Granny ♥ Terry Wogan
by Alan McCormick
[ fiction - november 10 ]
I love Terry Wogan. I've always loved Terry Wogan. Sometimes I think it's him that keeps me sane. I only listen to his programme; otherwise the radio is unplugged from the wall. Every weekday morning over breakfast and ironing Terry speaks to me, except two Wednesdays a month. These days are reserved for Mister Haji.
On a Mister Haji day, I prefer silence to prepare my thoughts and plan my route. Mister Haji is my driver. He works for Privilege Cars. I found their advert in the Yellow Pages; it was discreet and impressive and depicted a male chauffer in a grey suit and cap. The first driver they sent me was a woman, a lesbian I think. She wore the suit and cap, it's true, but she also chewed gum and talked a lot. After I complained they sent Mister Haji. He was clean, presentable, polite, and I am very pleased with him.
It is 9 a.m. and I hear the car giving mechanical advice as Mister Haji opens the driver's door. I look out from my kitchen window. As usual he lights a cigarette and examines his car, a large white Mercedes, admiringly. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket to rub a mark off the bonnet. It's a hot day and he's not wearing his cap. As he leans over the bonnet I can see how bald he is getting; the crown of his head nut brown with grey whips of hair combed over. He looks ridiculous; from now on I will insist on the cap being worn. He stubs out the cigarette and takes a puff of mint mouth freshener; thankfully something I won't have to insist on, as this habit is second nature to him now.
He rings my doorbell and I walk out to meet him. He opens the rear passenger door. As always I position myself behind the front passenger seat, as I like to see his face as we drive. I tap my head and he sees me in his mirror and places the cap onto his head.
First stop is to the Abbey cash-point to collect my pension. It is quite generous as I get a bonus payment after my stay in hospital. Then he parks the car and I go into the local grocer's to collect my box of provisions. Julian, a clean young man - clean hands, clean teeth - is waiting behind the counter. I will only accept my order if it's he who has personally packed the box - once I found a hair in my cottage cheese when his doddery mother took over. Everything is ready, but he looks worried.
"I'm afraid we've run out of Branston's Pickle, Mrs Simmons."
"Don't worry, Julian, it's the way of the world," I tell him to help ease his conscience. "But you haven't forgotten to take it off the bill," I add.
"No, and I don't suppose we could interest you in another brand of pickle?" he says.
He knows the answer of course and I give him the kindest of smiles and pay him for what he had packed. He picks up my box, opens the door for me, and hands the box over to Mister Haji who places it in the boot of the car.
It's the fourth Wednesday of the month, and Mister Haji knows the next stop will be the park. As we drive I prefer to concentrate on what is going on in the car rather than what is going on outside; when you're sixty all the streets look the same: dirty and full of ugly people with unwashed hair, clutching carrier bags and babies.
Dangling from the driver's mirror is a silver chain with a bright blue stone at the end of it, an evil eyeapparently, a superstitious thing to ward off bad feeling. On the dashboard is Mister Haji's driver's licence photo, complete with Ali Baba twirling moustache, which thankfully he has had the good sense to shave off. Next to this is a picture of a younger Mister Haji sitting on a scruffy porch, presumably in Turkey, with a woman and two children.
Seeing the children reminds me of my own Alice - brushing her long blonde hair and tying it into a tight ponytail when the time came for them to take her away. They placed her with a family in Windsor, who later took her to Scotland. I haven't been able to abide the Scottish accent ever since, even to the point of unplugging the radio when I hear Gordon Brown's voice on the news interruptions to Terry Wogan's show.
Alice is now in her twenties. She wrote to me recently, telling me that she was about to have a baby of her own. She asked if she could meet with me. I've filed the letter for safekeeping in case I ever feel the desire to write back. Right now I'm not sure I want to: life isn't like 'Jeremy Kyle', she made her bed and now she needs to lie in it.
