At Her Age One Does Not Have Birthdays

“At her age one does not have birthdays,” announced Susan, “it’s such an inconvenience.”

“And rather vulgar,” added Melinda, who was Monty’s third -or was it fourth?- wife, and in no position to be dictating what was or wasn’t vulgar. Melinda was a great deal younger than her predecessors, all of whom had been a great, great deal younger than Monty himself, who was now pushing ninety and, if such a thing were humanly possible, actually looking old for his age.

Monty was the eldest of Mumsy’s children. There were six of them in total: Monty, Caroline, Giles and the twins. Then Susan, who was the youngest, at seventy eight. It was a miracle they’d all made it thus far. Though, when you considered Mumsy – who was fresh as a daisy for a hundred and sixteen- you couldn’t help wondering if it was the genes which had made all the difference. Perhaps there was something in the water at Red Ferns. If Mumsy’s advanced condition was anything to go by, her offspring might expect another half century rattling about the country pile. Not that any of them called Red Ferns home these days. All six had their own estates in Essex and Herts and just outside Cambridge, though they tended to migrate back to the homestead at every opportunity. Christmas. Easter. Mumsy’s birthday which was scheduled to take place in two days’ time.

Caroline, who was Mumsy’s undisputed favourite, had been dispatched a fortnight ago to enquire discretely/cautiously/with all due respect whether Mumsy might not prefer a small soiree this year, rather than the usual shin dig in the ballroom. “You are turning one hundred and seventeen,” Caroline had attempted to remind her, “at your age, a party might not be considered a dreadfully good idea.” “Bollocks,” Mumsy had replied, “this might well be my last hurrah so we might as well make the most of it. I want nine courses and a keg of beer, Spanish dancers and that lady who won the X Factor two seasons back; she does a good medley of Abba songs.” This, it should be noted, was exactly what she’d said last year, and every year previous for a good decade.

Caroline could not -or perhaps it would be more accurate to say- would not, tell Mumsy no, so here they all were, gathered at Red Ferns, opening yet another birthday card from the Queen. After the fifth or sixth it had been difficult to work up any enthusiasm for a greetings card which remained unchanged from year to year. Mumsy would open it over breakfast and exclaim, “Lizzie doesn’t look a day older than last year.” None of the siblings or their spouses knew whether this was a subtle attempt at humour on Mumsy’s part or simply evidence of her failing sight.

Mumsy showed little sign of failing. Her mind was sharp as a paperclip. Her tongue was equally caustic. She could polish off five boiled eggs for breakfast and half a loaf of bread and still took flamenco lessons from Marco in the village, though Marco insisted, after thirty two years, she had very little left to learn. The siblings were sure Mumsy would outlive them all. The spouses sat up late at night Googling the symptoms of terminal illnesses as manifest in the very old. The grandchildren wondered if they’d ever see an inheritance. They drove their children down to Red Ferns and forced them to present Mumsy with handmade drawings and perch upon her bony knee and tell her she was looking very pretty, though in the car, on the way back to London, they’d say she looked like the man in Star Wars, the scary one in the hooded cloak.

Every April, the entire extended family would assemble for Mumsy’s birthday, hoping this might be the last last hurrah. This year there would be cake and dancing and karaoke and a troupe of Flamenco dancers from Milton Keynes and speeches and champagne and a poem commissioned from the Poet Laureate and a chocolate fountain and a message from the Pope and a children’s choir and vol-au-vents and three burly strippers and a fine cheese board and, as the night was finally ending, fireworks would be set off out on the lawn. Bang. Bang. Bang the firecrackers would go; each one louder than the last. And every eye would be trained on Mumsy. Was she looking pale? Was her heart playing up? Did she seem a little unsure on her feet? Not a bit of it. She’d be drunk and giddy. She’d be spinning round the fountain like a little girl. She’d be cornering Monty by the Steinway. “Next year,” she would say, “let’s have a proper party. You never know, it might be my last.” 

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1950 novel, A Murder is Announced