Birthday Kid

THE BIRTHDAY KID

 

I

            William, whose taxi I booked on special occasions, rang to tell me that he had arrived. With my devoted live-in maid supporting me by holding my left arm and with the walking stick firm in my right hand, I proceeded to our lift. Within a few minutes, Ati and I boarded the fine Mercedes limousine. After another few seconds we left Mandarin Gardens, where I resided, and started the 35 minutes trip to the Gordon Grill in the downtown Goodwood Park Hotel.

“Why are you going out on Saturday, Sir? The traffic is heavy.”

            “It’s my 93^rd birthday, William. And I want to celebrate it.”

 

            Before long, it was clear that William’s observation proved right. Usually, the trip down Marine Parade takes about five minutes.  But, as we passed the first traffic light, William had to apply the brakes before he built up the usual speed. We had to proceed bumper to bumper.

            Ati took out my handphone from my male handbag and put on music of Johann Strauss, Jr.  I tried to concentrate on the attractive waltzes but before long, my mind strayed into the past.

            Naturally, I had no memories of my birth in the Moll clinic in Vienna or of my trip back with mother in a horse driven fiacre. We dwelt in the Obere Donaustrasse in  Leopoldstadt – the 2^nd District, where successful Jewish families resided during the post WWI period.  Years later, mother told me that baby Peter enjoyed the Viennese waltzes. She liked to play these  on our gramophone – which had been a recent acquisition.

         My first, dim, memory is  of my fourth year birthday party, enlivened by a record of the very music played years later on my handphone during my trip downtown. I recalled how my first cousin, then known as Eddie and who was some two years older than me, rode triumphantly a toy elephant I had been gifted. A third boy – Erich Tindel – viewed him   disdainfully.  Erich was about nine years old and had no time for such ‘childish amusements’.

          As it happened, my parents escaped from Europe in time, ending up in Tel Aviv. My cousin's family emigrated to Australia before the war. He later enjoyed a successful professional career and accumulated considerable wealth. Erich’s parents waited too long. I do not know where they ended. Suffice it to say that I never saw him again.

 

When I raised my eyes, I was surprised to see that we were stuck in a traffic jam. Far from being on the ECP, we were still in Marine Parade.

“Should I ring the restaurant to tell them we may be late?”

“No need yet, Sir. Maybe wait till Bugis.”

 

As we continued, my mind focused on Eddie (who became known as Ted). Following a successful career as a conveyancer and businessman, he had to be moved into assisted living after his last, allegedly successful, operation. His only request, when he spoke at all, was to ask for a lollipop. After six years in the facility, he passed away. His fortune, impressive though it had been, could not shield him from the frailties of old age. In reality, his wealth gave him confidence. But he did not enjoy it in full.

 

Raising my eyes, I saw that we were just about to enter the short lane leading to the ECP. The tense silence was broken by Ati.

“Want to listen to Chopin, Sir?” She was well acquainted with my tastes in music. I tended to listen every night to the Grand Polonaise before switching off at 11.30 p.m. 

It seemed best to delve back into the past. Notwithstanding my father’s financially precarious position, mother insisted that I have a lavish Bar Mitzva. In the morning I was called to the Torah, chanted my Haftara and was given a fine edition of the Tanakh. In the afternoon, friends and acquaintances came over with gifts. I still have one fine silver goblet which kept me company during my lengthy life.

            In the evening I went, in the company of some friends, to Habimah. The performance of Peer Gynt – in Leah Goldberg’s sparkling translation – was outstanding. I saw the play later on in Vienna, in Munich and in London. But the show in Tel Aviv’s leading theatre was by far the best. I was particularly impressed with a scene – in the last act – in which the moulder of the buttons grants Peer extra time to enable him to ‘find himself’. The hero did so when he returned to his original home and found that Solveig had prepared it for his reappearance.

       “Lucky Peer,” I reflected. “His extensive trip led him back to his origin. His itinerant voyage ended in the very place he had departed from. He had been so preoccupied with himself, that he had failed to adapt to any environment he visited during his lengthy and often stormy trip. Others, like me, integrated in places traversed by them. Singapore, a city in which the parents of most residents settled after leaving their home, provided a fine abode.

           

            A sudden jerk induced me to return into the present era. With genuine irritation I noted that we were stuck in yet another traffic jam on the ECP.

            “What happened, William?”