Mister Haji turns down the air conditioning. He does this a few minutes before reaching the park, so not to cause too much of a shock for me when I step into the heat. He has a hairy wrist and though his hairs are seemingly sparse up top, he has a generous crop of black and grey hair running from under his cap and down into his collar. I imagine he has a hairy back like a fluffy bear. I smile at the thought, but then remember the animals and dolls I used to stuff for Alice in my hospital; the ones I sent up north without receiving as much as a thank you note.
When we arrive at the park, Mister Haji waits in the car while I feed the ducks. I have brought along a small suitcase of stale bread. I have cut the bread into small round pieces so it can be easily digested. I am careful to do this ever since I fed a Garibaldi to a coot and it choked. It's always a battle to keep away the crows and seagulls but I find a small scream normally suffices. The pond birds - the ducks, coots and swans - gobble up the bread. I like the ducks best of all; their webbed feet are so amusing.
When the ducks are full I return to the car and Mister Haji drives me home. As it's been a park day, we make a familiar stop at the drive-through Kentucky Fried Chicken, where I buy us both a chicken box meal. I open mine when I'm at home, and, as a treat, utilise the plastic utensils and eat from the box to save on washing up. After hearing about Terry Wogan's latest low fat diet, I am careful to scrape off the skin, and save the chips for a further meal.
The day before my next appointment with Mister Haji and his car, I am sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall, when the phone rings. It is Joyce from Privilege Cars.
"Mrs Simmons, I am terribly sorry but we're going to have to reschedule Wednesday's appointment."
Joyce hails from a local council estate and has manipulated her vowels to find work; but she doesn't fool me.
"Is there a problem?" I ask.
"We can offer another driver at ten a.m." she says.
"What's wrong with Mister Haji?"
"He's been in an accident."
"Is he going to be all right?"
"Actually, he's very ill and will be in hospital indefinitely."
"Poor thing. Now, who are you proposing will be picking me up tomorrow?"
"Mister MacDonald, he's been with us a long time."
"I don't think so," I say, imagining his harsh Tartan voice like a fingernail down a blackboard.
"He's one of our best drivers."
"I'm pleased for him, but he wouldn't be right."
"There's no-one else available for that morning."
"I want Mister Haji, or someone like him."
"Mister Haji may die, and I'm not sure we can promise anyone like him."
"I'm sorry to hear it," I reply.
In the end they send Catherine, the lesbian, who turns out not to be lesbian after all: she tells me about her husband and four children, and I believe her. Although she is still a chatterbox, she thankfully no longer chews gum; that particular habit was part of some nicotine replacement programme. I tell her she'd have been better off carrying on smoking in the street like Mister Haji, rather than chewing cud like a cow in a field.
She gives a gruff laugh and tells me about the sorry state of poor Mister Haji: comatose and wrapped up in bandages like a mummy in the local ICU. On my next appointment I will ask her to take me there.
Two days before Terry Wogan retires from mornings, I find the hospital has changed a lot in the years since I used to drag Alice into Casualty. Immediately I can tell it's dirtier and they are using a different disinfectant in the bathrooms, probably something ecological and ineffective. The nurses also seem scruffier than they used to be, and many of them are male. I remember how to find the ICU, and introduce myself to the one in charge.
"I am a close acquaintance of Mister Haji. Would it be all right to see him?"
"Welcome, you're his first visitor. Don't be alarmed, he's still in a coma, but we talk to him and believe he is able to hear. Will you be ok?"
"I'll be fine, nurse, I'm used to sick people."
"You can call me James, if you prefer."
"Thank you; that would be nice."
First names and an earring: yet more unwelcome changes from before. I put on a green gown, wash my hands in antiseptic as requested, and take a seat beside Mister Haji's bed. I've had to leave Nurse James my bag, containing the Garibaldis I'd carefully crushed in the basin at home.
