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Collateral Damage continued. He hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to refuse, but it was too late. She was on her feet now, opening that little interconnecting gate that his son-in-law had made, at his daughter's suggestion, so that if "anything happened" Mrs. Nugent would be able to come in and interfere. "Come along, Mr. Dempsey. May I call you Robert?" He shrugged. "Of course," he replied resignedly. "And you have to call me Doris. I won't hear of anything else." She led him to her own French windows, which were in the same position as his but older in design, wooden framed and rickety. His daughter had replaced his a couple of years back, thought it would make the house more secure. Everybody seemed to think they had to protect him, to keep doing things for him, to organize his life. A bloody impertinence. He knew how to look after himself. He had demonstrated that for once and for all, about sixty years ago in a field in Northern France. He noticed without a great deal of interest that she had altered the interior of her house around at some stage. What was the lounge in his own was a kitchen-diner in this one, presumably she had knocked out the dividing wall to make a big through- lounge at the front. He didn't approve of people doing that. It destroyed the character of these little Victorian terrace houses. Pretensions. Delusions of grandeur. Typical of Mrs. Nugent. Of all the Mrs. Nugents. He sat down on one of the soft-seated wooden-framed armchairs by the coffee table. She went to find him a glass and for a few moments he was able to look around and take-in the rather crass imitation-everything of his surroundings. Kitchen units made of some kind of plastic simulated stripped pine, with make-believe varnished wooden work-surfaces and bottles of cheap wine stored on their sides in a rack beneath the counter. Impractically big kitchen knives and cleavers with stainless steel blades and black imitation ebony handles dangled from a special wooden rack above the sink. A string of garlic, purely for decoration he was certain, had been slung over a vacant hook by the side of the knives. An early-morning television studio-set of a French provincial kitchen. "It's a--- very nice kitchen," he lied as she handed him the sherry. "Thank you Robert. Good health and happiness in the new millennium. And lots more New Years to you as well." What was that supposed to mean? That she thought he was about to keel over and die? Not for a while yet, my good woman, he thought contemptuously. "Thank you, Doris," he said mildly, "and a good long life to you too." He sipped from the glass. It was a bit sickly sweet, he thought, like Doris herself. She sat down in the next chair, slightly closer than he would have wished. "Mr. Dempsey--- mean Robert, you and I have got off on the wrong foot, haven't we?" Damn it. She didn't want a heart-to-heart did she? It was the last thing he wanted. "You don't have to say anything," she went on, sensing his discomfiture, "I know exactly what you feel about me, and I understand why you feel that way. You are a proud and independent man, and I admire you for that. So does your daughter. You wouldn't believe the respect she has for you, the way she talks about you. She worries about you, Robert, worries a lot. Maybe she doesn't need to, maybe you're as indestructible as you think you are, I don't know, but you should be very happy that somebody cares about you that much. Not--- not everybody has someone who cares for them like that---" He realized that she was fighting back a tear and felt a momentary impulse to put a hand on her shoulder. Then they both pulled themselves together. "Robert, there's no disgrace in growing older. Nobody can live the same life at eighty as they can at twenty--- or at fifty." Fifty. That was probably her own age. It was young to be a widow. Cancer of some kind, as far as he could remember. Something to do with Sid's job. Not the best time to ask her about it. "Isn't it wonderful that you've lived to see the beginning of a whole new century? Aren't you thrilled about it? Surely it's time to let somebody else do a little bit for you? You've paid in to these insurance schemes all your life. So have your family. Isn't it time you had something back? You've nothing left to prove, Robert. It's time to relax. Let other people carry a little bit of the weight. Do you know what I mean?" "You think I should go in to some kind of funny farm for old incontinents who can't remember their own names? Well, I'm sorry, Doris, but I'm not ready for that yet. I can stand up straight, I can see straight and I can think straight. A few years back, I got lost in the car in the city traffic and she made me stop driving. How many times have you got lost driving around this city? How many times has she? What kind of accident record have you had in the last twenty years? Do you want to know how many I've had?" "Robert, it wasn't a question of accidents or of getting lost. You weren't able to pass the eyesight test any more. That's all there was to it." "Doris, if you want to get a few things straight then let's get a few things straight. I don't say things behind people's backs. I say them to their faces. I resent the way you watch me and report everything back to Karen. You watch when I go out and when I come in. You count how many times I take a bath in the week, and how many times I hang my clothes out to dry. You tell her what time I go to bed at night and what time I get up in the morning and how many bottles the milkman leaves outside my front door. You tell her if I miss a Saturday at the club, or if I have a visitor, or if I don't leave the rubbish out for the bin-men. Now is that any way for a grown man to live? A man more than old enough to be your father? Would you like to be spied on and reported on like that?" "But don't you see that it's because she cares? She doesn't want anything to happen to you. She wants to know that you're eating properly, and getting your sleep--- and looking after yourself." "All right. Tell her thanks. I'm looking after myself. I've looked after myself for a long time. If I want any help I'll let the two of you know." "Don't be like that, Robert. Don't be angry with your only daughter. She deserves better. That's the truth." He lay back in the chair and thought for a moment. "Yes," he said at last, "it is the truth. You're right. But there's nothing wrong with me. I wish the two of you would get that through your heads. Being old isn't a disease you know. I haven't gone soft in the head. Some people do, granted, but I haven't. So can you just leave me alone to live my own life in my own way. That isn't too much to ask now, is it?" "No, Robert, it isn't. So are we okay now? Are we friends? Do we understand each other?" "Yes, Doris," he smiled sheepishly, "sorry for the dressing down. I know you're well-intentioned." He hesitated. "And I'm not a fool. I know I don't have--- the concentration that I had when I was younger. I do forget things more than I used to do. Sometimes--- well, sometimes I have to just stop and think for a second: What am I doing? Why did I come upstairs? What job was it that I was in the middle of? You know the kind of thing." "But that happens to everybody, Robert. All the time." "Of course it does. Exactly. But Joyce always picks me up on it. Always makes a big thing of it. It makes me nervous and I do it even more when she's around." Doris smiled and filled their two glasses again. "Did you realize you just called your daughter Joyce? Joyce was your wife, wasn't she?" Robert felt a twinge of annoyance, mostly with himself, but did not answer. "I'm glad we had this talk," she went on, touching her glass to his. Her smile softened. " I was going to sit outside and watch the fireworks. I would invite you but you would catch your death of cold in that thin robe." "It's all right. You go outside and I'll just turn my chair around. I'll be able to see perfectly well from here." She touched his hand, smiled, and returned to her seat in the garden.
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