ago distant past ones. Except Digby, lusty octogenarian and pickleball practitioner.

Popcorn

One way or another, Ida will, in time, forget everything and everyone she’s ever cared about. Ex-husband Ivan, sometime-boyfriend Digby, botoxed sister Karla, and childhood dog Bonkers. Like that West End play they once went to see on a family outing – playwright, key scenes, tragic ending? Only Ivan holding forth pre-performance: his wild bony-armed gesture sent an extra-large carton of popcorn fountaining into the air, scattered buttery bits landing on the coiffures of nicely dressed theatregoers. Disaster and embarrassment. Although hilarious in retrospect.

---