by Maeve Haran
Ella ignored both of them and began happily to adorn her moss-filled wire base with plaits of garlic and shallots she’d been keeping in her cellar. She took some wire and attached a few carrots which she’d specially lifted and stored in sand. Then she added red radicchio de Treviso and dark green Tuscan kale. It was really beginning to look rather festive.
Deciding it needed something more Christmassy, she tied on a few bright red Scotch bonnet chillies, admittedly bought in the greengrocer’s and imported from some distant part.
A Jane Packer flower arranging course she’d once done advised you to add everything in threes, so she added three lots of Brussels sprouts.
‘That won’t half pong if the weather warms up,’ Les commented.
‘Then let’s hope it stays cold.’ Standing back to admire her handiwork, Ella saw what was missing: it needed a bow. The only thing was she didn’t have anything suitable. Never mind, there was bound to be something at home. All the same, it was irritating. Ella hated leaving a job unfinished.
‘Do you know what, Les lad,’ Stevie admitted magnanimously, ‘it don’t look half bad!’
‘It’d look better with a bow,’ Ella replied. ‘I don’t suppose any of you boys have red ribbon hidden about your persons?’
They shook their heads.
‘Oh well. Have another whisky Mac,’ Ella offered generously.
‘Is that invitation open to anyone?’ enquired a familiar female voice.
Ella turned to find Laura, resembling a very pretty Eskimo, in a fur-trimmed parka standing behind her.
‘Laura! How lovely you look! Though more Gstaad than Grand Union Allotments! Where did you materialize from?’
Laura accepted the warming drink. ‘Good God, a whisky Mac! I haven’t had one of these since I was sixteen and Jeffrey Niven from the second-year sixth was trying to get me drunk so that he could have his end away. All his dad had in his cocktail cabinet was whisky Mac – the pre-mixed stuff which is truly and genuinely disgusting!’
‘And did Jeffrey Niven succeed in his seduction?’ Ella asked.
Les and Stevie were listening intently for the answer, but after a sharp look from Ella they dispersed. ‘Of course not. Far too uncouth. Now if it’d been Paul Mills . . .’ She noticed Ella’s wreath. ‘Gosh, that’s really stunning. Who would have thought the humble carrot and shallot could look so stylish? I might make one for our door. It’d make a change from all the fake wreaths we get in our road.’
‘So, what brings you here?’ Ella asked as Laura started to select some vegetables to make a wreath of her own. ‘Not a hitherto-submerged desire to grow spring greens and kohlrabi, I’m assuming.’
‘Er, no. It’s Bella.’ She put down the plait of garlic she was holding. ‘Ella, first it’s Sam slashing Simon’s tyres, now Bella’s only got herself pregnant.’
‘Oh my God, Laura, not with whatshisname, the Goth Giant Haystacks?’
‘The very one.’ She sat down on the decorative garden bench. ‘Bloody hell, Ella, I’m going to be grandmother! To a baby Goth!’
‘Maybe it’ll be a chrysalis – no, that’s a moth, not a Goth. Sorry.’ She sat down next to Laura. ‘Is this going to be a Jerry Springer special – “I had a baby to punish my dad and his new underage girlfriend”?’
‘Suki isn’t underage; she’s not even under thirty! But I get what you mean. Actually, I wondered that myself, but Bella says she got pregnant before Simon even told us. It was an accident but now she’s over the moon. And Giant Haystacks turns out to be a theology graduate who’s got himself a teaching job.’
‘That all sounds very normal and encouraging. Maybe she’ll give up the scary black lips and skin the colour of a frozen corpse and go all wholesome. Look at Peaches Geldof: apart from the tattoos, she’d blend in at Mothercare any day. There’s hope yet.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want to be stuck knitting baby shawls out of black spiders’ webs.’
‘I didn’t know you could knit.’
‘I can’t. I’d get the lady in the dry cleaner’s to do it. And I couldn’t stand it if all the other babies wore fluffy suits with bear ears and my grandchild was dressed as Dracula.’
Ella could detect the edge of anxiety behind the joking. ‘Are you all right with this, Laura?’
