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I was doing the ironing that morning when the phone rang. Not many people I know like that particular household chore, but I always have. Mainly because I have discovered that after so many years, I can do it without thinking. And at the same time watch American crime series on my laptop. And of course, now both our boys had left home there wasn’t so much ironing to do any more. I say boys, Joe and Luke are both in their thirties. But at least with the ironing, I had something to show at the end of it which counted as a good thing, otherwise I would have just watched box sets all afternoon and probably eaten a lot of chocolate. And now that he’s retired my husband, Eddy, is wandering around the house looking for entertainment or Jaffa Cakes all the time, and if I am gainfully employed behind an ironing board, he can’t expect either.
I think I have unusual taste for a woman of sixty-three. I like American police dramas where all the police and detectives are good looking and muscular. It always disappoints me when I see actual cops on television or in real life, and they are nothing like their screen counterparts. I’ve certainly never seen any in the high street with the sort of physiques, designer clothes, make-up, and shoes that they have in box sets. And they have vast, loft-style apartments despite the high cost of living in New York where apparently a bed in a cupboard can cost thousands in rent.
I like car chases too and have always had a soft spot for Steve McQueen in Bullitt. Nothing will convince me that he was not the coolest man who ever lived.
I’m quite partial to courtroom dramas too, when the clever and very attractive young woman with flicky hair and four-inch Louboutin’s runs rings around the crusty old lawyers, demolishing their arguments, welcoming unexpected last-minute witnesses and also managing to have a satisfactory, if complicated, love life with an equally handsome district attorney.
They always cook vast breakfasts in their huge kitchens in box sets too, which no one ever seems to eat because they are always being called away to the White House or police headquarters for urgent meetings. I wish someone would cook me breakfast occasionally. In over thirty years Eddy never had. He knows how to open the fridge and occasionally close it, but I don’t think he would know one end of a saucepan from another.
While I’m ironing, I can also look out of the window, which that late November morning was smeared with rain, and watch the activity on my bird table. I was already signed up to taking part in the yearly January birdwatch, to count how many different birds I see in my garden. I’ve even got some binoculars on the kitchen windowsill. And every year, I think what an old person thing that is to do. Still, I do enjoy it.
My sons laugh at me and ruffle my hair. Joe sends me messages asking if I’ve seen any dodos yet. Or bald eagles nesting in the nearby supermarket. ‘Look at you and your little checklist,’ they’d say, and I laughed too, but secretly I felt a bit puzzled.
One minute I was young, wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and cheesecloth skirts, staying up all night and functioning on black coffee, Consulate menthol cigarettes and alcohol, the next I am looking thoughtfully at jars of Ovaltine and buying birdseed in bulk from Amazon. And being excited about it. It’s very different from how things used to be. Two glasses of wine these days and I’m falling asleep.
My neighbour claims to have seen a redwing last winter, so he leads in the local birdwatching role of honour, and jealous rivals shun him in Morrisons. My sister Diana understands; many is the time she has rung me to tell me about the spotted woodpecker in her oak tree or the robins on her garage roof.
And then my mobile buzzed importantly on the worktop. I put the iron down and paused Blue Bloods, where one of the Reagan family were being clever, gritty, and brave capturing yet another Mexican drug cartel boss. Or it might have been the same one, I wasn’t sure. The one in the last series was supposed to have been blown up in a plane, but Mexican drug cartel bosses have a strange ability to survive most things. And despite there being thirty-five thousand other cops in New York, it was only a matter of time before the detective’s brother turned up. That would mean they would solve the case and go back to someone’s glamorous house or perhaps a cute diner for another huge breakfast that they wouldn’t get to eat.
I picked the phone up without looking, I assumed it was Diana; she phones me at least once a day, usually about something unimportant, but it’s nice to hear from her anyway. At least I get an idea of her mood. Since she was widowed, she’s doing very well, but I know she must be very lonely. There have been a lot of unhappy, tearful calls over the last five years, which more often than not saw me in my car going over to try and help. Her new neighbour, Tom, seems to have developed a bit of a crush on her recently. He’s always washing out her recycling bins and offering to trim her hedges, so to speak.
‘Ahoy there! Everything okay?’
‘That’s the correct answer!’ said an excited voice and then there was the sound of cheering and explosions and car horns and I nearly rang off because I thought it was a nuisance call, or someone was trying to sell me something.
‘Who is this?’ I said in my best headmistressy voice, which I never was but it comes in very useful for this sort of occasion, and there was the sound of more cheering and laughter and again I was tempted to put the phone down.
‘This is Steve “the Groover” Groove, and you are live on Radio Wonderful,’ he said.
Radio Wonderful. Well, I used to listen to that channel many years ago because the boys liked it, but then I got fed up with the bad language, the terrible music, and all the endless phone-ins about how unfair everything is, and I switched to Radio 2. But they seem to be getting rid of all the people I like there too, so it’s only a matter of time before I give up entirely. It was never the same after Terry Wogan left and the departure of Ken Bruce was the last straw.
‘I’d better not swear then,’ I said.
On the laptop screen in front of me, the rough-looking detective was still frozen, his mouth curled in a snarl, as he headed through another derelict warehouse in pursuit of the criminals.
‘No indeed you’d better not,’ the other person chortled, ‘because you are our winner.’
Steve “the Groover” Groove. Ah yes, I’d seen him on television recently, on some interminable game show where the only requirements seemed to be an ability to laugh hysterically at everything and wear trousers that were too tight and too short. Young men will be back in doublet and hose soon if things don’t change.
‘What have I won?’ I asked, still not sure this wasn’t someone wanting to interfere with my internet provider.
‘Our fabulous ten-day cruise to the Med,’ was the reply, ‘with Voyage Première cruise lines. All expenses paid.’
I was shocked, and speechless for a moment.
‘Does that include the drinks too?’
Raucous, choking laughter. ‘No, I’m afraid not. You’re a naughty one, aren’t you? I can tell you’re going to be trouble. Now then, stay there, I’m going to phone you back in a moment and fill you in with all the details. And then I can report back to our listeners. Meanwhile here’s Pond Slime with their latest hit, “Tread on Me, You Scumbag”.’
Yes, well that reinforced my opinion of modern music.
The phone call went dead, and Eddy came into the kitchen holding the morning’s post.
‘Nothing interesting,’ he said, leafing through the envelopes, ‘a bill, another bill, this one’s from the electricity board so it will be more of a William. Who was that on the phone?’
‘Steve Groove,’ I said, not taking my eyes off my mobile, willing it to ring.