            “Accident, Sir. Today drivers impatient. They want to hurry and then make accident.”

            To my relief, Ati remained composed. I recalled how, some two years earlier, my God Daughter and I had a near-accident when we went home by taxi after disembarking from a cruise of the Indonesian Islands. Fortunately, our driver swerved in time when another car  entered the ECP without its driver taking the common-sense precaution of looking where he was going. We arrived without mishap, though badly shaken.

            “Fortune,” I mused. “Fortuna (or the hand of the Goddess Fortuna) – mankind tends to overlook her role and effect. But, in reality, isn’t she (or it) singularly powerful? Had it not been for the wet weather, Napoleon might have won the Battle of Waterloo. Some two hundred years before it, a flu epidemic derailed Suleiman the Magnificent’s siege of Vienna.  Luck, sheer luck is powerful. We tend to ignore it because we like to think that we are in charge or, in plain language, that we make our own rational decisions. But do we?”

            I had to concede that luck – or a series of coincidences – had shaped my own life. In 1948, when the United Nation’s Assembly recognised Israel, all of us watched anxiously how the vote proceeded. The news media proclaimed our ‘victory’. But the new state was not a bed of roses. The British Army’s departure and the Arab nations’ boycott cum the loss of the neighbouring markets led to economic problems.  Mass immigration of Holocaust survivors exacerbated them. Before long, my father left Tel Aviv and eked out a living in Europe. In due course, he returned to Vienna where he built up a thriving business.

            His success enabled me to give up law practice in Tel Aviv and proceed for further studies to Oxford. Then, after some two years in my alma mater, I decided not to return to a safe job offered to me by a bank in Israel and proceeded to Singapore. Was this not a stroke of luck?

           

II

            My reflections were interrupted by  the siren of an approaching ambulance. I watched  how most drivers did their best to make room for it. It was – I realised – proceeding to the venue of the accident. Hopefully, it would arrive in time.

Somewhat shamefully I recalled my own accident, which had taken place during my first spell in Singapore. In those days – in 1962 – there was no ECP. You had to proceed to Changi via the old Merdeka Bridge.  The trip to a fine restaurant in Changi from our campus in Bukit Timah took some forty-five minutes. 

In my impatience I drove too closely behind another car. When its driver applied the brakes unexpectedly, I crashed into him. As I hit my own windscreen and hurt my shoulder, I had to be taken to a nearby hospital. Knowing that I was guilty of ‘tailing,’ I compensated the ‘other driver’.   My only other mishap came many years later, when, already in my eighties, I lost control of my car and struck a banister. No one was hurt, but the incident persuaded me that it was time to give up driving.

“Sir, better call the restaurant now,” I heard William’s voice.

As I looked around me, I saw that we were proceeding at a very slow pace. Two lanes of the spacious expressway had been closed. Three cars, which had been involved in the accident, had been pulled to the side. Officers of the traffic police were measuring the marks left by the tires on the road. It was clear from the sight of the wreckage that it had been a serious collision.

It occurred to me that, if William had taken the older route, we would on this specific day have arrived at our destination earlier than by the novel – highly efficient – ECP.

As we traversed the fine Sheares Bridge, I remembered how a colleague, who gave me a lift, crossed it shortly it had been completed. I had at that time been a professor of law at Monash University in Melbourne but managed to come over to Singapore for a one-year visit. By then, the port town of the sixties had transformed itself into a financial hub. During that first crossing of the bridge, I had started to contemplate the feasibility of moving back to Singapore on a permanent basis.

 

“You better ring restaurant now, Sir,” observed Ati. “We book table for 12.30. Now is 12.20.”

“When are we going to arrive, William?”

“If  traffic OK, in twenty minutes. Better tell them half an hour.”

Without delay, I rang the Gordon Grill. A polite receptionist – a Philippina – assured me that they would hold the table for me.

“Don’t worry, Prof. Traffic on Saturday always slow.”

Her calm voice reassured me. Then, to my own surprise, I broke into a smile. My title – ‘Prof.’ – had stuck to me although I had been fully retired for ages.  Over the years, I had frequented this dignified restaurant. Its conservative ambience suited my taste. In a city that metamorphosed over the years, it was good to have an anchor which had remained steady over all this time.

