A Day Like Any Other

by Isla Dewar

  Richard shook his head. ‘Nah. They communicate. They don’t discuss Coronation Street or politics. They defend. They feed. Their language is beyond primal. It is about survival. We are way past understanding it. We talk too much.’

  ‘We speak when we don’t need to speak.’

  ‘Yes. What with mobile phones and reality television shows, we have given ourselves too much to say.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Anna. ‘Do you think they feel pain? Do they hurt when we cut them down?’

  Richard said, ‘I worry about that. I am always gentle with wood.’

  And Anna loved him more.

  He drove them home and parked outside Anna’s building. They sat. Anna searched for something to say. ‘That was lovely. I enjoyed myself. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Silence again.

  Then Richard said, ‘A poet? You work with words?’

  ‘Yes. I love words. Always have. But I’m not a good poet. Not like Sylvia Plath or Adrienne Rich or Byron or Leonard Cohen or any of them. I was never going to stop readers in their tracks.’

  ‘Things you say sometimes, I think you’re probably good.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘I daydreamed all the time when I was little. I read A Child’s Garden of Verse and escaped the world. I think I’ve lived most of my life in my head.’

  He smiled. ‘Is it comfortable in there?’

  This surprised her. Usually when she made this confession people would say, Surely not? She told him, ‘Yes, it is very comfortable.’

  ‘Well, I’d advise you to stay. It gets pretty miserable out here sometimes.’ They were silent once more. But it wasn’t awkward. In time Richard said, ‘Me, I’m not creative. I make windows and bookcases and doors.’

  Anna said, ‘The world needs doors.’

  He agreed. ‘Indeed it does.’

  Anna took a deep breath. ‘I don’t suppose. No, you wouldn’t. I don’t mind if you say no. It’s all right. But I just wondered if you’d like to come round for a meal one night? Nothing much. I’m no cook. But the chat might be good.’

  ‘Now why would I say no to that? I never refuse a meal. I’ll bring wine.’

  ‘Oh wonderful. What about Sunday? I’m taking the folks across the road to a garden centre on Saturday and I’ve no idea how long that will take.’

  ‘Sunday’s good.’ He told her. ‘Always a bit of a loose-end day for me.’

  They agreed they’d both look forward to it.

  Once back in her living room Anna tried again to phone George. But she still wasn’t picking up. Anna left a message saying she’d had an excellent time at the tree lecture and Richard was a truly lovely person. ‘See you soon,’ she finished, before ringing off.

  It was half-past ten. Anna heard the summer world outside – people exchanging small pleasantries, laughter, a dog barking, cars purring past, snatches of music pouring from their open windows. She thought life was splendid. Well, it was now. It hadn’t always been.

  Talking to Richard about her poet’s life, small and narrow though it was, had brought back memories of what had been the beginnings of Anna. It had started with A Child’s Garden of Verse. She’d lost herself in that book when she was still very young. She’d stroke the pages, touch the words. They’d fuelled her daydreams. She escaped when reading it to a safe place. The need to get away, even if it was only in her thoughts, had started after her mother had told her quite matter-of-factly that she didn’t love her. Didn’t even want her.

  That had happened when her mother had been talking about wanting to go to see the pyramids one day. ‘Only I have nobody to go with. I’d be afraid on my own.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ seven-year-old Anna had offered. ‘I’ll keep bad men and outlaws away.’

  ‘Oh dear, no,’ her mother said. ‘I wouldn’t want you there. I’d need to be with someone I loved in such a precious place. I don’t love you. I never wanted you. You were your father’s idea.’

  Somehow, and Anna didn’t know how this worked, she’d forgotten about that. She’d put it away. Blocked it. It had hurt too much. She’d slipped into daydreams of being a prince who rescued his kingdom or a soldier who fought a cruel dictator or an Indian chief who rode out against the cavalry. These dreams were real to her. And so were Robert Louis Stevenson’s verses. They were fabulous and exotic and gentle, and they came from the world Anna longed to live in.

