Pretty in Purple
by Jackie Anderson
Just my hat and I’ll be ready to go. It’s purple felt, and matches my purple wool coat. They cost me weeks of my pension, but they’re worth it. And they both match my purple hair. I chuckle just thinking about it. My hairdresser thought I wanted a purple rinse. But I wanted electric purple, and I had to go back with Lucy, my great granddaughter – the one who speaks little and studies a lot, has her eyebrows pierced and wears her hair in shocking blue spikes – to convince her. Lucy thinks I’m batty and she’s probably right. She’s a little bit crazy herself, but that off-the-wall nature will serve her well in this topsy-turvy world.
I have a penchant for purple, always have had. I would have worn purple on our wedding day but Ted was straight-laced as my veil and I gave in and wore white.
My younger sister Carole’s special weakness is black leather. At 78 she’s a bit of a young blood compared to me, and she doesn’t think twice before pulling on her leather thigh-highs over her jeans, zipping up her studded jacket and perching pillion on the back of her son’s Harley. I admit I envy her a bit, but with my right hip the way it is these days I’ve no intention of slinging my leg over a motorbike and hanging on to some muscle-bound biker, appealing though the thought is.
I grin at my reflection in the mirror; a little twirl, a sassy glance over a shoulder, a pout and a dab of pink gloss and perfect. Now my walking cane and I’m ready for Ted’s big day.
I open my front door just as my neighbour roars off on his Kawasaki. It’s green and he wears a matching kit with a yellow stripe across the full-face helmet. With a beer gut draped over the engine he is like a ridiculous locust buzzing about for food. Decades on from when I used to ride with the Angels, I still only turn my head for the deep throated growl of a Triumph.
Ted had cars, three of them at one point. The Fiat was for ferrying the kids to and from school. The Stag was for show and the Volvo was for towing the caravan on our holidays. Once we were married and the kids born, I never sat on a motorbike again.
But that never worried me. Ted would tease, especially when Carole would talk about the festivals she’d been to, or the rides. But then Carole married Liam who built motorbikes. I married Ted the teacher, who was warm and loving and fun, even if it was fun in a quieter way and without the chemicals. I’ve enjoyed every minute of every year I’ve had with him.
It’s a little bit of a walk to where I’m going and I have to take small paces. My route takes me through the dull landscape of brick terraced houses, so I pop in my earphones to pass the time. I have to turn the volume right up these days, but no matter. I downloaded some of my favourite tracks last night with Lucy’s help. I pick some Fleetwood Mac; easygoing and catchy.
The sky is bleak, a dash of meagre light between the rows of dark red roof tiles that line the path to Ted’s special do. I have received dozens of offers of lifts but I turned them all down. I like to walk. Ted and I used to go for long walks in the country, picnic on our backs and a blanket for sitting on grass. We used to take our kids, and then their kids and even their kids – although more leisurely by then.
The music doesn’t seem to fit the mood. I stop, take off my pink fluffy gloves and fiddle with the phone. That’s better. The intro chords rasp and Pulp fills my ears. Common People. Exactly as we were, Ted and I. Ordinary, common people. That picks up my adrenalin a bit.
At the end of the road, a bleeping interrupts the music. I press a switch and push the microphone closer to my mouth. I love technology. I would say I’m a silver surfer but I’m most definitely purple today.
“Gran, are you on your way?” It’s Lucy.
“Of course I am.”
“I thought you might be put off by the cold. Or that you’d forgotten.”
“How could I possibly forget!”
“Don’t be late. Call if you want a pick up.”
“I wouldn’t miss today for the world.”
I always went everywhere with Ted. He filled my life. We lived together, laughed together, even cried together sometimes. Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away today, even if he does disapprove of purple hair. I know his way of thinking. Just like he can read my mind. “You wear your feelings on your face, Kitty,” he’s always said.
My emotions, if not totally dried up, are a little stale today. I wonder if they become worn with age, just like fingerprints do. I need to crank it up a little. Today is also about fun. If there is one over-riding feature of our lives, it has been fun. I try ZZ Top and that makes me grin. ACDC and their dirty deeds done dirt cheap has me chuckling which I think the postman I toddle past finds disconcerting.
At the roundabout I have to concentrate. There are pedestrian footpaths and toucan crossings and flashing lights. A flutter of panic crosses my stomach and I hesitate at the edge of the road, a dual carriageway heading towards the motorway. I have a fleeting desire to hail a taxi and get there early. Ted is very insistent on punctuality. Natural for a teacher. He was a drama teacher and a fine actor. He was never late for anything. I was never early, not even for giving birth. I was never late for his performances, though, and I shan’t be today.
I feel hot. I yank my gloves off and one falls to the ground. I curse loudly.
“Here you are, my love,” says the postman. He picks up my glove. He seems flushed; hair blond streaked with grey and face like a beetroot.
“I’m about to cross over,” he says, talking loudly, which is just as well because Metallica is blasting some whiskey in the jar into my head, “would you like to take my arm?”
I would if you looked like young George Clooney, I think, but then this hero is to hand and Clooney definitely isn’t.
“Thank you dear.” I grip his offered forearm more tightly than he expects and he winces.
“What are you listening to?” he asks once we are safely on the other side.
“At the moment, Thin Lizzy,” I tell him, “but I’m thinking of resting a moment and setting up a Marilyn Manson versus Slipknot medley as I walk down the hill.”
I can’t help grinning. His gawp asks for it. Except I shan’t listen to that. That’s my angry music and I don’t feel angry today, just like I don’t feel sad or sentimental.
I take my hat off and shake my hair loose. Whoever says old ladies can’t have long hair? I let it tumble about my head as it always has done. Ted, who was so precise, such a rule-follower, a perfectionist, a conventional man loved me: me, unruly, impractical, unpredictable me. The attraction of opposites.
Instead, I pick Take That. The Circus. Ted liked it, just as he took a childlike delight in the circus with its clowns and trapeze artists and magic. It was how he first entered the world of make-believe that led him to the theatre where he could be whoever he wanted to be. Otherwise he was happy to be just plain Ted. My husband, Ted. Now dead, Ted.
At the gate of the graveyard I pause. In the distance, between the trees I see a large gathering of people and recognise our family and circle of friends. Carole and her husband are there, their motorbike leaning against a tree. Lucy and her friends are there too. They all loved Ted. He was teaching drama classes right up to the day before he went.
I think those words: “he went” like he’s nipped to the shops. But he’s gone for good.
I take my earphones off and tuck them into my pocket. My back aches a bit now but I walk forward. Ted will be waiting for me, like he has had to so many times before. And I won’t be making him wait too long. I can feel myself reaching for him and I won’t fight it. I just intend to have fun while I still can. He approves of that.
I pretend not to notice the raised eyebrows. Ted would have laughed at them and enjoyed me being me. He always thought I looked pretty in purple.
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