 

Before long we left the ECP and took the lane leading to Bugis. As we passed the Beach Road junction, I recalled that during the sixties beach road sprawled along the shore. Over the years, the highly efficient government of Singapore reclaimed land originally covered by sea. The very condominium in which I resided had been erected on such land. Once again, I noted the hand of fortuna. If the government had reclaimed more land on the West Coast, Mandarin Gardens – my retiring abode – might have been erected there.   

The next junction was Bugis. My late wife had frequented its modern and sparkling shopping centre. From time to time, she spotted a good bargain. On two occasions we had walked down the crowded lane across the road. But it was too narrow for comfort and the cheap clothes and other apparel stores along it were poorly ventilated. After settling in Mandarin Gardens, we went regularly to a Japanese restaurant on the fifth level of the shopping centre but gave the lane a miss. Following my wife’s sad demise after a four-year battle with cancer, I did not feel inclined to revisit it.

In the sixties, Bugis was a red lights district. Vice was openly displayed. I came to know the centre quite well. On its outskirts there was a stall famous for its produce: the finest Paus [rice flour buns] in Singapore. My late wife liked their excellent Kai Pau [large Pau stuffed with braised and nicely spiced beef] and I relished the Char Sieu Paus [buns stuffed with slightly sweetened braised pork].

About twice a week I drove down to Bugis and joined the occasionally long queue in front of the Paus Stall. Whilst waiting patiently I used to observe the spectacles in the adjacent red-light spot. I recalled, in particular, how I admired a gracious dance by a drag-queen; I was  impressed by the long blond hair. When the performance ended, the dancer  took off the wig and, to my surprise,  I realised that the artist  was a transvestite.         

Singapore’s government, headed by Lee Kuan Yew, had the place ‘cleaned up’. My suspicion, though, was that the activities there carried on for the world to see, had simply moved underground. Mankind’s urges and inclinations could not be suppressed.

 

Within another few minutes, William’s taxi passed the front of the famed Raffles Hotel. It had been there in the sixties: a rather small and dignified typical colonial place. Renovations had turned it into a large compound, boasting shops and boutique restaurants. But the famous Tiffin Room was still there as, indeed, was the celebrated bar.

Somerset Maugham used to stay in the Raffles Hotel when he visited the East and attended the bar. Newcomers to Singapore liked to visit it – notwithstanding the price of drinks – so that they were able to state that they ‘had been to the Raffles’. I did so in 1962. When, in 2023, my niece flew over from Sydney to pay me a visit, she too flocked there and afterwards complained about the bill. Once again, I realised, that human nature remained unaltered. And fortuna did not seek to affect it.

 

By now the traffic was less hectic. William went through a lengthy tunnel linking the city with the Orchard Road area. As we sped through Grange Road, I admired the old fashioned, colonial, architecture. I knew that it was only a question of time before the buildings were pulled down and replaced by modern structures. Whilst human nature remained static, habitats yielded to the spirit of changing eras.

After another few minutes, halting at the traffic lights which superseded the old-fashioned circuses (roundabouts) of the sixties, we finally arrived at the Goodwood Park Hotel.  Both Ati and William helped me to get out of the limousine.

 

III

 

A porter assisted me to ascend the seven stairs leading to our culinary destination.  The restaurant  had been founded in 1963 and called ‘Gordon Grill’ to commemorate the late Mrs. Manasseh, whose maiden name had been Gordon. It was still located in its original abode: the heritage part of the elegant hotel.

Once again, I was amused to spot the hand of Fortuna. In 1933 I  saw light in the Moll clinic, which had been founded by a Jewish paediatrician. And, exactly 93 years later, I celebrated my birthday in a restaurant named in honour of a Jewish matriarch. 

Ati and I settled in a table near the entrance. We knew the menu well. The set lunch was the best deal. You ordered three out of the five available starters, could take a sample of three soups and chose a main dish. Knowing that Ati – a devout Muslim – did not take pork, I watched with amusement how she asked that her scallop (one of the starters) be not topped with a slice of bacon.

“Sir can have it,” she told the waiter, who was aware of her attitude and who grinned conspiratorially. He also knew that I was a secular Jew, who did not observe the dietary  commands of his faith. At my prompting, Ati ordered tiramisu whilst I had to make do with a cup of coffee.

“Why you not order glass of wine, Sir?” she asked.

“The doctor has proscribed it,” I told her sadly.   

“One time, never mind. Today your birthday!”

