1 July 2019 #2
For Bry, being with Elizabeth is the easiest, most natural thing in the world.
But it hasn’t always been this way. When they’d first met at university, Elizabeth had been dating a friend of Bry’s called Adam.
No one in Bry’s friendship group understood why laid-back, crumpled Adam was dating this tall, statuesque blonde who looked Norwegian but was actually from Essex.
She was organised, cynical, and hated recreational drugs and excessive drinking, which made her– in Bry’s misted view – an uptight pain in the arse.
It wasn’t until Adam dumped her and Bry heard Elizabeth crying in the next-door cubicle in the pub toilets ( I’m only upset because he got there first ) that Bry started to like her.
She passed her loo roll under the cubicle door and after that they’d got steadily and thoroughly pissed together.
It revolutionised Bry’s life. She discovered in Elizabeth a relationship where there was no room for competition, for comparisons or envy, simply because they were so different.
They weren’t exactly chalk and cheese; more like cheese and pineapple– a weird, unexpected pairing that just worked.
She’d never met someone her own age who was like Elizabeth: she was into politics, wasn’t ashamed to say she wanted to make money, but she laughed easily and cared more about others than anyone Bry had ever met.
Whereas Bry wanted to be an artist, was in love with all things bohemian and hated politics.
Bry wore a hemp scarf wrapped around her head and Elizabeth carried a little black handbag, which held her phone, a book, a fold-up hairbrush and her perfectly organised wallet.
Elizabeth kept all her receipts; Bry stored fivers in her bra.
Bry held her hands in the air, swaying her whole body when she danced, while Elizabeth sidestepped, buttocks clenched hard as a walnut, and kept a close eye on her watch.
It was as if each was discovering a fascinating new country in the other, a place they’d never choose to live but somewhere they knew they could always seek refuge when their own world was shaking.
‘Bry, you’re not even listening to me!’
Bry opens her eyes. Elizabeth has her phone in front of her and is pecking away at her calendar with one finger.
‘So obviously, it’s July already, and with the fete, barbecue, Clemmie’s birthday and end-of-term stuff, there aren’t any free weekends left. So how about we organise your birthday camping trip early August– say, the weekend of the third?’
Bry had suggested way back in the safety of February that perhaps a camping weekend would be the best way to celebrate the fucking appalling fact that she was turning forty, and Elizabeth, of course, hasn’t forgotten. Bry flushes, hot and uncomfortable.
‘Can we talk about it another time?’ she groans. ‘Prefer- ably never.’
Elizabeth puts her phone down, keeps her blue eyes on her friend as she takes a sip of wine, and says, ‘Look, Bry, I know you won’t believe me, but you’re actually in very good shape for forty.’
‘I’m telling you, it’s all the yoga.’
‘Bollocks to yoga. I mean, you’re married to a great man you love who just happens to be very rich; you have a brilliant daughter, you live in an amazing house in an amazing town opposite your amazing friend, and when your brilliant daughter goes to school you’re going to find a new career– some arty, hippie nonsense that I won’t get but you’ll make a huge success of, so you know, I just don’t think there’s any cause to freak out. Your life is on track.’
‘You freaked out when you turned forty.’
‘I did not!’
‘Yes, you did; I just wasn’t allowed to say anything about it. Remember when I came over the night before your birthday and you were ironing the kids’ pants?’
Elizabeth grimaces.
‘Oh yeah, now you mention it, that was a bit of a low point…’ Elizabeth takes another sip of wine, changes tack.
‘Fine. Freak out if you want, but let’s confirm this date first so I can figure out…
’ Her eye is drawn to a streak of bright pink and yellow as a small red-headed bird flaps her arms across the grass towards the paddling pool.
‘Clem, really? Now?’ Elizabeth calls to her daughter, who has changed into her swimsuit, her bare skin the colour of milk.
But Clemmie isn’t listening; she’s stopped dead by the edge of the pool and is staring down at something in the water.
At the same time, there’s a shout from inside the house: ‘Mum! We’re home!
’ The boys are back and Elizabeth goes to them in the kitchen, like a first responder ready to take on the triumphs and challenges of their day.
Bry goes to kneel next to Clemmie, who is now cupping her hands in the pool and saying softly, ‘Poor baby ladybird, poor ladybaby.’
Inside her hands, swirling in the water with its stocky legs waving absurdly in the air, is a ladybird.
‘She’s drowning, Auntie Bry, she’s drowning!’ Clemmie’s voice lifts in panic, tears close.
