by Beth Thomas
‘It makes me nervous. It’s my fear of high places. I know it’s irrational …’
‘Oh yes, I remember now. You did mention that the other day. So even this little one frightens you?’
‘There’s nothing little about it. Haven’t you noticed how much thinner the air is? You have to breathe at twice the normal rate on that thing.’
He chuckles. Dimples appear in his cheeks. ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating.’
I shake my head. The fat on my cheeks wobbles. ‘Uh-uh. It should have lights on it to warn aircraft.’
He chuckles again. Those dimples are kind of addictive. ‘Surely not.’
‘Oh yes. You could seriously kill Godzilla with that thing.’ His grin falters a little and that fleeting frown makes a brief appearance again. He obviously hasn’t seen the film. ‘Um, I’m Daisy, by the way.’ I put my hand out and he takes it.
‘Nice to meet you, Daisy. I’m Danny.’ Danny. My favourite name. He squeezes my hand gently, then lets go immediately. My hand feels cold and exposed now.
‘Likewise.’
He smiles at me, then glances across the bridge again. ‘Would it help at all if you came across it with me?’
There’s a loud DING DING DING in my head, but I can’t dance and leap around ecstatically, I’m far too close to the steep slope down to the motorway. So I raise my eyebrows and try to look as though this thought has never occurred to me. ‘Oh, wow. Um, I honestly don’t know.’
‘Ah. OK …’
‘But it’s worth a try. At this point, I’ll try anything. And I do have to get across it.’
He grins broadly and nods once. ‘OK then.’
For one horrible moment I think he’s going to jog along next to me, incredibly slowly, while I walk, but he doesn’t. Then I think he’s going to want me to run with him, but he doesn’t do that either. He stops jogging, stands and waits for me to be ready, then escorts me at my own pace across the bridge. My own pace being mostly stationary, with the occasional shuffle forwards now and then. I just about manage to resist the urge to grab his arm as we go over, and it’s got nothing to do with his muscles. Halfway across, I’m so dizzy and terrified, I actually have to stop.
‘Why have you stopped?’ Danny says, coming round to the front and looking into my face. His clear blue eyes almost send me over the side.
‘Can’t …’
He frowns. ‘You do know you’re halfway across already?’
Being halfway across is not a good thing. It just means that the drop below my feet is at its greatest, and safety is as far away as it can ever get. The concrete I’m on feels as sturdy as pastry and I know it is going to break up and crumble beneath me as soon as I change the pressure of my feet. I’m frozen. My breath is speeding up and my heart with it until there is a terrible roaring in my ears and blackness starts to creep in at the edge of my vision.
Suddenly I feel a warm hand take hold of mine and my arm extends as my hand is pulled away from me. At the end of a long tunnel I can just about hear a voice saying, ‘Come on, Daisy, come on, just move one foot,’ and some part of me knows that this is cute Danny with the blue eyes and the dimples and he thinks I’m a total lamo by now, so tentatively I push one foot along the shortcrust bridge, trying to do as little damage to the surface as I possibly can. ‘Great, now do the other one.’ So I do, hyperventilating, trembling and out of my mind with fear, but I do it. ‘And again,’ the voice says, and little by little, three inches at a time, we move over the bridge.
Three weeks later, we emerge on the other side, like plane crash survivors stumbling out of the jungle. We’re malnourished, dehydrated and physically and emotionally exhausted – well, I am – but we did it. We fucking did it. It’s the first time I have ever crossed that bridge upright, on my feet, and I’m struggling to control an intense sense of elation that is swelling inside me like a shaken Coke bottle. Eventually I give up, grab Danny’s arm, squeal ‘Yay!’ and fling my arms round his neck. At this point I’m not sure if I’m celebrating the fact that I’m still alive; ecstatic that I’ve conquered my fear for the first time; or have momentarily lost control of my hormones in the face of Danny’s obvious charms. Either way, I’m sure I’ll think about this moment later on when I’m lying in bed and will want to curl myself into a tiny ball and scream quietly into my pillow while banging my legs on the mattress. Or I might just shoot myself in the face.