‘What can I do about it anyway? It isn’t my life. Bella’s strong, stronger than me, probably. It was just that when she said she was going to protect the baby forever, I knew I hadn’t done that for her.’ Laura turned her face away and brushed the tears from her cheek with a jerky gesture. ‘Somehow it’s worse when you see how your own disasters affect your children.’
Ella put her arms round her friend. ‘It’s called Life. You did your best. It wasn’t you who walked out from under the boardwalk in Brighton.’
‘Yes, but maybe that was all a load of nonsense. Why didn’t I notice what was going on instead of enacting teenage fantasies at sixty-bloody-three?’
‘We all need a bit of romance in our lives, Laura.’
Laura attempted a smile. ‘So it seems.’
Bill, wearing his usual bobble hat, was standing behind Ella. ‘I thought you might make use of this for your wreath.’ He held out a skein of bright red raffia. ‘Only I usually use it to tie my CDs to the redcurrant bushes to keep the birds off.’
Ella took the raffia and fashioned it into a large bow.
‘Bill, you’re brilliant. That is absolutely perfect. My wreath will be the star of Moulsford Square.’
‘Right then.’ He slipped shyly away, then, at the last minute, turned. ‘I might pop round one of these days. See how the raffia’s getting on. If it breaks I can always get some more from the Flower and Vegetable Supplies.’
‘Thanks, Bill.’ Ella avoided her friend’s eye or she knew she would break down in giggles. ‘Why don’t you do that?’
Sal was deeply thankful that after her initial onslaught of the revolting FEC she had had a gap before the next cycle, which she spent mostly lying on the sofa.
Now it was time for her second. At least she knew what to expect and didn’t have to drag poor Ricky in.
‘Are you in for chemo too?’
Sal looked round to find that a startlingly young woman wearing an equally startling purple wig was talking to her from across the waiting room in the chemotherapy suite.
‘Yes,’ Sal replied. ‘It’s my second time.’
‘Lucky you, and you’ve gathered that despite the cosy chairs it isn’t exactly a day at the spa?’ She glanced round to see if Sal was accompanied. ‘On your own, are you?’ She gestured to the other patients who all seemed, as usual, to have friends or relatives with them. ‘Me too. I’ve been doing this so long I’ve worn all my lot out. My name’s Rachel, by the way.’
‘Sally Grainger. Everyone calls me Sal.’
‘Hello, Sal.’
‘Have you had a lot of chemo?’ Sal enquired.
‘Oh yes. Hello, my old friends nausea, exhaustion, headaches, aching bones, mouth ulcers . . .’
‘As bad as that?’
‘I was editing out the stomach aches, depression, and being a shit to your nearest and dearest. Didn’t want to scare you at this early stage.’
They both laughed.
‘What kind of . . .’ Sal began then stopped, wondering if the etiquette of the chemo suite meant you didn’t actually ask.
‘Cancer have I got?’ Rachel shrugged. ‘What haven’t I got? It all started with breast, then we had a little bit of lymphoma, then lots of tiny little buggers of tumours. The consultant was actually quite upbeat about those, thought he could zap them like some sort of video game. Wrongly, as it turned out. All I have now is bones, stomach – oh, and ovaries.’
Sal, ever the indiscreet chatterbox, was temporarily lost for words.
‘Don’t worry. At least I won’t have to buy any Christmas presents. Fizzy water? Amazingly enough it’s free.’
Sal took a paper cup, still feeling gobsmacked in the face of this ama
zing girl. How old could she be? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?
‘Twenty-five,’ stated Rachel, reading her thoughts. ‘Bummer, isn’t it? Anyway, what do you want to know about cancer treatment? You might as well make use of the resource. I can’t leave it to posterity. Fire away. You may even get the truth from me.’
‘What’s the worst thing about it all?’
‘Frustration. No one knows anything so they don’t tell you anything. They think it’s gone and it comes back. Then you go into meltdown. Total fucking despair. Next?’
‘Does everyone lose their hair?’
‘Most people. And then it grows back afterwards all curly like pubic hair. You end up with a Hollywood on your head! Now here I have a helpful hint. Get yourself a wig while you still have hair. If you get it now it’s fun. Wait till your hair’s gone and you feel like a bald loser. Tell you what, I’ll come and help you choose.’