‘No, look, we can save her.’ Bry flips the insect over like a tiddlywink and lifts Clemmie’s hand towards the flailing legs. The ladybird immediately starts trudging up Clemmie’s wrist as though nothing at all has happened, leaving tiny puddles of water as it goes.
Clemmie giggles and says, ‘Tickles!’
‘Well done for spotting her just in time, Clem.’
‘Do you think she’s hungry, Auntie Bry?’
The two of them gather daisies and leaves to make a nest for the rescued ladybird.
Clemmie calls her Dandelion, and they’re just about to introduce Dandelion to her new home when Bry spots Alba running across the grass towards them.
Her daughter’s little chest is puffed out with effort, her chubby legs pumping away as fast as they can, her brown hair a chaos of curls around her– she’s like a lovely typhoon.
She’s grinning widely, her eyes fixed on Clemmie, laughing in anticipation of her joke, her fingers already together and straight, just like her dad showed her.
She clatters to a stop and lands both prepared hands over Clemmie’s eyes. This might not go well.
‘Guess who, ’lemmie?’ Alba squeals, breathing hard.
But Clemmie twists easily away and says, ‘No, Alba, you have to shh. Look, we’re showing Dandelion her new house and all her new things.’
Alba squats on her haunches next to Clemmie, like a stout mechanic checking over a vehicle. She looks from Clemmie to the bundle of leaves and back to Clemmie again.
‘Ohhh,’ she says before her face twists in confusion. ‘But beetles have wings, not things!’
Elizabeth brings out the fish pie a few minutes later, and Max and Charlie follow with plates and cutlery, shoelaces flapping, their uniforms crumpled and askew after the school day.
Charlie calls, ‘Hi, Auntie Bry,’ and Max waves.
Ash arrives soon after. He holds Bry’s shoulder as he gives her a kiss, before topping up Bry and Elizabeth’s glasses and pouring himself a large one.
Bry opens a bag of vegetable crisps for the adults to share, and Clemmie hides Dandelion on her lap under the table while Elizabeth’s busy getting water.
‘How was yoga?’ Ash asks, sitting next to his wife as Elizabeth settles Alba on a cushion. Max and Charlie start arguing about some cricket match in the West Indies, and the girls pass secret little pieces of mashed potato to Dandelion.
‘Was mad old Emma there leading the oms?’ Elizabeth asks, pulling her apron over her head and adding, ‘Elbows off the table, please, Max.’ Max rolls his eyes and hovers his elbow just above the table.
Charlie giggles and looks nervously towards Elizabeth, who, having taken her seat opposite Bry and Ash, only needs to raise her eyebrows at her eldest son for him to submit and lower his elbows off the table.
‘No, no, she wasn’t, actually. Apparently she’s been a bit unwell.’
One side of Elizabeth’s mouth curls up and she raises her wine glass as she says, ‘Aw, is one of her chakras playing up again? That woman is not in my good books– she offered to do some research into local traffic-calming initiatives and has completely flaked out on me; not that I’m surprised.’
‘When was she ever in your good books, Elizabeth?’ Bry counters, trying not to get defensive. Ash and Elizabeth love nothing more than taking the piss out of Bry’s hippie friends.
Elizabeth nods in agreement. ‘Yes, that’s fair.’
‘I saw her in Waitrose yesterday,’ Ash says, leaning forward for a crisp. ‘I was at the cheese counter and heard her beads and bells and whatever clanking together all the way over from the vegan bit. I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen her, but she caught me.’
‘Clemmie, eat some fish, please,’ Elizabeth interjects before turning to Ash and continuing, ‘I fear for you, Ashy, there is no escape in Farley.’ Only Elizabeth gets away with calling Ash ‘Ashy’.
‘Don’t I bloody know it,’ he says. Elizabeth frowns briefly at his swearing in front of the kids, but neither Ash nor the kids notice.
‘I’ll never get used to bumping into people.
I just don’t understand why anyone would want to have a bollocks, awkward conversation in the street about nothing when we could just nod or wave or something.
Seriously, if I want to see you, I’ll message and arrange to meet up, but why do we have to stop and talk about the weather just because we happen to live close to each other and be walking down the same bit of pavement at the same time? I don’t get it.’
Elizabeth is frowning openly at Ash now, before she shakes her head and says, ‘It’s called community, Ashy.’
‘No, it’s not; it’s called a waste of bloody time.’
Elizabeth keeps talking, ignoring Ash.
‘It’s called getting to know your neighbours, being responsible, caring for one another.’
Ash wrinkles his nose in mock distaste.
‘Nope. Not for me.’
‘Honestly, you can take the boy out of North London but you can’t take North London out of the boy.’
‘Amen to that.’