An essay by Sadie Loveday, as provided by Judith Field
Art by Errow Collins
O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
(Robert Burns, “To a Louse”)
On my 40th birthday, I said to myself, “Sadie, it’s time for life to begin.” Sadie Loveday, spinster of this parish. I’m not bad looking, really–5 feet 12 inches with all my own teeth and hair. I wear glasses, but there are sexy frames these days.
Just as I’d convinced myself that perhaps short men did have a certain bijou charm, my mum had a stroke and I moved back in to look after her. She was a good friend, and we had some happy times. She never pursed her lips when I spent money on myself, however trivial the reason. Like the green hair extensions. “We’ve got to have our toys,” she said. “They’re the marigold on life’s muckheap.” She also reckoned that you should always have two things to look forward to, so there seemed to be brightness stretching into the future.
She died. I’d been out of the dating rat race for eighteen years, and all that stretched into the future were years on my own. “You don’t need a man to make you complete. Haven’t you heard of feminism?” my mates said, scurrying back to their hubbies. But I was still crouching at the sprinting blocks with nowhere to run. The finishing tape had been rolled up and put away.
It was all very well telling myself that nobody’s perfect, but how could I meet Mr He’ll-Do? I didn’t want to go out pubbing or clubbing, what’d be the point? With everywhere full of luscious girls in their teens and twenties, why would a man be interested in me? I googled “dating apps over 50.” All the descriptions included the word “seniors,” which made me shudder. I’d have to do it the really old-fashioned way–take up a hobby. Better than sitting at home squinting at my phone.
I’d always loved singing, so I joined the Mill Hill Chorale, who met in the local church hall once a week. I decided not to have any other sort of treat on choir days so that if anything else good did happen, I’d have two things to look forward to, like Mum said.
Shelley, the leader, said I was a tenor. You’d think that would put me in the middle of lots of hunky men, or at least one or two. It didn’t. They were all married, and spent the non-singing time complaining about arthritis, flatulence, and memory loss. I called it “the organ recital.” Most of them needed a nurse, not a lover. Old, dull, gay: pick any two from three. I decided I’d have to set my cap at younger men and hope they didn’t dodge it.
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The reason for that decision was the piano accompanist, Randall Sumpter. English Dad, German Mum (according to the tenor gossip mill), single and straight, as far as anyone could tell (ditto). He looked about thirty, with black cropped hair, long eyelashes, and glasses. His smooth, olive cheeks were sprinkled with musician stubble (like designer stubble, only dishier). He and Shelley stopped us singing every so often to discuss suspensions, semitones, and resolutions. I didn’t understand a word, but that did it for me. It’s a real turn on, someone who’s an expert in their subject.
As soon as Shelley left the room during the break, I walked up to the front and leaned on the piano.
“Randall, can you help with something?” He looked up. His eyes were a knee-weakening blend of hazel and brown. “I can’t get this phrase right.” I held out my music and prodded at the page.
“Yes, it is tricky. It goes like this.” He played it twice. Shelley came in, and I went back to my seat.
The rehearsal started again but, as usual, someone hadn’t brought their music, and Shelley went into the hall to get more from her bag.
I went to the front again. Randall was playing the piano, staring at the keys as he did. I cleared my throat. He stopped and looked up at me. “Sorry, but have you got another copy?” I said. “I can’t read this properly.”
He took it from me. Strong hands, clean nails. “I think I’ve got a better one.” He stood up. Only a few inches shorter than me. He took a sheet from a pile on top of the piano, and his hand brushed mine as he handed it to me. My heart turned over.
I sat in rehearsal, wondering how I could get to know him better, ticking off ideas in my head. Someone had told me that he worked as a part-time German interpreter for the police. I thought about starting a German class and asking him for help, but I’m useless at languages. He had a PhD in music, and I decided to learn all about music theory so we could have a scholarly discussion. He’d look at me across a complicated set of notes and say “Goodness, Sadie. You’re beautiful. Come here and let me invert your chords.” I’d also heard he gave piano lessons. Perhaps that’d be quicker than getting a PhD. He’d put his hands over mine, say “let me show you a contrapuntal imitation,” I’d look up, our eyes would meet … sweet music.