Sal looked at Rachel’s purple bob. ‘I’m not sure I’m quite as adventurous as you.’
‘I’m sure they have blue-rinsed ones as well.’
‘Thanks a lot! You’re on. It’d be fun.’
‘I know a really good place. They even make syrups that look realistic. You should see the NHS ones. Like Matt Lucas with a bird on his head.’
Rachel got out the diary on her phone. ‘What about the day after tomorrow? Leave it much longer and it might be hello hospice for me.’
‘Wednesday it is,’ Sal agreed. ‘Give me something to look forward to.’ If this amazing girl could be cheerful, so the hell could she. She was just going to suggest they had a glass of fizz afterwards when she remembered drinking was probably banned. No one could say cancer didn’t give you a whole new lifestyle.
The nurse was back, this time with a paper cup of water. ‘You may find you get a sore mouth, I’m afraid, that and digestive problems are our most usual complaints.’
‘Not losing your hair?’ Sal found she was touching hers. Funny how utterly fundamental to your sense of self your hair was. It was the one thing she truly dreaded. Every time she’d seen another woman with the cancer hairstyle, short and fuzzy, she’d thought Thank God that’s not me. ‘I can take the pain, it’s going bald I could do without. Any other nice surprises I’ve got to look forward to?’
‘Your arm may bruise where the cannula was introduced; possible nausea, tiredness, diarrhoea or constipation, and occasional tingling in your hands or feet. But you may be glad to know, sex should be perfectly normal.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
As she dressed and started to walk towards the lift, Rachel hissed at her.
‘How was it?’
‘Not as bad as I expected.’
‘Did they tell you about the MCI? Aka Mild Cognitive Impairment, aka chemo brain. Look out for it. You’ll probably forget what day of the week it is.’
Great. Sal began to doubt the impossibility of what she was trying to achieve. Getting cancer. Keeping it a secret. Starting a new job. It was total fucking madness.
On the other hand, so were most things she set herself in life. And what was the alternative? Turning down the job and meekly accepting an impoverished retirement? No way.
‘See you Wednesday. I’ve made an appointment at Wigs For You in Frith Street. About four o’clock?’
If Rachel at twenty-five could keep up that defiant humour and utter lack of self-pity, then Sal could cope with a few challenges.
For now she’d better get back to the flat, open up her laptop and start on some pre-joining work for New Grey.
Before the chemo brain set in.
‘It’s so frustrating!’ Claudia attempted to get Don’s attention. ‘I’m trying to get Mum along to see the GP for some medication, but she absolutely won’t go. Don. Don!’
Finally Don looked up from the crossword. ‘Nineteen down: “Fabulous supporter of royal arms”. Seven letters. Any thoughts?’
Since they’d moved to Minsley five weeks ago Don had begun every day, regular as clockwork, with the Guardian crossword. He even sat in the same chair to do it. While he claimed it was to keep his brain sharp, it was driving Claudia mad that he was often still sitting there in his pyjamas at eleven o’clock.
She knew he was trying to give some structure to a life that was suddenly without its familiar boundaries since he’d given up teaching, that was something she was struggling with herself. After all, they were both used to dividing their lives into lesson-sized chunks, so that suddenly having limitless open-ended time was extra hard.
She was missing work herself. Not the stress or the endless deadlines, but feeling part of something beyond yourself. The cottage was lovely but they’d already settled in – it had been remarkably quick – and now Claudia knew that she’d have to find something useful to do with her considerable energy. She hadn’t thrown paving stones in Paris to settle down to a life that held nothing but gardening and golf.
Already Don seemed to be looking to her to organize their life here. She could see that if she wasn’t careful he might develop a marked and deeply irritating dependence on her to provide the diversions.
‘What do you want to do today?’ he had taken to asking, expecting her to have a programme planned out like some rural tour guide. When she suggested he come up with some ideas he had drawn up a chart, more than vaguely reminiscent of a school timetable, the high point of which was the weekly visit – with lunch in the cafeteria – to their local Tesco superstore.
It was driving her crazy.
