Great new short story - Mrs Bond's Birthday

... now published in Oxfordshire Limited Edition magazine and on here - see below!

Mrs Bond's Birthday

Mrs Bond – I didn’t invite you to call me Patricia - looked out of the window of her bungalow hoping to see a few snowdrops. As far as she could tell, these were the only consolation for having a birthday in January. A promise from the planet that spring was, if not just around the corner, then at least pencilled in. She had tried on several occasions to persuade her family to move the celebration to June, but they resisted.

‘It wouldn’t feel the same,’ her daughters protested. Or even more prosaically; ‘But it’s not the real date.’ She was singularly disappointed in their lack of imagination. Who cared what date it was? Clearly not the Queen, who celebrated her ‘official’ birthday with enthusiasm and persuaded the entire nation to do the same. The point surely was to mark the passing of the years, the necessity of which was in any case debatable, but if people insisted then she would have preferred to do it when the sun was shining.

She sighed. This birthday was more tiresome than usual because today Mrs Bond was eighty. It had come round several years sooner than she expected but there it was, unquestionably and indubitably true because she remembered the war.

‘And it dates one so,’ as she had recently remarked to her small, round dog. There wasn’t much hope of hiding her age as several of her nearest and dearest had sent large cards announcing the fact. Why they had felt the need to do this she had absolutely no idea. Did they think;

a) that she would be pleased to put such a card on her shelf, seeing it as evidence they had remembered her advanced age?

b) that she thought a large number 8 and a large 0 were more decorative than pictures of flowers or animals?

c) that she might have forgotten and would need the cards to remind her?  

None of these was remotely true – she would take the flowers every time. Yet of the eleven cards she had received from her assorted children, grandchildren and neighbours, seven featured the numbers 8 and 0, notably those from her family. These she had glanced at with distaste and displayed on the shelf in the garage beside her tobacco tin and ashtray full of dog ends. There they could stay, she decided, until they went into the recycling bin, which would be Friday week. The neighbours had not drawn attention to her age simply because she told them all the she was 74, which was no age to speak of and didn’t require a special card. It was important, however, not to let on that she remembered the war.

How complicated life is apt to become as one grows older, she reflected. Keeping up with the myriad small deceptions one accumulates grows increasingly onerous.

On the plus side, she thought she might have spotted a solitary snowdrop under the apple tree but it was impossible to tell without actually venturing out there to check. She might do that later, but she could see from the sitting room that it was decidedly chilly and would require several protective layers: time-consuming both to apply and then to remove. It could wait.

Instead, for a change of scene, she walked across the room to examine the view from the front of the house. Hip was playing up again, she noted, crossly, clenching her jaw. Might have to have it seen to after all. She leant on the back of an armchair catching her breath and waiting for the pain to subside. When she looked up she saw that Margaret-next-door had pottered – tottered, Mrs Bond corrected herself – into the garden with a bag of stale bread for the birds. The third Margaret in as many years. She often wondered if it was a problem with the house – cyanide-impregnated lino or some such. You couldn’t really ask though, could you? She pushed the blinds aside and waved. Margaret waved unsteadily back. The cyanide was obviously getting to her too. Pity as she seemed quite pleasant. Mrs Bond had decided some time previously that there was no point trying to build up a proper relationship with her elderly neighbours. Usually you had just got used to them, on cup-of-tea terms so to speak, when they popped their clogs and a new one came in. Very sad, of course, but also disconcerting for someone who liked a bit of constancy in a street.

She let the blinds drop back and peered through the slits instead. She liked her blinds. So much more discreet than the net curtains her mother had favoured. No twitching required. The postlady leaned her bicycle on the garden wall and marched up the path. An envelope fell through the letter box but Mrs Bond didn’t rush over. She could see from where she was that it was another bill. No presents yet. That was a bit of a shame as she quite enjoyed opening them in the morning with her coffee, though disappointingly these days she received mainly shawls and scarves. Woolly things to wrap around her as she sat or hobbled about. All very cosy and many of them probably very expensive but… she quite wished someone would buy her something frivolous, a silk negligée maybe. She would never wear it, of course, but she would lay it between layers of tissue paper in her underwear drawer and get it out to stroke from time to time. She would imagine how it might have looked on her when she was younger and how Mr Bond might have smiled to see her in it. She glanced sadly across at the photo on the mantelpiece. He was there as usual, sitting in a garden chair admiring his dahlias. She mouthed a silent ‘hello’.

Pulling a tissue from her sleeve, Mrs Bond blew her nose firmly. Margaret had gone back in and the street was empty. There was nothing much to see. No mothers hurrying along with pushchairs or teenagers slouching past on their way to the comprehensive. It was Saturday, of course, and she had a nasty feeling her daughters were planning something sociable despite her avowed wish that nothing of the sort should occur. It gave people ideas when things fell at the weekend.

Mrs Bond had several family members in close vicinity, all of whom were very capable organisers. She had moved back to the small, unprepossessing town where she had spent the early years of her marriage after she lost Mr Bond, thinking that she might as well be there as anywhere else. It was flat and unlikely to prove challenging as the years advanced. However, children and grandchildren had followed her there in order, it seemed, that she should not spent her retirement idly. On the contrary, she would be gainfully occupied looking after their various animals and offspring while they travelled abroad or held down well-paid jobs in the city.