Mister Haji is no longer swathed in bandages as I'd anticipated. He is not even wearing a pyjama top. He is breathing with the aid of a ventilator, his hairy chest rising and falling like Paddington Bear's. I don't think they've shaved him for days, and he appears to have something that looks like custard around his lips. He has tubes everywhere; in his mouth, nose, arms, and one snaking out of the bed into a bloody container on the floor. He is in quite a state, and so I cheer him up by telling him about my day. I tell him about Catherine and her boisterous family, and how my neighbour, a young man with long greasy hair and piercings, was arrested by the police the other day.
"They made quite a commotion, Mister Haji, you would have laughed and laughed, I'm sure. Apparently he was on drugs; which ones I can't tell you.'
Nurse James arrives beside us and wipes around his mouth with a moist tissue.
"It gets very dry. How long have you known Abdul?"
"Mister Haji used to work for me. We met every fortnight for a drive."
"It's terrible about his family, isn't it?"
I look at the creased, slightly charred photo on his locker, the one from the car dashboard.
When Catherine picks me up I ask her to explain.
"They all died in an earthquake a few years ago," she says.
"Goodness," I say and reach into my bag and offer her a piece of biscuit. ‘I don't eat them anymore, they're not good for my diet," I tell her.
She grabs one. "Can't get enough of them since I gave up the ciggies," she says, spraying crumbs everywhere.
On my next visit I find Mister Haji has been moved into a side room on a medical ward. No tubes anymore but he's still in his deep sleep. It feels nice in here, and someone has brought flowers. I look at the card: 'To Abdul, from Joyce and all the gang at Privilege Cars'. I peel off the £3.99 sticker from the £1.49 special offer price. That'll be Joyce up to her tricks again: once from the council estate, always from the council estate.
I feel more comfortable in this room, as does Mister Haji. There is even a radio chained to his locker. I momentarily break my post-Wogan embargo - I still can't believe they let him go - and tune it to Radio 2. It's that awful ginger man who tries not to shout as much as he used to.
"Not a patch on the real thing," I tell Mister Haji, unplugging it from the wall.
"Silly chatter won't get anyone better. If you're listening, Mister Haji, blink at the nurse to tune into Radio 2 for Terry Wogan's new show on Sunday at 11 a.m. and to turn it off smartly at 1p.m.; that'll stimulate you best of all."
Mister Haji looks cleaner on this ward but what's left of his hair is an unkempt mess. I reach in my handbag and find my nail scissors. They're not designed for the job, but a few clips later and he looks a lot more presentable. I find a tissue and fold the hairs inside.
"I'll be off now, Mister Haji, keep breathing and don't forget about the radio."
I look back and I'm sure I see him smile.
On the way out of the hospital I make a detour to the children's ward, re-named The Princess Diana since I used to visit Alice there. In the first bed is a pale sleeping girl. I find the crushed Garibaldis and place them by her bed. I take a mummy doll I made in my hospital out of my bag, and place it beside her head. The girl wheezes, instinctively clutches, and pulls it under the covers.
I am re-arranging her pillows, when a nurse in jeans walks over.
"You must be Granny," she says.
On my next visit I'm told Mister Haji has moved to a nursing home. Apparently he has started to utter a few words, but I never heard as much as a slurred 'thank you' for visiting him. I shan't see him again in any case as the nursing home is miles from my home.
It's Sunday lunchtime; I'm making a wig for a new doll, listening to Terry Wogan - not as good as his morning show but a Godsend nevertheless - and thinking of how best to get rid of the tissue containing the rest of Mister Haji's hair - in the bin or down the toilet? - when the doorbell rings.
Terry is telling us how he's put on weight since stopping his early morning show. I want to hear, so I only turn the volume down a little before I look to see who it is. A young blonde-haired woman is standing below with a small baby in her arms. She rings again. I duck out of sight and sit on the floor, then reach over to the bin and drop in the tissue with the last of Mister Haji's clippings.
One last ring and Terry is laughing and saying it's better to be fat and wear a good head of hair than be thin and bald. Like nearly everything he says, it's funny and true.
