Ashleigh Brett and Remy Hughes 2022 Aged 60 #5
Remy was as hurt by her mother’s words as she was warmed by Midge’s. Before she could mount a word of defence, there was a knock at the front door.
‘I’ll go.’
She decided it was better to get it over with, to face her sister and be done with it.
Having mustered her courage, she walked slowly along the hallway, recognising the shape of the head through the glass, a head the exact same size and profile as her own.
Having taken a deep, slow breath through her nose, and waiting for a second to compose herself, she turned the latch.
She might have practised in her head what she wanted to say, thought about how she would act, but such rehearsals paid no heed to the rare, deep connection between the two women.
It was a visceral reaction, the need to hold her, be close to her, to cry with her.
There was no forgiveness, nothing that instant or idealistic, but it felt entirely necessary to sweep away her suspicion, her defence, to pause their estrangement in recognition of their unifying loss.
You need to look after each other, always. You are, after all, miracles, two babies from one egg, rare and special!
The moment their eyes locked, all reserve and pre-planning fell away, as they stumbled into each other and held each other tight. Toe to toe, cheek to cheek.
‘I can’t believe he’s gone!’ Remy cried into her sister’s hair, taking comfort from the closeness of her twin.
Remembering their childhood, the way her dad had made them laugh at the breakfast table and had gone on about concrete.
His red company tie with the little gold logo on it, resting against his pressed shirt, as he ate his toast and marmalade, smiling, kind, working hard to give them the very best kind of life.
‘I miss him, I never got the chance to . . . to say goodbye!’ Ashleigh stuttered.
‘Our dad!’ Remy sobbed.
‘Our daddy.’ Her sister matched her tear for tear.
‘He built our . . . our Cindy shelf!’ She could barely get the words out.
‘He did, he built our brilliant Cindy shelf . . .’ Ashleigh echoed.
Ashleigh
Ashleigh sat on the bench at the back of her parents’ garden, part shielded from view by the enormous shrub that grew by the side of the shed.
An ugly thing, really, that flowered only briefly at the start of the summer.
Two or three weeks of flame-red blooms that for her did not justify its ugly, woody green presence for the rest of the year.
She lit the cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a thin, satisfying line out into the early evening air.
In no mood to chit-chat to the assembled crowd inside her mum’s house, not wanting another warm, crustless egg mayonnaise sandwich, and knowing to have the exact same conversation with any number of family members might drive her over the edge, she took refuge here, hiding.
‘Yes, still in Queen’s Park.’
‘Not for me, I don’t really like quiche, but thank you.’
‘Oh, you went to London? How lovely. No, I’m not near Buckingham Palace.’
‘She’s doing great, her and Kat are happy, loving life in Canada!’
‘No, my friend brought me down. He’s picking me up later.’
‘Yes, yes, he will be missed. He really will . . .’
‘Look at you with a cigarette – when did this start? I can’t believe you smoke!
’ Remy wafted her hand in front of her face as she took a seat next to her.
It was easier, somehow, to talk while sitting side by side.
It was with nothing but relief that she stared at her sister, grateful at how they had found common ground today, letting their love, their history, blunt the sharp edge of mistrust that seemed to have flared over the years.
‘And I can’t believe you mentioned concrete in your eulogy!’
‘He loved concrete,’ her sister justified.
Ashleigh thought her words had been more fitting, her tone more reverential, better. Not that she’d be sharing this.
‘It was a lovely service though.’
‘It was.’ Remy nodded.
‘And to kind of answer your question, if I smoke, I don’t want to eat,’ she admitted.
‘Why don’t you want to eat?’
Was it a trick question?
‘So I don’t put on weight.’
‘But you’ve never put on weight. We’re built like Mum, luckily.’
‘Dad loved anything sweet, didn’t he, especially Maltesers!’ It felt good to talk about him and laugh, to remember his funny little ways, to remember him positively, rather than give heed to the gut ache that had dogged her since his death, knowing she had disappointed him, let him down.
‘I don’t know if I tell you enough, Ashleigh, but I am so very proud of you.’
‘For your information, I smoked occasionally at university, then Archie and I smoked when we were drunk. Then I stopped when we went our separate ways but had a cigarette at a party about three years ago, and I just started doing it, but only when I have a drink.’
‘How often do you have a drink?’
‘What are you, my doctor?’ She pulled a face. ‘Don’t you worry, it’s all about balance. I eat well, drink rarely, and take a whole handful of supplements and potions, so I figure the odd cigarette won’t kill me.’