  One night after she’d exhausted herself trying to write a confessional poem about her state of being – I got triple scabies, that’s what I got – she’d thrown down her pen, run her fingers through her hair and without warning that terrible moment had come back to her. She felt her blood freeze, her stomach churn. ‘Oh God,’ she’d cried. She wept for the child she’d been. Poor rejected soul.

  That child had grown into the woman who’d sat alone in a cold flat waiting for the gay man she’d married to come home to her after he’d been out combing bars and dance halls for a man to hold and kiss. That child had grown into a woman who did favours for people she didn’t really like, who had one-night stands with men she’d just met, who bought drinks for strangers and beat herself up trying to find friends. ‘And I did it all. All the shameful things because I wanted to be liked,’ she told the room. ‘Not even loved. Liked. Loved would have healed a lot, though.’

  George saved her. Of course George saved her. ‘You’ve got to stop this,’ she said. ‘I don’t fully know how all this relationship stuff works. Working at it myself. I know one thing, though. You’ve got to like yourself first. I’m trying that. I’m getting better at it. I won’t ever be strutting my stuff, but my pain isn’t so bad.’

  Anna was still, after years, working on it. But she was also thinking, tonight, that the pain wasn’t so bad. She’d have to tell George. Dialled her number. George still wasn’t picking up. I’ll see her tomorrow, Anna thought. And she went to bed.

  21

  A Couple of Old Biddies Crying

  To celebrate her new happiness, Anna made crab sandwiches. She hummed favourite songs from her youth and did a small on-the-spot jig as she worked. She congratulated herself on doing something real and useful. Nurturing a friend, she thought, this is what my life should be about. She would ask George what to cook for Richard. George knew about such things.

  They’d arranged to meet in Princes Street Gardens for a second time. This was unusual. They delighted in finding new places for outdoor eating when the weather allowed and small interesting restaurants when it didn’t. Though when that happened, George had to pay.

  Anna was early. She always was. She sat on a bench not far from the clock. That was how they met. One would start at the clock and walk along past all the benches till they came to the one where the other was sitting. Anna sat. She looked about at the other garden strollers and sunbathers and smiled. It was a beautiful day.

  George was late. Well, she often was. Parking in Edinburgh in August was a nightmare. Anna didn’t understand why she never used public transport. But it was now half-past one. That was a little disturbing.

  Anna sat. She was hungry but didn’t touch the food she’d brought. It was to be shared. She searched the passing crowd for that one familiar face. As time passed, she began to imagine what might be wrong. George had been delayed at home. Her house had gone on fire. Or there had been an accident on the way here. George’s car would be lying on its side, bonnet crumpled. George’s broken body would have been cut from the wreckage and she’d be lying scarcely breathing in the back of an ambulance hurtling, siren wailing, towards hospital. Almost in tears Anna sat, hand on her Tupperware box, mourning her friend.

  It was a surprise, then, to see George speeding towards her. Long linen coat flapping as she clutched her handbag. Her face was pale and anxious. She started apologising before she reached the bench where Anna sat. She sank down, patted her pounding heart and panted, ‘Thank goodness you’re still here. I thought you might have given up on me.’

  Ann
a shook her head. ‘No. I was getting worried. I imagined you in a terrible smash up in your car.’

  ‘Matthew drove me today. He’s off doing stuff. I’ll meet him later.’ She waved her phone. ‘You should have one of these.’

  ‘Who would I phone? Who would phone me?’

  ‘I’d phone you to tell you I’m going to be late.’

  ‘I can’t afford a phone. Besides, I wouldn’t want anything that would interfere with my daydreaming.’

  She opened her plastic box and handed George a sandwich. ‘Crab. A treat.’

  ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘My crush on Richard. He’s coming for a meal and I need your advice on what to feed him.’

  George took a bite of her sandwich, then raised it in recognition of its excellence. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You know about men. You’ve married a few of them and produced others.’

  ‘Roast chicken,’ said George. ‘Looks good when it arrives at the table. Smells good as it’s cooking. Slap some butter on it. Shove a lemon inside and stick it in the oven.’

  ‘Salt and pepper?’

  ‘Obviously. Slivers of garlic slipped into the flesh. Tarragon, if you fancy.’

  ‘Where do I get that?’

