For 30 years I have been a European, living half my life in England and half in France. When I recently went back to my house in Provence after a nearly two-year viral imprisonment in London, I realised my entire life has changed—instead of settling in to enjoy the sere and yellow, I have to face a radical rethink of my future.
While in France I discovered that during my absence I have—as my mother would have said—“gone downhill.” My erstwhile fluent French has become erratic through lack of use; there is no walk-in shower and my body does not like climbing into the bath, or descending the open-plan stairs. I feel guilty about flying, and anyway the journey has become a nightmare of form-filling, testing and two-hour queues at Heathrow when the e-gates—whatever they are—break down.
There is a rough, steep track leading to my house which suddenly frightened me to death. With my usual “never surrender” wartime spirit, I forced myself to go up and down it several times, banging into a tree trunk, my ancient heart thumping. I did it, but something that two years ago I bumped down happily is now a disturbing challenge. Fear of that bloody virus to which I have been regularly warned I am “extremely vulnerable,” despair that my profession has stopped functioning, and my grief at the suffering I have seen, have broken my body and spirit. I feel very old. Instead of that knowledge creeping up on me gradually, it has come as a sudden, gut-wrenching shock.
All through life I have adapted to change in circumstance, from child to adult, from school to work, from adventures to the responsibility of parenthood, from love to bereavement—but this recent upheaval has taken me by surprise. It is shockingly possible that my existence in France—full of sunshine, friends and a French way of life that I relish—will have to go. I am not alone in my bewilderment. I can see around me other people coming blinking out of the darkness of lockdown, unsure and nervous of the way ahead.
“While in France I discovered I have—as my mother would have said—‘gone downhill’”
Then there is the wider picture. I did feel hopeful that, as after the Second World War with the welfare state, this catastrophe would lead to radical change in society. I was sourly cynical about the clapping for the NHS, but we all became aware of our utter dependence on bus drivers, social workers, shop assistants, nurses, dustmen and the like. Sadly, we have now become resentful that we might have to cough up some money to pay those people what they deserve, while electing a government that will not raise the necessary taxes to do so.
With the right inspirational leadership, now is a chance for our broken world to repair itself. We have problems that we need to unite to solve—Covid, the environment, mass displacement from dying countries. I was heartbroken that Brexit happened, not for any economic reason but because a united Europe would mitigate any wars such as that which blighted my childhood. Alas, already the aggro is building between us and Europe, egged on by mindless little Englanders. What can I do about it? All my life I have been a campaigner, marching, protesting, shouting. Now I just sign things and leave the rest to my grandchildren.
When you are near to 90, you are lucky if you have half a dozen years left. My daughter said about my dilemma of selling my French home: “Give it another year, mum.” But I can’t waste one of my precious years dithering. I was offered a lovely part in a musical, one I would have bitten their hands off to do a couple of years ago, but now I can’t waste potentially a whole year of the few I have left doing eight shows a week and worrying about my voice. But I can’t do nothing. My brain will stagnate. It already gropes to be lucid. So, the big question is—how do I face the fact that all my plans for my old age are no longer possible? How do I start a new life in 2022, at 89?
Out of the blue I have been asked to write a column for my favourite magazine. Never done that before. A change. Fresh fields. Can I do it? Should I? Shouldn’t I just shut up and behave as befits my venerable old age? My mother again: “Little girls should be seen and not heard.”
Well I’m a big girl now, aren’t I?
So to hell with that. Listen…