By the day of the next rehearsal, my hair was a bright auburn shade called Shangri-La, according to the label on the box. I turned up in an outfit sourced from that exclusive couturier, eBay. A skin-tight black v-necked t-shirt that showed off my cleavage, and black skinny jeans. Pointy coral shoes (they’re not orange), with kitten heels, matched my Shangri-La hair. All topped off with a fake leopard-skin waist-length jacket. I wore a pair of cats-eye shaped black framed glasses with sparkly bits in the corners to add a bit of sophistication. I minced into the hall, holding in my stomach, feeling and probably looking like I was trying to hold in a fart.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, hoping it would frame me, and struck up a pose for a second. Randall was there, but he didn’t look up, so I went to find my seat. My shoe slipped on the polished floor, and I grabbed a chair, sending it and a music stand clattering across the room. So much for the grand entrance.
What made it worse was that I’d forgotten that when you sing, you have to let your stomach stick out or the breath’s all wrong. After I’d done all the warm-up exercises about two feet away from Randall, I reckoned he probably thought I was pregnant. But how could he have, about a woman old enough to be his mother? With the layers of pancake makeup, the mascara weighing my eyelids down, and the red lipstick, it was more likely he thought I was auditioning as a pantomime dame. Who was I trying to kid? I felt as though cold water was running down my back.
As soon as the rehearsal finished, I slunk away. Randall called after me. I waved without turning round. So he remembered my name. So what? Probably wanted me to help clear up, but stuff that. He could put his own music stands away. In fact, he could stick them where the sun didn’t shine.
~
I let myself into the house and slammed the front door. I still half expected to hear the TV on full blast, Mum calling out to me over it. Instead, the house was exactly as I’d left it, and I slumped. A local paper, part-shoved through the letter box, fell on the floor. I pushed it to one side with my foot and hurled the leopard-skin jacket in the general direction of the banisters. I stood in the hall, nowhere to go in my silly clothes. Sad old Sadie. All I wanted was someone to be there for me, someone to give me a hug. Someone who wanted me. Maybe for a date, maybe forever.
I took the paper into the kitchen, got a mug from the cupboard and a bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge. It’d cost more than I’d usually pay, but I counted it as a “toy.” I half-filled the mug with wine, sat down, and eased the shoes off. Too expensive to kick across the floor. I cupped my hands round the mug and looked down at my reflection. Grooves where there used to be smile dimples, everything heading south. I bet Randall would shrivel up like a salted slug if he knew how I felt.
I took a sip and looked through the paper, past the usual accounts of rape and robbery, till I came to the small ads–maybe there’d be Lonely Hearts. I scanned the page but everyone must have gone online because although it was filled with ads from women, they offered bubble baths, fluffy towels and things I’d never heard of. But at the end of the right hand most column was an ad so small I nearly missed it.
O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie
To have others see us as oursels would dee!
(With apologies to Burns! But we’re sure he’d have understood if he’d had a Giftie-nator)
Are you gorgeous? Course you are. And with our Foon Giftinator™ signal generator, that’s how you’ll look to everyone else. Synchs with your brainwaves. Fits in your pocket. Harmless. £19.99.
It was like the novelty ads in the back of the American comics I used to read when I was a kid, complete with old-fashioned black and white drawings. Nostalgia flooded in as I remembered body building courses. Glasses that would see thru (note spelling) bones, skin, and clothing. The secrets of the black arts–the devil’s legacy to earth’s mortals. I never found out if they worked. In those pre-internet days, there was no way anyone would ship things all the way here from across the Atlantic. But this seller was UK-based, and I decided to make up for lost time.
Sending twenty quid to a box number was cheaper than buying a piano. I drained my glass of toy wine, banged my glass down on the table, and wrote a cheque. I dropped it into the post first thing the following morning. So what if I got fleeced?
I didn’t have to wait long. When I got back from work the day after that, a shoebox-sized package waited for me on the doorstep. I grabbed the box, rushed into the kitchen, and cut through the tape. I ripped off the paper and dragged the lid open. Most of the space was taken up with that fluffed up polystyrene packing material that looks like an unhealthy snack, and I rummaged through it till I had excavated the treasure within. It was black, about four inches long, two wide, and less than a quarter of an inch thick. I picked it up and held it to the light. It was made of dull, cheap looking plastic with two buttons on one side each marked with a single arrow, one pointing up and one down.
There didn’t seem to be any way to switch it on. I poked through the polystyrene again and found a piece of paper. It contained instructions, in nearly-English.
Congratulations on you buy the Giftinator™ from Foon Corporation. People all around you see you how you wish you would look. Switch on, the Giftinator™ tunes into your brain waves and determines how that would be. Acting within 10 foot radius. So just think hard, wait for results.
