One Last Dream Come True

The story was prompted when I read about the death of Judith Kerr. You may remember she wrote The Tiger Who Came To Tea. She died in May, aged 95.

Approach quietly. Meet Miss Minnie. She’s a light sleeper and I prefer not to wake her with a sudden start. Sleep is a gift. For Minnie, it’s one of the few pleasures she can count on her poor arthritic fingers.

(I get to know everyone in and at the end)

Today, she’s expecting another. He was the last person on her mind once she’d said her prayers. He’ll be the first thing when she opens her eyes. 

The early morning light tiptoes through her faded drapes. It fills the room and Miss Minnie wakes with a smile. 

Everything at bedtime is a little ritual; the Callard & Bowser Cleamline toffee – the last (in the crumpled bag), slipped under the pillow should her coughing wake her; the small white jar of handcream placed carefully behind her water glass beside her bed. She runs her finger around the lid to lift the last smear to apply in slow washing movements. Then, she’s ready to turn off her lamp and enjoy for a moment the tealight glow reflected in the mirrors on her dressing table. The same fold-up mirror she carried from dressing room to dressing room to apply her Music Hall make-up so long ago.

Miss Minnie stirs and calls it stretching. She smiles, remembering her thoughts of the night before, the ones that carried her into her dreams.

There’s no time to waste, Miss Minnie. Even now, he’s on his way and you must look your best when he arrives.

She throws open the covers and swings her legs, not quite so girlishly as she’d like but the thought is there, along with a twinge. Her toes fumble for her slippers. She slips them on and with a push and a gentle bounce she finds her ‘morning legs’. Then it’s off to the bathroom and a warm fresh flannel to wipe away the tiny dribble-line that crept down her chin as she whispered to the visitor in her dream.

‘He’ll soon be here,’ she tells the old lady in the bathroom mirror.

‘Oh, be gone with you! Are you so giddy as to let your heart race and flutter so?’ They laugh together at the thought.

‘You’re a naughty, naughty girl!’ says one to the other.

‘You’re just jealous – pea-green with envy!’

‘And you’re Puckish!’ She practices a pout. Not bad, she thinks. She opens her eyes wide to compare a pout with a coy surprise and bats her eyelashes that have lost their lustre. The tilt of the head makes up for the lack of make-up.

She’s found her mood. Now, all she has to do is to remember her cue. Is it your Birthday? ‘My Birthday? Is it really? (show coy-face) I’d quite forgotten (show pout-face).

She practises again, ‘Is it your Birthday?’ This time, it’s good enough for an encore. ‘My Birthday? I’d quite forgotten.’

Your thirty-minute call, Miss Minnie, I say.

She pads quickly into her bedroom, picks up her dressing gown and decides to leave making the bed until after she’s dressed and made-up.

She entangles herself in the dressing gown as she descends the stairs. She suddenly stops, one arm in, one arm out, the cloth belt hanging from a loop following two steps behind. The oval portrait of her with the Saturday Matinee Players is askew. It needs to be straightened. So too do the three flying ducks at the top of the stairs.

‘That’ll never do,’ she says aloud. ‘What would he think? The stairs are the first thing he’d see from the front door.’

She straightens twenty years of her life before she gets to the bottom step.

This is your twenty-minute call, Miss Minnie, I say.

Miss Minnie always needs that extra ten minutes. If I didn’t keep her on track, she’d want to break out the polish and vigorously rub the knob on the bannister. But there is no more polish. Just as there’s no window cleaner, no more furniture spray, no more… anything.

We’ll have to call her Old Mother Hubbard. Except there’s no more doggie to go to the empty cupboard for a bone. The dog died in the spring. Miss Minnie had to get the neighbour to dig a hole in the corner of the garden. He was sweet enough to come up with a eulogy at a moment’s notice. He never mentioned the barking or the surprise packages left on his lawn. He’s one of those old fashioned neighbours. Keeps himself to himself. Doesn’t throw his rubbish over the fence like some she could mention.

Miss Minnie’s had her museli. She’s placed the empty packet in the recycling bin. She’s washed out the milk container, remembering to save a jugful for when her visitor arrives. ‘He’ll be sure to want a cup of tea after all that walking and carrying such a heavy bag,’ she says.