‘Don, did you hear? I need you to drive me to the doctor when I take Mum tomorrow so I can sit in the back and keep her calm. It’s going to be a battle royal to get her there.’
‘But tomorrow’s Tuesday. Our Tesco day.’
The look she shot him silenced future supermarket-based protest.
‘All right. If we must.’ He went back to the crossword. ‘How about “Frank, ensnared in sex scandal, reveals all”. Eight letters?’
‘No bloody idea.’ She was so cross she had to get out of the house. She knew part of the problem was that she felt cut off here from her usual pattern of life and, more than anything, from her friends. Was it weird, at her age, to value friendship so much? ‘Here, Vito,’ she dangled his lead enticingly, ‘let’s go out for a walk, shall we?’
Vito was a wonderfully cheerful little dog who relished a walk, long or short. Thank heavens at least someone was contented with his new life.
They were just crossing the street outside the cottage when a mobility scooter sped round the corner and, if Claudia hadn’t acted fast, Vito would have been roadkill.
‘Watch out!’ Claudia shouted.
The scooter ground to a halt just ahead of them. A very old lady wearing a man’s cap leaned over her shoulder and shouted back, ‘It’s you who should keep that dog under control. What kind of dog is it, anyway? Never seen anything like it in my life.’
Claudia approached the scooter with Vito safely under her arm. No way was she telling this old bat about Vito’s canine antecedents.
‘No actual breed, just a bit of this and a bit of that. He’s a rescue dog,’ Claudia lied.
Vito barked in protest.
‘Should have left him to moulder. Better still, have him put down. Too many mongrels roaming the streets.’
Claudia bristled. This was exactly the kind of intolerant, narrow-minded country-dweller’s attitude she’d expected to find here. Any minute now the newcomer would start on undesirables and immigrants and condemn them to a similar fate.
‘Here, give him to me,’ the old lady commanded unexpectedly. ‘He can have a ride with me and Henry.’ It took Claudia a moment to work out that Henry was the scooter. The old lady put him in the basket at the front. Vito obligingly stood up with his front paws resting on the wire, looking just like a miniature figurehead on a ship’s prow. ‘Dogs always like riding there. My old border, Ginger, never travelled any other way. The name’s Betty, by the way. Betty Wilshaw. You’re Olivia’s girl, aren’t you?’
<
br /> Claudia almost laughed out loud at being called a girl.
‘I’m glad you’re here, by the way. We were all getting worried about Olivia. We used to see her at everything: church, yoga, bell ringing even. Now she’s always off chasing her tail on these mad exploits. Do you know what she invited me to?’
Claudia dreaded to think. Belly dancing? Advanced Zumba?
‘Stretch-mark erasing at some posh beauty parlour! I’m eighty! I had my children sixty years ago. I haven’t seen my stomach for some time now. What would I want with stretch-mark erasing?’
‘My mother gets a bit carried away sometimes.’ Did she dare tell Betty the truth? She was beginning to revise her initial snap judgement, maybe she was the intolerant one. Vito was certainly looking as if he would never leave her side – or, at least, her basket. No, she wouldn’t tell Betty the truth about Olivia’s condition. Her mother was, underneath her boldly confident façade, an intensely proud and private person who would hate the idea of being talked about, and, even worse, pitied.
‘How are you finding it here? Bit of a shock after London, eh? Now that you’re here you should get involved. The Village Hall committee is always looking for volunteers. Then there’s the church cleaning rota. And every month there’s a senior citizens’ lunch. Despite the name they’re quite fun.’
Horrified, Claudia realized Betty wasn’t asking her to come as a volunteer but as a fully paid-up over-sixty!
‘Come on, you’ve got to join something. That’s what village life’s all about, otherwise you might as well stay in London and never speak to your neighbours. I know,’ Betty persisted, ‘why don’t you join the choir? Our choir’s top notch. We beat the Great Minsley Chorus in Sing For England last year. They were furious.’ In fact, Claudia had been thinking of joining a choir for some time. Everyone said it was good for the soul. ‘The choir master’s very forward-looking. None of your old fuddy duddy stuff. He had us doing Les Mis in the autumn.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Claudia replied. Betty was right. She needed to get involved. ‘What day do you meet?’