‘Unless it does.’ Remy spoke plainly.
‘Give me a break. Today is an exceptional one. I’ve just buried my dad.’
‘What a coincidence!’ Remy gasped.
‘Talking of doctors, are you well now? Feeling better? Mum said you’d got the all-clear.’
‘Yes. Thank you for your card and the flowers. Are you getting checked?’ Remy’s expression was one of concern.
‘Yes. I did, nothing found, so . . .’
‘I wasn’t surprised. I mean, to get to sixty without being sick felt like an achievement. I know so many people who are either battling something or waiting for results or getting over an illness.’
‘I guess we’re at that age when the wheels are starting to fall off,’ Ashleigh admitted reluctantly. ‘Sniper’s alley, isn’t that what they call it?’
‘Yep.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘How did you get down here, anyway?’
‘My . . . friend brought me, Victor. He has an Aston Martin.’
‘I didn’t ask.’
In no mood to row with her sister, Ashleigh bit her lip, before taking another drag.
It was always this way when they hadn’t seen each other for a while, the verbal jousting, the tension, like shouting at yourself in the mirror; exhausting, confusing, and just as fruitless when it came to resolution.
‘So, is he your boyfriend?’
‘What are you, six?’ She shook her head.
‘No, Ashleigh, I am not your doctor, and I am not six. I was just trying to make conversation. Forget it.’ Remy stood, as if to make her way back inside.
‘I’m sorry. Please stay here. I’d like the company.
Mum is still telling everyone about my D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
, like that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, and as if it wasn’t a million years ago now!
Then she mentions that Evie is married to a woman – a woman!
Big deal! I left before she got to the part where I stole your place at St. Jude’s.
She tries to do it all in hushed tones that are anything but.
’ She pulled her sister’s arm until Remy plopped back down next to her.
‘They never said you stole my place, I think they always went down the line that it was more that I forced you into taking it, that kind of thing.’
‘God!’ she sighed. ‘How’s it still such a fucking mess?’
‘I don’t know, but it is.’ Remy gave a snort of laughter, suggesting she found the whole subject as taxing and ridiculous as her sister did. ‘I can’t very well hide from you today.’
Ashleigh smiled at her. ‘No, you can’t. You look good, Remy.’ She really did, her curly hair, now greying, suited her, and she was ageing well, owning those wrinkles and still beautiful.
‘I do not! I am now officially about a hundred years older than you! You look like my little sister! With the . . .’ Remy pointed at her own mouth and forehead. ‘I mean, you look amazing, but I don’t know how you do it! I couldn’t be arsed. Does it hurt?’
‘Yes.’
It was easier, Ashleigh figured, for her to spend money on her aesthetics.
It wasn’t as if she had a mortgage, grandchildren, a husband to consider financially, and her time was her own, no cooking of supper, no Sunday roasts, no babysitting, no having to be there for Harper, day and night, no .
. . nothing. She was free, as a bird, almost. No matter that it was a freedom that came with its own kind of cost and its own kind of loneliness.
‘Plus, I have to be arsed. It’s cut-throat out there in the dating pool, especially at our time of life. Fifty-five is no age to be on the hunt.’
‘Fifty-five?’
‘Yes, if Victor, my lift, asks you, we’re fifty-five.’
Her sister laughed out loud. ‘You’re terrible!
’ The energy shift eased the atmosphere and they sat quietly, for a minute, until Remy turned to face her.
‘Should I be worried about you, Ash?’ Ashleigh watched as her sister studied her face for clues.
She knew how this worked, recognising the small tells of her own expressions that were the same, and therefore revealed much.
Shaking her head, Ashleigh looked towards the house, where Bertie and Ulla Lumi were taking a moment, holding each other tightly in the kitchen, unaware they were being watched.
It felt invasive to stare but it was beautiful too.
She was happy for Bertie, a quirky kid who had turned out great, the father of twins, no less. What a gift.
‘I know what you’re asking, and the answer is no. I’m not depressed, not struggling, just thoughtful, reflective. Which I think I’m allowed to be today.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Remy nodded. ‘But I just wanted to say that losing Dad has made me think about everything, Ash.’
‘Me too.’ She could only agree.
‘I was dreading seeing you, and that’s not right.’
‘It’s not, Rem.’
‘I might not always like you, but you can always talk to me if you need to. Always. Just call.’