Ignoring my endocrinologist’s clear instruction, I went ahead, realising that at ninety-three years of age, survival itself was a feast and – in reality – Fortuna’s gift. I also felt that such an order would suit the environment: outside, Singapore kept changing; inside, the Gordon Grill  remained as of old.

Whilst the kitchen prepared our orders, I recalled that, in 1964, I had taken our external examiner, a famous London University scholar, for lunch in that very place. When he asked whether Singapore had any renowned fish dishes, I suggested that we order grilled Terakihi. As we enjoyed the excellent dish, Jim observed that he agreed with all my marks but wondered why I had recommended that we pass one B.

“Was his class performance so good?” He asked looking at me intently.

It seemed best to reveal the full story. B resided in the university-dormitory of which I was a fellow. B organised most of our functions, supervised the quality of the food prepared in our kitchen and generally saw to it that everything ticked. Both the master and the residential fellows (including me) found his assistance of great benefit. Regrettably, though, B’s performance in his course of studies was poor.

One morning, when I went over to his room to offer him some extra tuition, I was shocked to find him chanting some strange words whilst standing on his head. He explained  that he was aware of his unsatisfactory academic record. Following a consultation with his guru, he believed that this strange discipline would somehow carry him through his examinations.

Relishing the irony involved, our apparently stern external examiner grinned from ear to ear. Observing that we should not fault the guru, he affirmed my mark.

 

As Ati and I relished the delicious starter, I reflected that the act of kindness – the act of passing B – had turned out to be his downfall.

B’s record as a practising lawyer was dismal. Had we failed him, he might have pursued his interest as organiser and supervisor of functions. For instance, he might have become the manager of a leading hotel. He had the aptitude.

Had he gone down that path, Fortuna might have smiled at him. She did not step to his aid, when he took the legal alley. “Beware of pity”, I  mused thinking of Zweig’s novel on that very subject. Fortuna can afford to be kind and capricious. For human beings, the straight and narrow – the principled path – is usually the best route.

 

IV

 

The waiter cleared the table and brought the soups. They were steaming hot. As we waited for them to cool, I recalled how I had taken my late wife to the Gordon Grill shortly after our wedding. She appreciated the food but concluded that the ‘snobbish’ ambience was artificial.  I was not surprised that Pat – whose family had roots in mainland China – objected to the relaxed colonial atmosphere. By way of compromise, we started to patronise a Japanese restaurant located in the Goodwood Park complex.

Looking back, I gradually came to realise that Pat and I had perhaps been less suited to one another than either of us understood at the time. She was too immersed in Chinese culture to come to terms with my West European outlook. My attempts to solve the problem by taking up post in Wellington and thereafter in Australia had been counterproductive. Pat found Australasian environments and societies uncongenial.

Our lengthy marriage might have been smoother if we had held the same religion. Pat, though, adhered to her staunch Christian faith whilst I remained a Jewish agnostic. I felt uneasy and out of place  on the rare occasions on which I accompanied Pat to church. With an internal grin, I remembered how Pat made critical remarks when I observed Rosh Hashanah [the Jewish New Year] and Yom Kippur [the Day of Atonement involving a fast]. Faith might have been a good glue; divergence was a factor pulling us apart.

In retrospect, we were perhaps fortunate not to have had children. Earlier on, this absence had  seemed another of life’s failures. I used to think that children would have bound together two people who, despite years of shared history, had gradually ceased to travel in the same direction. But today – in the winter of life – I realised that, in all probability, the difference in faith would have pulled children in conflicting directions. Fortuna – my Goddess – took the correct course by failing to smile.  

Our return to Singapore, which I had imagined might restore some sense of companionship, did not in fact bring Pat and me closer. The familiar surroundings revived memories but not intimacy. We continued side by side more from habit and mutual recognition than from any genuine rediscovery of one another. By then our lives had already diverged inwardly, even while outward circumstances once again appeared settled.

After Pat’s demise, I found myself returning quietly to the community from which much of my earlier life had emerged. In old age there is perhaps a tendency to circle back to one’s beginnings, not from conviction alone but from a need for familiarity and continuity. I resumed contact with people and customs that had once seemed distant to me, and in doing so discovered not reconciliation exactly, but a certain measure of calm.

In the years that followed, her family gradually withdrew from my life. Initially, I felt abandoned. Later on, I accepted the situation with a shrug. In reality:  as widower I discovered a degree of peace

 My current life – being looked after by a loyal though emotionally detached helper – possessed a tranquillity that had often eluded us during the final years of our marriage. Looking back now, I am inclined to think that (all things considered), Fortuna had smiled upon me.

