MYRA

“Mornin' Myra, little bird told me it's your birthday, a significant one, so happy birthday. Gee, 95 years old, you're so wonderful.”


What's this, what's she on about, whose birthday, who is this person, anyway, pulling the curtains and letting the sun in. Hurts my eyes. She's bustling around, turning on taps and opening drawers, holding up a hideous red cardigan.


“What shall we wear today Myra? Some colour, yes, red, nice and cheerful.”


I peer at a badge on her chest, it says something, oh if only I could read, 'Jean, Sunny Hills Rest Home.'


Well, I don't know why she's waking me up and holding up clothes, I know nothing about a rest home, there's not much rest around here, always someone coming in and babbling away.


“I don't like that red cardigan,” I mutter as I grope to put on my glasses and shove at my teeth to make them stay fixed. Damned things, keep falling down.


My mind floats like the specks of dust trapped in the sun's rays, slanting through the window.

That country dance in Dunsandel was a good one, all those chaps lined up on one side of the dance floor, with their brylcreamed hair, making a bee line for the girls on the other side when the MC announced 'take your partners for the quickstep.' That was when Tommy took me in his arms and we danced together, oh he was lovely. His smile made me go funny inside as though I'd been lit up. He'd kissed me outside, when we collected our bikes and put his hand up my blouse, it was green voile I think and groped inside my brassiere, so common to say bra. Had a feel around, bless him. He'd rested his bike against the fence so he could use both hands. I liked his hands, oh yes, I liked them.

“You'll need to get extra spruced up today,” the woman from the rest home was saying, gripping my arm to get me out of bed. “No doubt there'll be visitors and perhaps presents. We'll do your hair up on top in a French knot shall we?”


“Well, I don't know you, but if you say so, my dear, do what you like with my hair.”


This Jean, she was pretty, and young, with a little sticky-out bum and sly eyes. Yes, I know the type.

Tommy and I got married that year on account of me expecting, we were both only 19. Well we loved each other, but we were so young and wet behind the ears. But back to our courtship, what was I saying, oh, they were glorious days and nights, down by the river. It was always warm and at night, with the moon beaming down, it felt like heaven. A bit later, maybe a month or two, I didn't know what the matter with me was, I felt so poorly, even my cup of tea tasted odd. Then I'd feel like throwing up all the time and my mother looked at me very suspiciously and started on about my “time of the month” and I told her, red faced that there was nothing the matter and it was just some food I'd eaten that disagree with me. She declared then and there, with her hands on her hips and her blue apron fastened around her middle that I was probably expecting a baby. I'd fainted.


“Why do women get sick when they're expecting a baby?” I asked the rest home woman.


She giggled and pursed her lips, as though a 95 year old woman should know better.


“Hormones, that's why.”

There was a tap at the door and a yoohoo and a strange young lady was entering with a bunch of freesias and a girl trying to push past her.


“Hello Granny Myra, happy birthday.” the child rushed over and planted a kiss of my cheek. It felt lovely.


“Well, thank you my dear, but who are you?”


“I'm Jenny, you remember don't you?” She looked into my face and held my hand.


“She's your great granddaughter!” the other young lady was saying.


Children have such flawless complexions. I put my old freckled hand out to her face and stroked the smooth skin.

My Denise, she was a lovely child, my first, the one I had to get married for. Tommy loved her so much, but he wanted a boy and we had to try again and yes, we did get a boy. I forget his name; expect I'll remember it soon. He was always moving, and coughing and fighting with our Denise and he had such dirty hands, always on at him to wash them. Oh, Bill, that was his name, he died when he was young. Something to do with an accident, not his fault. So sad.

“Do you want to go down to the dining room?” asked the woman Jean, adjusting her brassiere strap and smoothing down her hair.

I remember the dining room we had at home, when the children were growing up.


It had a brown velvet tablecloth and I sat and smoothed it over and over for comfort when the policemen came and arrested Tommy. He went into hysterics, cried and shouted and the children stood with their mouths open and rushed from the room in embarrassment. I'm finding it hard to remember what he did wrong, something, oh yes; it was to do with fiddling the books at the office where he worked as an accountant after the war.

“My husband Tommy, you know he was a greedy man.” I told my granddaughter and my great granddaughter. They stared and nodded. Maybe they'd heard me say it before.


“Now don't get too emotional Granny Myra, this is your birthday, you're 95.” My granddaughter wanted laughter and the freesias in a glass bowl on the dressing table and me in the hideous red cardigan and candles on a cake.

I remember another man as well, who looked after me when Tommy was in jail. He was in the table tennis team where I played in the evening during the week at the Church hall. I can't remember his name, but he was so tall and strong, quite hairy really, and in no time at all he had asked me back to his place and we hopped into his bed. I suppose we were a bit lustful, comes of being young. This went one for a year or two. Marvellous sex. Yes, that's what we had. He told me not to feel guilty about Tommy in jail, what he did was plain stupid and unfortunate that he got caught, and I was a marvellous woman. The children were at school, they never knew about our antics and we didn't hurt anyone. I suppose I could have been described as a wanton woman.

“You're such a treasure Myra,” the woman from the rest home was gushing, ushering us out of the room, me leaning on my walker with my name attached to the front. The girl who called herself Jenny was bouncing along beside me and running to press the button of the lift. It was hard to fathom out what was happening, they seemed to be in a party mood.

“Gran Myra,” it was the young lady again, the mother of the child. She had black hair and eyes like an army man's uniform, Tommy wore one of those uniforms once.


“We all love you, we want you to have a great birthday, and I've asked the carer to bring us some champagne and glasses and nibbles. They can do that for special occasions. Would you like that?”

I drank champagne from a cut crystal glass on my 40th birthday in a posh hotel in London with strangers because I'd gone on a ship, alone to see the old country. No-one from the family was able to come with me.


“Bottoms up, happy birthday,” a man and a woman had toasted me at the bar and then we all went into the dining room and ate roast beef and vegetables. We sat in front of a roaring coal fire. I left afterwards and never saw them again, but they were so kind. I met so many people on that holiday, dozens and dozens of them, we drank, and laughed and talked, and I never saw any of them again. I came back on the ship to New Zealand and took up my old life.


What is this life about anyway? I'm sitting here on a pink vinyl chair surrounded by this lady who apparently is my granddaughter and a young child called Jenny and all around the room are old people with white hair and wrinkles, well what I can see of them, and they're singing along to someone playing the piano, something about a birthday, and I feel sleepy, so sleepy. I close my eyes.

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