‘She likes to feel useful,’ they remarked. ‘It’s so good for her to have something to do.’

Mrs Bond knew they said this because she had overheard it on several occasions. They thought she was deaf. And sometimes she was, but not always. In fact, not nearly as often as they thought.

A small fluffy cat jumped up onto the windowsill and rubbed itself along her arm.

‘Just a minute,’ she said. The kitten presumably fancied a drop of milk. She had called the creature Maggie after her ill-fated neighbours. It seemed the simplest thing to do – no new names to have to remember –  and it was a way of ensuring continuity on the Margaret front. Anyway, she told herself, it was a perfectly reasonable name because it sounded quite a lot like moggie. Leaning on her stick Mrs Bond crossed to the kitchen with surprising speed.

‘Not so bad once I get going,’ she observed. Maggie purred her acquiescence.

Time was getting on. Kitchen Cabinet had just been announced on the radio and she really couldn’t be doing with Jay Rayner. Anyway, that meant that daughter number one was late. She was usually here by now to take her shopping. Just because it was her birthday didn’t mean she didn’t need groceries for the week. Perhaps Debbie would have time to stop for coffee and a scone in Sainsbury’s. Often she was too busy but given the occasion Mrs Bond didn’t think it would be too much to ask. The whole idea of being taken to places irked her. She had a practically new Clio sitting in the drive and if it wasn’t for this hip… Hmph.

The buzz of the doorbell woke the little round dog from its snooze and it barked twice without bothering to get up. Mrs Bond didn’t move either. She had settled herself in a chair by the garden window. Deborah had a key; the bell was just a formality.

‘Hello, Mum. Happy Birthday.’

Is it, her mother wondered. Could it possibly be, given the number involved? Her daughter handed her a soft parcel, prettily tied with a bow.

‘Thank you, dear.’ Mrs Bond poked the package, reluctant to unwrap it and lose the moment of anticipation. It was probably a scarf, but while it stayed in its paper it still might be the negligée.

‘Don’t you want to open it?’

‘Maybe when we get back.’

Deborah shook her head. ‘Whatever. Are you ready?’

‘Of course. Just let me get my coat.’

‘So do you think we might have time for a scone, dear?’ Mrs Bond enquired as Deborah toured the car park searching for a space.

‘I’m sure we will if we don’t take too long with the shopping.’

‘Good. Well, I don’t need much.’

Her daughter shook her head doubtfully.

She seems a bit more relaxed today, the older woman decided. Sometimes she could be very sharp though she hardly seemed to know it. Those kids ran rings round her. She needed to get them helping a bit instead of always picking up after them.

‘It’s easier to do it myself,’ Deborah had said when this was suggested. But it was all a question of training, in Mrs Bond’s opinion. Children weren’t so different from puppies, after all.

They got round reasonably quickly. The list seemed to get shorter every week. Maybe she should listen to that tiresome Jay Rayner, after all, improve her culinary expertise before she got to the meals-on-wheels stage.

On the way to the café, they paused so that Mrs Bond could examine the nighties. She supposed she might be in need of a new one if they were going to cart her off to hospital with this blessed hip.  None of them really took her fancy, however. Inferior fabric, she considered, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. She caught Deborah watching her from the end of the aisle with a distinctly amused expression which she decided to ignore.

‘Nothing there, Mum?’

‘All synthetic,’ Mrs Bond sniffed.

The scone was nice though. An excellent bake, although Mrs Berry might disagree. And blackcurrant jam to go with it.

‘We should probably go,’ Deborah said, when they had drunk their tea.

‘I suppose you have a lot to do?’

‘A few bits and pieces. The weekends never seem long enough.’ She was texting furiously as she spoke, her mother noticed. No wonder she was stressed. The older lady got carefully to her feet, reaching for her stick as she did so.

Deborah pushed the phone into her bag and took her arm. ‘Ready?’

Mrs Bond shook her off. ‘I can manage.’

They moved slowly back to the car with the trolley.

That was it then, Mrs Bond supposed as they pulled into her drive. Today’s excitement over. She had half-wondered if there might be a couple more cars parked outside but the street was quiet. Deborah lifted the bag of shopping from the boot while she pushed open the door.

‘Surprise surprise!!’ The bungalow was packed with people.

Surprise! Who did they think they were kidding? Hadn’t she known all along? That was the trouble with weekends, everyone was at a loose end. Mrs Bond smiled graciously at her assembled descendants.

‘How kind of you all to come.’ The table was piled high with gifts. She settled herself into her chair and unwrapped them slowly, savouring each one; three books by her favourite authors, two scarves, a bottle of Samsara perfume and a bar of Frys chocolate cream from the smallest grandchild. At the bottom of the pile she found the parcel Deborah had given her that morning. The last one. She undid the bow, removed the patterned wrapping paper and peeled back a layer of tissue to reveal not quite a negligée but definitely a silk nightdress. Something she could actually wear. She stroked her hand across it, watching the light play on the fabric.

‘Perhaps that will do for the hospital?’ Deborah suggested, quietly.

Mrs Bond extracted her tissue from her sleeve to remove a fly from the corner of her eye.

‘Yes,’ she said, scanning the crowd of familiar faces. ‘I think perhaps it might. Thank you. Thank you, all.’

for Mum