  ‘Supermarket. Where do you think?’

  Anna nodded. George ate her sandwich slowly, staring ahead, not speaking.

  Anna asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something’s wrong. I know you. You are silently chewing instead of expounding your views on the passing crowd and the soggy state of my sandwich.’

  George said the sandwich was excellent, then added, ‘I had a shock yesterday. The kitchen was gone.’

  Anna looked blank.

  ‘It was replaced with a load of tat. It was dirty and neglected and horrible.’

  Anna said nothing.

  ‘That kitchen changed my life. I walked into it all those years ago and it was like walking into wonderland. I felt it. It was a physical thing. A thrill. I was in that flat feeling ashamed and lonely. I was going to go home in the morning and after I saw that room I knew I had to stay.’

  Anna nodded. Said, ‘Ah.’ Now she understood.

  ‘Alistair built that kitchen. He did it all. It took him a long time.’ She marvelled at the memory of it. ‘He made the units. Painted it all. One wall was covered in pictures of food – little crumbs on a plate or feasts all laid out. Cakes. Golden pies. Fruit bowls glistening. Oh, it was lovely.’ She took a bite of her sandwich. ‘We had a time of it. We went on adventures. Swimming at Portobello. We once thought to climb the rock up to Edinburgh Castle. But no, we decided against it. We walked all over Arthur’s Seat. Kicked leaves in Corstorphine Woods. Mostly we just walked and talked. We had favourite shops – junk shops, bookshops, record shops and pubs where we drank beer and read to one another from our favourite books.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It was special. We had treasures, things we found. A blue stone, an old photograph of a grandmother outside a cottage with a basket of fish, a velvet waistcoat we took turns to wear. We listened to the Stones, Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye and Leonard Cohen and Neil Young. We danced in bed. Special lying down, kicking your legs and singing.’ She turned to Anna. She was weeping now. ‘We did Irish jigs the length of the High Street. He went down to Holyrood and I was at the Castle and we ran to one another. Singing Irish songs at the top of our voices. Him running uphill, me tanking downhill, when we met we’d whoop with joy and link arms and whirl round and round. Three o’clock in the morning, there weren’t that many people about but sometimes people joined in. Oh, we laughed.’

  ‘What fun,’ said Anna. ‘I never knew you did that.’

  ‘Yes. He was my love. My soulmate. We were us. A pair. Then he bought that bloody car and crashed it and bloody died. I didn’t know what to do. I remember walking about dazed and weeping and not accepting what had happened. Dreamless sleeps and lying staring at the ceiling, barely thinking. In fact not thinking, grief just sweeping through me. There are five stages of grief. Over forty years on, I’m still at anger.

  ‘First Alistair dies. Then Willy dies. It’s so, so painful. Physically painful. Effing death, it should be banned. Why can’t I die instead of them?’

  ‘Oh, George. No.’ Anna wept.

  ‘I need to see it. That room, that amazing kitchen. I’m starting to think I imagined it all. I made it up in my sorrow. I romanticised it. I’m gutted. I think maybe it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Of course it happened. There’s Lola. She’s real.’

  ‘She’s real. She’s amazing. But the rest of it, perhaps I made it all up because I felt so guilty about running away? Perhaps it didn’t happen? If I saw that room, I’d know.’

  Anna reached over and took her friend’s hand. ‘I’ll find it. I’ll find that kitchen.’ As she spoke she thought, What am I saying? How the hell do you find a room from forty years ago?

  ‘How on earth could you do that?’

  ‘Someone must know. You can’t dismantle a room without someone knowing about it. The tradesman. The neighbours. I’ll track it down,’ said Anna. But she thought, I am insane.

  Side by side in the sunshine they wept. A couple of passing teenage girls in striped T-shirts and skinny jeans stopped to stare. As they continued walking one said, ‘See that, a couple of old biddies crying.’

  Anna told them, ‘One day it will be you.’

  22

  A Recovering Poet

  On Saturday afternoon, Anna and Mother Dainty went to the garden centre to buy new plants. Marla drove them, as Anna didn’t want to bother George. She borrowed the van used for balloon, cupcake and celebration delivery, as she didn’t trust her twenty-year-old car to transport four people to buy plants and bring them home again. ‘It makes protesting rattles,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it likes me.’

