When I Was Otherwise by Stephen Benatar

went back to take care of him. But I felt so annoyed, in a way, at his contentment. He should have got clear of her while there was time! Seventy-six is hardly a good age to begin living!”
    But she added after a bit: “Though better than nothing, I suppose! Yes, why not? What does the age of a person matter? To anyone, I mean, whose first name isn’t Florence?”
    â€œOh, yes, exactly!” agreed Marsha, overlooking the last part of this sentence and still swept along by her romantic fervour. “How old was your mother when she died?”
    Daisy gave her a look.
    â€œSeventy-two,” she snapped.
    â€œAnd then how many years did your father have…?” She had meant to say ‘of peace’ but found it difficult.
    â€œOf peace? Despite the fact that he had me looking after him?” Daisy chuckled briefly before lapsing back into austerity. “Not even two. But count your blessings. One has to be thankful that God had the clemency to take the woman first. I’d never in a million years have gone back to look after her ! Nor would that good-for-nothing brother of mine—her precious blue-eyed boy—himself now hag-ridden and buried somewhere in the wilds of Ireland with a teeming brood of daughters. Well, good luck to him! Serves him right!”
    She laughed again.
    â€œ And good riddance! That’s what I say.”
    Neither Marsha nor Andrew could think of a response.
    â€œYes, he’s turned out to be a poor fish, too. Well, that’s what comes of kowtowing to a domineering woman. He should have done what I did. They should both have done what I did. Stood up to her! Even at the price of a few pitched battles—well, say a couple of thousand! I learnt at an early age, you see, how to conduct myself on the battlefield.”
    She paused.
    â€œBut good heavens! Have I been up on my soapbox again? Better pull me off it, someone—if anybody considers he’s man enough to do it! Cram another cake in my mouth and hope I’ll sit there silent. Like a stuffed pig!”
    Marsha smiled. “Nobody wants to shut you up, Daisy.”
    â€œThen they must be crackers! All of them! It’s the only explanation! But… Well, I don’t know”—she accepted her third cup of tea—“sometimes I look about me and I think that an awful lot of men are just poor fish and that an awful lot of women are just… What’s the one I mean? I’m always forgetting what it’s called.”
    Looking at their faces must have told her some additional clue might be necessary.
    â€œThe one that bites off its mate’s head as soon as he’s finished performing his vital function?”
    â€œA praying mantis,” said Andrew. It was the first thing he’d said for a while but Marsha was sure he’d been listening and hadn’t simply fallen into one of his moods. She would have been hard pressed to say how she was so sure: on the whole his face was not a revealing one. But, anyway, didn’t his naming of this horrid creature prove it?
    â€œYes. Nailed in one! But then I thought you’d know. Well, in my view it’s a pretty depressing situation. Wouldn’t you agree?”
    Marsha giggled. “Oh, I would! It does seem a bit of a cheeky thing to do.”
    â€œWhat does?” asked Andrew.
    â€œWell, you know—after they’ve just—after he’s just—Oh, Andy! I do believe I’ve found a most effective way to keep you up to scratch!”
    But if only, she thought, if only she could have felt as relaxed as this when some of her friends had been to visit! Good old Daisy! She was better than a tonic, or a glass of champagne! Yet at the same time she couldn’t help but acknowledge a distinct pang. And she so much hoped—if ever she were brave enough to ask them—that those same friends might be prevailed upon to come again.
    She meant, of course, when Andrew was at