“Congratulations on you buy the Giftinator™ from Foon Corporation. People all around you see you how you wish you would look. Switch on, the Giftinator™ tunes into your brain waves and determines how that would be. Acting within 10 foot radius. So just think hard, wait for results.”
I turned the paper over.
“To switching on: Pressing up and down button at same time. Sensation in neck is normal, get used to it.”
Was that a command or a statement? I did what it said, and a green light glowed from inside the box, through a gap where the front and the back didn’t fit together properly. I felt a tingling at the base of my skull.
“Foon Corp Single Use Giftinator™ cannot be switch off. Batteries not replaceable. Disposable when batteries run out, lasting seven days with normal use. To alter strength, Press up or down.”
I couldn’t tell which was which, so I pushed the one pointing towards the top, the way I was holding it. The tingling grew weaker. I pushed the opposite side, and the feeling grew till it was strong as before.
How did I want people to see me? Women, I didn’t care, although thinner might be good. But I didn’t want to waste the limited life of the battery–better concentrate on what men want. I ran upstairs to mum’s room–she’d had a photo of me on her bedside table, from when I was in my twenties. I’d cleared the room but the photo was still in a drawer–I don’t like to get rid of them, it feels like throwing people away.
I took it back to the kitchen and gazed at myself, young, unafraid and smiling into the camera, my face unwrinkled porcelain. My eyes were laughing. I wore a close fitting red woollen dress, red tights, and red high heeled shoes, and I held a red rose in one hand. I stared at the photo till its image was imprinted on the back of my eyes and touched the edge of the Giftie to my forehead: younger, younger. I tried to visualise the years falling away–I imagined them dropping onto the floor with a plop, like lumps of wet mud. I squeezed the up-arrow on the Giftie. The tingling intensified till I felt like ants were crawling under my skin. Then–nothing.
I put the photo on the table, slipped the Giftie into my pocket, and looked at my reflection in the polished side of the toaster. Apart from the distortions caused by the metal, I looked exactly the same. Great, I’d broken it.
Someone rang the bell. A man stood at the door, holding a clipboard. “Hello, lovie. Is your mum or dad in?”
Some chancer trying to see if I’m on my own in the house. “You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? Do me a favour and bugger off,” I said.
He gasped. “Why, you cheeky little beggar. Typical of kids today–your parents haven’t taught you any manners.” As I slammed the door, I heard him say that I needed a good hiding. Weird.
I leaned against the hall wall and smacked my forehead. Of course. “That’s how you’ll look to everyone else,” the ad said. The Giftie must work on other people, not the user. I turned the strength down again.
I took it to choir with me, hoping that something would happen before it conked out. This time I wore a skin tight electric blue sleeveless low cut tight fitting dress and electric blue tights. I’d decided to leave my coat at home, so that Randall would see my figure as soon as I walked in. I’d checked myself in the mirror before I left, drawing myself up to my full height–well over 6 foot 4 thanks to my high heeled blue patent shoes.
Randall was talking to Shelley when I arrived. He looked distinguished, with greyer hair than I remembered. He wore a cravat.
“Hello,” I said in the huskiest, most resonant voice I could summon. He turned, frowned and bit his lip.
“Hello, are you new?” he said.
“I’m Sadie. Remember?”
He coughed. “Right. Sorry.” I felt my face redden. “Er … have you been on holiday?”
“No. If my face is red–and thanks for pointing that out–it’s not because I’ve got sunburn.”
Now he went red, too. “I didn’t mean that. You just looked, sort of, well.”
That was what old people said when they thought you looked fat. I dragged myself to my seat. What a cheek–and he was the one who looked like he needed a holiday. His look was more “lived in” than “distinguished,” and it included tiny lines in the corners of his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. I’d have to turn the strength up on the Giftie. I’d better test it where people didn’t know me.
~
I sashayed into The Lindow Arms, holding my shoulders back and my head high.
“Can I have a vodka and tonic, ice and a slice, please?”
The barman rolled his eyes upwards. “No, you can have lemonade, a coke, or some fruit juice.”
“What? I’ve got ID.” I scrabbled in my best blue and grey leopard printed PVC handbag and shoved my driving licence across the counter. The barman slid it back, shaking his head.
“Better take that home, girlie, before your mum misses it. Go on, clear off before you get me into trouble.”