  They set off just after three in the afternoon. Marla drove, Mother Dainty in the passenger seat and Anna and Marlon on the floor in the back of the van with several balloons. It wasn’t a comfortable ride.

  They bought delphiniums, lupins, pansies, hollyhocks and a lilac tree. There wasn’t much room for people in the back on the way home. They sang the Flintstones theme as they travelled. Marla insisted this was a motoring song. Anna offered a version of ‘Me and Bobby McGee’, insisting it was what people on the road sang. She would regret throwing back her head and hollering the words for some time afterwards.

  They stopped at a Tesco so Anna could buy a chicken to cook for Richard. Mother Dainty was shocked that Anna was also buying a ready-made pudding – apple crumble. ‘That’s nonsense. It takes minutes to make that.’ She demonstrated peeling apples and making a crumble mixture.

  Anna told her, ‘That would take me hours. When it comes to food, I like eating it. Not good at making it.’

  Marla agreed, but Mother Dainty loved cooking. ‘Eating, not so much,’ she said.

  The group wandered the aisles, marvelling at things such as the range of crisp flavours. ‘Red wine and steak, who’d have thought it,’ said Mother Dainty.

  ‘It used to be salt and vinegar and nothing more. Happy days,’ said Anna.

  And they moved on.

  *

  The next morning she joined Mother Dainty in her garden to help plant the new flowers. She discovered that a woman with a recently replaced hip was not a lot of use for digging holes. But she could carry a half-filled watering can and soak the newly placed plant. She could also take part in the banter and listen to Mother Dainty’s stories. ‘You’re fit,’ she said, watching the old lady plunge a spade into the ground.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mother Dainty agreed. ‘Gardening will do that for you. Of course, when I was young I thought it was boring. I liked dancing and flirting with the boys. I was as stupid as they come.’

  ‘Me too,’ Anna agreed. ‘I’d rather be stupid now I’m old. I’d know to enjoy it. But I’m not up to it. Too creaky.’
/>   ‘In the days before I was creaky I ran everywhere. I had four children. All gone now. Canada, New York, London and one still here in Edinburgh. Busy times, everyone bickering and tripping over one another and playing music and coming and going. I’m surprised how much I miss it.’

  Anna imagined a crowded household, warm and smelling of food being prepared. She thought Mother Dainty would have made a marvellous mother. She wouldn’t call her child a slut. ‘Did you work?’

  ‘I taught sewing. Had a big classroom filled with young girls. Boys got woodwork. It was before feminism. It was a sunny room, girls chattered, and at least once a week one got a finger stabbed in the sewing machine. Some of us are not born to sew. Ed worked in a garage. He fixed cars. We came and we went and we had roast beef on Sundays.’

  Anna felt a pang of jealousy. What a fabulous life, she thought. A home filled with bickering and movement and music and roast beef in the oven.

  Mother Dainty leaned on her spade and smiled a small secret smile. To Anna, she looked like a woman who knew things she had never shared with anyone. But today the sun was shining, she was in her garden, her favourite place to be, and seemed to have a notion to reminisce. ‘I left school at fourteen,’ she said. ‘Went to work in a small shop selling material for curtains and frocks.’

  ‘A haberdashery?’ asked Anna.

  ‘That’s the thing. Well, my boss had a brother who made soap, lavender bar soap. We had to use it in the toilets. It was new on the market. And my boss and his brother decided to market it. They produced hundreds of small bars and me and another girl had to deliver them to half the houses in Edinburgh. Can you imagine that?’

  Anna shook her head. ‘You were a kid. You shouldn’t have been doing that.’

  ‘I saw life. I saw things I have never forgotten. Poverty. Filthy, hungry children. Lovely, friendly homes. Huge dogs chased us. People gave us tea. A flat painted purple and a prostitute thanking us. A naked tattooed man standing flashing at a window. I know I shouldn’t have been doing that. I have been a fighter and a marcher ever since. Of course, young ones like you are lucky you didn’t have to put on your liberty bodice and get on with life.’