‘Wow,’ he says now, ‘you are pleased, aren’t you?’
Fortunately I haven’t lost all sense of propriety – just about ninety percent of it – and I pull away. I’m grinning broadly and fidgeting on my feet, and I nod emphatically. To add to my delight, I see that Danny is also grinning, not glancing nervously around looking for a policeman. ‘Thank you so much for helping me,’ I gasp, still a little breathless from all the panic. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever walked across that bridge.’
He frowns briefly again. ‘Really? But I’ve seen you here before – don’t you usually go across it?’
I nod again. ‘Yes I do, but on my hands and knees. Or … stomach. Kind of commando style. Except with my eyes closed.’
‘Really?’
I press my lips together and close my eyes briefly. ‘It was a low point. But you think that took a long time today – it usually takes me three times as long. You helped me so much.’
He looks genuinely delighted at this. I’m not surprised. My theory is that, deep down, all men want to be superheroes or cavemen so they can rescue damsels or protect their women from rampaging dinosaurs. They’d also like to throw spears given half a chance. It’s a primal need that is no longer satisfied in the modern world, which is why they have to race fast cars round and round a track, or go on roller coasters. You have to feel sorry for them really. All testosteroned-up and nowhere to go.
‘It was my pleasure, Daisy,’ he says now, clearly fulfilled as a man. His chest puffs out a bit and for a second I think he’s going to pound it. ‘So why are you walking along here exactly?’
‘I’m in training. For the MoonWalk.’ He looks immediately massively impressed, so I clarify quickly. ‘It’s on Earth. Not in space. Twenty-six miles power walking around London, in aid of breast cancer research. It’s called the MoonWalk because it’s overnight.’
He’s nodding already. ‘Yeah, I know. A few of my friends did it last year. That’s very impressive, Daisy.’
I am filled with little bubbles of pleasure that make my face go red. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m training for a marathon too. What’s your expected time?’
I’m flummoxed. What does that mean? I plan to start when they fire the starting pistol, or whatever they do. I pretend to be thinking about it for a moment.
‘I’m hoping for sub four,’ he goes on, incomprehensibly.
I nod. ‘Oh really? Great.’
‘So? How about you? How long do you think it will take you?’
Ohhh. ‘Um, I haven’t really thought about it. I suppose, as it’s twenty-six miles and we’re walking, which is usually between three and four miles an hour, it should take … um …’
‘About seven or eight hours?’
‘Exactly.’ I smile. ‘Unless we have to cross any bridges.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘In which case, more like three days.’
He smiles. ‘You do actually have to cross quite a few, you know.’
‘Oh.’
‘But it won’t matter because by then you’ll have crossed this one so many times, it won’t make you nervous any more.’
‘Maybe …’
‘Definitely. Do you walk this way every day?’
‘Yes. Most days.’
‘So what are you going to do next time you’re here?’
I shrug. ‘Hands and knees again, I expect. Although my friend Abby is threatening to arrange a walking companion for me, for this very reason.’
‘Ah. Well that’s good then.’
‘Oh no it isn’t. It’s likely to be some
dull nerd who will take great delight in explaining to me the hilarious benefits of a Keep Left sign versus a Road Narrows. A few days of that, I’ll be wanting to hurl myself off it, not cross it.’
He frowns, for a bit longer this time. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Suffice to say that in two weeks’ time you might jog past here and see my poor broken body at the bottom of the ravine down there, being picked over by coyotes and buzzards.’
He looks genuinely horrified now. ‘Good God.’
‘I know, right?’
He looks thoughtful for a moment and I have to stop myself from saying any more. So much better if he reaches the conclusion himself. I don’t watch him as he thinks it through, but I’m praying he’s remembering how great it made him feel to rescue me, how manly he was, how strong and capable and how much the weak, helpless female needed him. Wouldn’t it be great to get that feeling again? Like, maybe, every day?