I rammed it back into my bag and strutted outside. I’d try the Granby. I took out the Giftie and pushed the plus button. I felt something snap, and the button fell inside the casing.
Opposite the pub, two girls, who couldn’t have been more than 16, sat on the brick edging of a flower bed that doubled as a rubbish bin.
“Don’t bother there, babes,” one called to me, flicking her long hair out of her face.
“That dickhead won’t serve you unless you look like a granny.” She raised a can of Carlsberg Special Brew to her lips, tipped her head well back and gulped. She threw the empty can over her shoulder to the flower bed behind and turned to her friend. “Give us another one, Kayle.”
Her companion reached into a plastic shopping bag at her feet and pulled out a can. She turned to me. “It’s my birthday. Catch!”
Why not? All dressed up and nothing else to do. I caught it, sat down next to her, and ripped open the can.
“That’s it,” she said. “Plenty more where that came from. She’s Shannon.”
“I’m Sadie.”
“Whoops! I forgot. I’m Kayleigh.”
Shannon turned to her. “You’re pissed, you mean.”
“That’s the idea!” Kayleigh said. “Get that Carlsberg down you, Sade.”
I took a sip. It had the dishwater taste that all beer did. I pursed my lips.
“Come on, hurry up,” she said. “Plenty more where that came from.” She aimed a kick at the carrier bag. “We’re off down The Dome, have a dance, get off with some lads.” She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Not sure they’ll let you in, though. How old are you?”
“14?”
“Hmm,” Shannon said. “Come with us, but you’re gonna have to tell the doorman you’re 16, works for us.”
“Yeah.” Kayleigh reached into her bag and pulled out a lipstick and a mirror. “Put some of this on, it’s great. Last week, I pulled this bloke, he thought I was 18!” She passed it over.
I took the cap off and most of the lipstick came away with it, leaving a stump with a few bits of fluff attached. I handed it back. “No thanks. Doesn’t match my outfit.”
“You look nice anyway.” Shannon gave me a hug and plonked a damp, buzzing kiss onto my ear, knocking my glasses into the flower bed. “I love you, Sade. You’re my best mate. After Kayleigh.”
I took another slug of Carlsberg, dropped the can on the ground and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Let’s go and meet those lads you were on about. What about him?” I reached into the flower bed, picked up my glasses, and wiped them on the hem of my skirt, squinting into the distance at a man about my height striding toward us. I couldn’t see how old he was, but he was dressed in dark clothing with some sort of bright vest over the top. A builder, out after work? That’d do. “He’s a fit bit. Think he wants to come with us?”
“Oh shit!” Shannon said, grabbing Kayleigh’s arm. Her spindly heel turned over, and she fell onto my lap. I put my glasses on. The man stood in front of us, I heard the crackle of a radio and read “Police” on the front of his vest.
“Drinking in a public place is banned in this borough, and I have reason to suspect that you are under 18. So I’m having that.” He snatched the bag of drink cans. “And you’re all coming with me.”
~
Shannon and Kayleigh sobbed on either side of me by the front desk of the police station, black mascara tears trailing down their cheeks. Given the luck I was having that evening, I wasn’t remotely surprised when I saw Randall walking across the area behind the counter. He’d ditched the cravat, his face showed no trace of its earlier wrinkles, and his hair was jet black again. There was more of it, as well. He stared at me as he passed, opened his mouth as though about to speak, then shook his head and walked on.
“I’m phoning your parents,” the Desk Sergeant said.
“Mum’ll kill me!” Kayleigh howled.
Shannon vomited onto the floor and informed everyone, at top volume, that she wanted to die.
“My parents aren’t at home,” I said. “They’re dead. I live on my own. I’m 58, so I’ll just be off, now.” I turned towards the door.
“You’re going nowhere, kid, that door’s locked.” The sergeant picked up a phone and punched at the keypad. “Duty social worker, please.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at me. “Turn out your bag and hand everything over. You’ll get it back before they take you to the children’s home.”
The Giftie had probably been powered up for seven days by now, but how much longer would this go on? What was normal use? I upended my bag. Lipsticks, pens, and spare glasses skittered across the floor, into the pool of vomit. The Giftie fell at my feet. It gave a crack as I stamped on it, rotating the sole of my shoe left and right, for good measure.
“Oh dear, I dropped my phone,” I said. I squatted and picked everything up between fingertip and thumb. I shoved the remains of the Giftie inside my bag as well, a few odd looking electronic bits and wires protruding from what was left of the case.