 

By now Ati and I had taken the soups. Smilingly, the waiter cleared the table and then brought our main course. I looked at the medium grilled steak eagerly. The Gordon Grill continued to provide meat imported from Ireland. Despite the handicap of my dentures – which needed adjustment – I munched enthusiastically.  The Japanese Wagyu beef, offered by some modern restaurants, was even more tender but lacked the bite and aroma of the Gordon Grill’s traditional steaks. As I raised my eyes from the plate, I noticed that Ati looked at me searchingly.

“You thought about Madam, Sir?”

“I did, Ati. Am not certain I was a good husband.”

“This is over, Sir. You better not think about it.”

At that moment I found myself agreeing silently with the  Jewish sentiment respecting the value of continuity and atmosphere. The Gordon Grill, with its restrained colonial dignity, reminded me of sessions spent in the Oxley Rise area, where, during the nineteen-sixties, I used to visit regularly the residence of the matron of Singapore’s Jewish community.

Every Friday evening, I drove there after work. Formality was observed. We arrived wearing suits and were received with old-fashioned courtesy. Yet, once seated at the long dining table, most of us discreetly removed our jackets. The spacious room was cooled only by slowly turning ceiling fans. Air-conditioning had not yet become commonplace in Singapore and, in retrospect, the slight discomfort seemed part of the charm of that vanished era.

The religious service preceding dinner tended to be lengthy. Her cantor – an employee engaged for the purpose – possessed a ponderous voice and chanted in a manner which I, being by temperament more secular than devout, found wearisome. Fortunately, the culinary rewards more than compensated for the spiritual exertion. The meals were excellent and abundant. I particularly remembered the succulent mangoes imported from India, whose fragrance filled the dining room long before they appeared on the table.

Looking back, I realised that what drew me there was not faith alone, nor even companionship, but the atmosphere of continuity: the sense that, for a few hours every Friday evening, one stepped into a protected world preserving manners, rhythms and habits already disappearing from modern Singapore. In due course, after I married out of the community, my visits ceased. Yet the memory of those evenings lingered and returned to me now, seated in the Gordon Grill, whose fading colonial ambience awakened recollections of another vanished world.

 

Ati meanwhile had progressed steadily to the tiramisu. Observing her unconcealed enjoyment, I felt a sudden twinge of envy.

“Sir want one spoon?” she asked teasingly.

I hesitated. The endocrinologist’s prohibitions had already been breached by the wine. After brief reflection, I accepted a single spoonful on condition – imposed by myself with all the solemnity of a treaty – that I would forgo my customary tea repast that evening.

Ati grinned but refrained from comment.

The tiramisu proved excellent. The coffee, though less memorable, was sufficiently strong to restore my alertness. By then the lunch crowd had begun to thin. A younger clientele was arriving for afternoon refreshments and informal meetings. Their animated voices contrasted with the restrained decorum that still lingered in the old dining room.

With the assistance of the porter and of Ati’s steady arm, I descended the seven stairs leading from the restaurant. Outside, the humid Singapore afternoon struck me immediately. William, punctual as ever, had already brought the Mercedes limousine to the entrance. It dawned on me that he, too, had a break, probably taking lunch in the nearby food court, which I knew well.

Before entering the vehicle, I turned briefly and looked back at the old façade of the Goodwood Park Hotel. For a fleeting moment, I had the curious sensation that I was not merely leaving a restaurant but taking leave of yet another fragment of a vanished world.

 

V

As William turned towards Victoria Street, I asked him whether he might pass by the old synagogue in Waterloo Street.

“That way longer, Sir,” he replied at once. “Waterloo Street one way now. Need make big round.”

“I shall pay the extra,” I assured him.

William glanced at me in the mirror and smiled.

“No need, Sir. Today your birthday. I give present.”

Ati laughed softly whilst I expressed my thanks. Before long, William manoeuvred the Mercedes through the dense city traffic and entered the narrower roads of the older quarter.

When at length we approached the synagogue, I was struck by how modest the building appeared. In the nineteen-sixties it had seemed far larger and somehow more imposing. Perhaps this diminution was merely one of the penalties of age: places remain static whilst memory enlarges them.

During my earlier Singapore years, I had attended the synagogue sporadically and there encountered one of the two stockbrokers whose destinies thereafter diverged sharply.