There’s just about enough time to plump the cushions, straighten the photographs and put a fresh cloth over the table to hide the nasty stains her cack-handed husband had made building his childish WWll aircraft.

Miss Minnie looks around her sitting room and tries to imagine how someone else might see it for the first time. She can’t remember. It had once been full of photographs and posters and collections of theatre programs, even props and costumes but little by little she’d had to sell them off.

Each time a collector took away a piece of memorabilia, the memories went also until there was nothing left.

There’s only the memory that she’d once been someone in the Music Hall. She can’t remember who. Little by little, it stopped hurting then stopped mattering. Now, it’s a life that once belonged to someone else. Sometimes she meets that person and they say, Hi! Remember when… then the invisible curtain comes down, Miss Minnie on one side, her old Music Hall self on the other and the television on between them.

Not today. Miss Minnie hurries upstairs to change and put her face on,

She uses the last of her powder, the last of her mascara, the eyeliner, the rouge and her very special lipstick. If there are a few drops of perfume in the bottle, she’ll use them (only if she’d remembered to turn the bottle upside down).

It’s a shame the earrings had to go. They were a present from her writer chappie. She wonders whatever happened to him. They had a good thing going; her in her bamboo garden and him in his greenhouse. They had some fun times together. She hasn’t forgotten him or them. At least, she doesn’t think she has.

No time to think about that now, Miss Minnie. This is your final call.

She looks ready. She looks good. She looks the best she’ll ever look. I hope she knows that. Everything is gone, has been finished, used up, faded away or no longer exists. There’s nothing more to come after this visit. It’s all been used up. It was a fine time while it lasted but, as they say, nothing lasts forever. Although in Miss Minnie’s case I’m prepared to make an exception. I’ll make sure that whatever happens, this visit will last her a lifetime. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?

She’s sitting at the dining room table now. Her back is straight. Her hands are held in her lap to stop them trembling. She’s listening for the gate to open. That click, that faint sound the hinges make because the gate hangs very slightly crooked. 

Yes! There’s the scrunch-crunch sound of footsteps along the path from the gate to the front door; eight of them. …the little stamp as he adjusts his heavy bag. Now, the pause.

Miss Minnie is waiting to see if he’ll use the knocker or ring the bell.

She can’t wait. I didn’t think she would. She’s still the little girl she always was.

She stops for the briefest of moments to catch her breath, smooth her dress and gather around herself her composure.

Once again it’s that moment before the curtain goes up on the final act. It’s the resolution, the climax of everything that’s gone before. The final reveal. The moment of truth. That second in which a person can live a lifetime (or miss it altogether).

Open the door, sweet Miss Minnie. The answers to all your questions lie on the Other Side.

‘Morning, Miss Minnie – just the one today. It looks like a birthday card. Is it your birthday?’

Go for it, Miss Minnie!

‘My birthday? Is it my birthday? I’d quite forgotten.’

‘Happy birthday, Miss Minnie. The lads down at the Post Office send you their love – won’t be long before you get that telegram from the Queen, eh?’

‘Cheeky monkey! Have you got time for a cup of tea?’

‘Not today, Miss Minnie. I’ve got to finish my round.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ She closes the door and releases a breath.

She’s smiling a satisfied smile. She takes a long moment to savour the encounter. She’s almost forgotten she’s holding a crisp, white envelope in her hand. This wasn’t what she was expecting.

‘Whoever can I be from?’ she asks aloud as she enters the dining room.

The kettle is calling to her from the kitchen. She props the envelope against the teacup that never got filled and goes through to the kitchen.

‘Whoever has sent me a birthday card?’ she asks.

She pulls out the card and lays the envelope on the tablecloth. ‘What lovely penmanship. It reminds me of…’

Her eyes fill with tears. ‘He’s remembered me,’ she sighs, ‘The Little Boy in the Greenhouse, the writer chappie, remembers his Minnie,’ she smiles and drinks her tea.

I promised Miss Minnie that she’d have the memory for a lifetime. I’ll keep that promise. 

Come away now. I’ll be back tomorrow to collect her and take her home.