I stood up and leaned on the counter, holding the bag as far away from me as I could. The sergeant closed his eyes and shook his head. He stared at me. “Be with you in a minute, lady.” He looked over my shoulder. He turned toward an open door behind him. “Fred! Get out here. Young kid just managed to get out the door while I wasn’t looking.” He looked back at me. “These your girls?”
“Never seen them in my life. I just came in to … er … ask what time it is.” I giggled. “You know, like in the song? Ask a policeman?”
The desk sergeant sighed, and pointed at the clock on the wall. It was half past twelve. I thanked him, and he pressed the button that released the lock on the door. I stepped outside.
My purse hadn’t been in my bag, and that meant a choice between a long trek home or hanging around at a bus stop till morning. I started walking. I was passing a streetlight when I heard a voice behind me.
“Sadie? Sadie Loveday?” It was Randall. I spun round. “It is you,” he said. “What are you doing round here, underneath the lamplight, so far from home?”
How did he know where I lived? Had he googled me? “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said. “What about you–some inebriated German forget his English?”
“Something like that. Same old, same old. But–here’s the thing. I thought I saw a girl looking like you in there. Have you got a sister? She was, er, younger.”
“No sister.” I yawned. “Just me. Same old, same old Sadie. Large as life and twice as ugly. Goodnight.” I turned to walk away.
He grabbed my arm. “Don’t go, give me a moment. Just … making a phone call.” Letting go, he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out an object the shape and size of a smart phone, made of dull, cheap looking black plastic. It had two buttons on one side. He jabbed at it. He held it up toward the streetlight. No glow came from it.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “They only last for seven days, remember?”
He gasped and raised his eyebrows.
I nodded.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you properly for ages,” he said. “But I didn’t have the guts. I thought someone like you would be way out of my league.”
“Oh, Randall! What DO you mean?” Milk it, Sadie. “Someone like me?”
“Yes, like you.” He spoke in a rush. “The way you walk. Your voice, like rich chocolate. Your style. Your grace. Tall and elegant. I reckoned a girl like you wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Girl? I’m 58. Yes, you heard. 58. It’s true.”
He bunched his fingers and thumb together and kissed the tips. “I know. And I’m 45. I thought you wouldn’t be interested in someone who looks so young for his age, who hasn’t really had a, I mean had many girlfriends. That’s true, too. You need an older man, not someone almost young enough to be your son.”
I grimaced. “Don’t remind me. And don’t tell me what I need. Why should I have to make do with some dried up old fool nobody else wants? Aren’t I entitled to someone who looks good, who keeps in shape?”
“I only meant that thought I might stand a chance if you thought I was older. Sophisticated, sort of thing. So when I saw the ad in the paper–”
I touched my fingertip to his lips and shook my head. “You’re my perfect harmony, just as you are.” I dropped my hand.
He smiled. “My car’s parked round the corner. Can I give you a lift home?”
“Only if you promise to come in for a cup of coffee.”
“Music to my ears.”
We walked along the pavement, past a litter bin. I dropped the remains of my dead Giftie inside, and Randall did the same with his.
“Not sure they really did us many favours,” he said.
But I wasn’t so sure. I had at least one thing to look forward to. Coffee with Randall.
Sadie Loveday: Girl, 58. Diva. Lover. She showed no interest in nor aptitude for technology until she met her current partner. Shortly after, apparently out of the blue, the two of them took up inventing. The results include the Do-it-yourself karaoke machine/tea maker and the one-stage system to dye any fabric with leopard spots. You’ll see them advertised in the back of any local newspaper.
Judith Field lives in London, UK. She is the daughter of writers, and learned how to agonise over fiction submissions at her mother’s (and father’s) knee. She’s a pharmacist working in emergency medicine, a medical writer, editor, and indexer. She started writing in 2009. She mainly writes speculative fiction, a welcome antidote from the world she lives in. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications in the USA, UK, and Australia. When she’s not working or writing, she studies English, knits, sings, and swims, not always at the same time. She blogs at Luna Station Quarterly and www.millil.blogspot.com.
Errow is a comic artist and illustrator focused on narrative work themed around worlds not quite like our own. She spends her time working with her partner on The Kinsey House webcomic and developing other comic projects when she’s not playing tag with her bear of a cat. More of her work can be found at errowcollins.wix.com/portfolio.
“The Giftie” is © 2016 Judith Field.
Art accompanying the story is © 2016 Errow Collins.