The first prospered exceedingly. Fortuna smiled upon him to such an extent that, after his demise, he was able to leave the community sufficient funds for the erection of the Jewish Welfare Board building. I still remembered him clearly: courteous, confident and already carrying the aura of worldly success.

The second broker entered my life differently. His wife, who was acquainted with Pat, invited us one evening to their residence. He proved charming, intelligent and exceedingly articulate. During the course of dinner, he advised me strongly to place my modest savings in fixed deposits.

“The stock market is dangerous,” he observed gravely. “Speculation is unavoidable. You better play it safe.”

I followed his advice. Ironically, he did not. Over the years he became increasingly involved in risky ventures and ultimately suffered severe reverses. Once again, I found myself reflecting upon Fortuna’s curious sense of humour. The man who best understood the dangers of speculation proved unable to resist them himself.

As we left Waterloo Street, William asked whether I wished to return directly to Mandarin Gardens.

“No hurry, Sir,” he added. “Can go by old Merdeka Bridge.”

I agreed readily. The longer route suited my mood.

As we proceeded through Mountbatten Road and thereafter East Coast Road, I gazed quietly through the window. Familiar landmarks had disappeared. Elegant colonial houses, shaded by broad verandas and surrounded by spacious gardens, were steadily yielding to modern shopping malls, office towers and commercial blocks of steel and glass.

I felt momentarily saddened by the transformation. The old architecture possessed proportion, restraint and dignity. Yet I also recognised that such reflections were  sentimental. Singapore could not have remained a sleepy colonial port. Progress was both necessary and unavoidable. A modern city required modern structures just as inevitably as younger generations required different habits and aspirations.

 

And yet – I reflected as William drove steadily on – human nature itself altered remarkably little. Wars continued. Exploitation persisted. Greed, ambition, vanity and fear remained as prevalent as in the eras of Caesar, Napoleon or Hitler. Technology transformed mankind’s surroundings but rarely mankind itself. The external landscape changed endlessly whilst the internal landscape remained stubbornly familiar.

As the car approached the seafront near Marine Parade, I caught sight of the late afternoon light reflected upon the water. For a fleeting moment the modern buildings behind me, the vanished colonial houses, the synagogue in Waterloo Street and even the distant streets of Vienna seemed to merge into a single continuous journey.

Fortuna, I realised, had accompanied me throughout it all. Perhaps Bertolt Brecht had understood the matter better than most. In one of his sardonic doggerels, he observed that whilst men spend their lives chasing after luck, Fortuna herself often follows behind them. The image amused me. Throughout much of my own life I had assumed that success, security and contentment must be pursued relentlessly and grasped before they escaped. Yet, looking back across ninety-three years, I realised that on several occasions Fortuna had quietly overtaken me whilst I was occupied elsewhere.

Others, more determined or more ambitious, had selected their own routes with complete confidence and had, in the process, undone themselves. The stockbroker who warned me against speculation succumbed to it himself. B, whom our ‘kindness’ had  helped him enter into the legal profession, might have prospered had he followed his natural gifts instead. Again and again, I saw how human beings insisted upon forcing their own designs upon life whilst Fortuna moved according to her own inscrutable rhythm.

 

As these reflections passed through my mind, William turned the Mercedes into the familiar driveway of Mandarin Gardens.

“Happy birthday, Sir,” he said warmly as the car came to a halt.

Ati smiled in agreement whilst helping me out of the limousine. Slowly, leaning on my stick and supported by her steady arm, I crossed the lobby and entered the lift. Within a few moments I was back in my spacious and comfortable flat overlooking the sea.

 

VI

 

Once inside the flat, I removed my jacket with some relief and changed into an old tee-shirt and a pair of loose slacks. Formal celebrations, however agreeable, exhausted me more readily nowadays. Ati meanwhile disappeared quietly into the kitchen, no doubt preparing herself coffee and attending to the small domestic routines which maintained the household in smooth operation.

Before sitting down, I glanced automatically at the iPad resting on the side-table. Several additional birthday messages had arrived. Some were brief and formal; others came from old acquaintances whom I had not seen for years. Their sudden reappearance, prompted by the electronic reminder of a birthday, amused rather than moved me. Yet it pleased me that, at ninety-three, one still remained faintly visible in the minds of others.

Grinning inwardly, I assured myself that I had arrived at my destination.

 

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