Eventually he jerks his head a little, as if a brilliant idea has just slammed into it, and I look up at him. He’s smiling and there’s an expression of beatific generosity on it. I raise my eyebrows and smile.
‘Daisy,’ he says, ‘I think I might have come up with a great solution.’
Daisy Mack Hi Abs! Guess what?. I’ve got it all sorted myself. Without help.
Abby Marcus Whaaat??
Daisy Mack Got myself a walking companion. A volunteer. Worth two pressed men, remember.
Abby Marcus *pauses; scratches head* OMG. Is it a man?
Daisy Mack Tell ya later! Xx
Abby Marcus *falls backwards off chair* Fuck me! It is!
Danny and I part company somewhere in the housing estate. He’s walked with me all the way from the bridge, and amazingly we chatted easily the entire time, while I was pulling some long-remembered flirting techniques without even thinking about it.
‘Ooh, I think I’ve just been bitten by something, right here – can you see anything?’
‘Wow, I love your shirt, where did you get it?’
‘I can’t wait to soap myself off in a long hot shower when I get home.’
Didn’t even realise I was doing it.
We arrange to meet up tomorrow at ten at the start of the canal path, and as he jogs away and I watch him go I can’t help but marvel that someone like that would offer to assist me with my training. I made it quite clear that I wouldn’t be running, and he definitely accepted it, so he’s actually prepared potentially to sacrifice his own training regime to help me with mine. What a thoroughly decent, upright citizen. What a paragon. What a bum.
Not that that matters. Of course not. Yes, I am prepared to admit that he looks amazing in Lycra, but that’s just decoration. Wrapping. Lovely to look at but the inside is still going to be the same. I could tell he was a good guy as soon as I looked into his beautiful blue eyes.
The Lovely Lawn lady is nowhere to be seen as I pass her house today, so I have a good stare in through her front window. Judging by her smooth lawn I want to see pristine perfection everywhere, and I’m not disappointed. Even the china dogs in the display cabinet are all gleaming in quiet satisfaction.
‘Hey, heads up there!’
I snap up and find that I’m about to walk straight into a ladder that is propped up against the side of a house, obstructing nearly the entire pavement. The voice has come from above and I screech to a halt and look up like a saint having a vision. The sunlight is shining from behind the person speaking, making him just a silhouette with a halo of fire, and I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the burning brightness.
‘Christ alive, you nearly sent me flying then!’ the voice goes on. ‘I might have had to sue you!’
‘I don’t think …’
‘No, seriously, I’d have had no choice.’ The tone is dead serious now. ‘You must’ve seen that public information film on the telly? Where there’s a blame, there’s a claim. If you fall, make the call. Hurt your foot? File a suit.’ There’s a momentary pause. ‘No, I’ve lost it now. Never mind.’
‘OK. Well, thanks for the info. And thanks for the warning just now. I might have had to file a counter-suit on you if I’d walked into your ladder and hurt myself. Which I could have done. Quite seriously, actually.’
‘Yes, that’s true. Especially if I landed on you.’
Something about the way he’s speaking to me feels irritatingly familiar. I feel like he’s laughing at me, and it certainly would not have been funny if he had landed on me. I could have been killed. Crushed to death by a falling window cleaner. You read about that sort of thing in the papers all the time.
‘Probably would have saved my life though,’ he mutters now.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said, if I’d landed on you, it probably would have saved my life.’
‘Is that meant to be funny? Or are you just unbelievably rude?’
There’s a brief pause. The top part of the shadow moves a little, as if he’s looking around while he considers his answer. ‘Um, well it certainly wasn’t meant to be rude. So, I suppose I’d have to go for “funny”. Yep. Funny. Final answer.’
‘You’re kidding? You actually think it’s acceptable to make jokes based on a person’s size, in this century?’
There’s a brief moment’s pause, then, ‘Wh-a-a-t?’
‘I mean, it’s never been acceptable to poke fun at someone just because they’re large, but for some reason people do seem to have got away with it in the past. Disgusting. But now there’s probably some law against it. It’s harassment, or bullying or something. It might even class as assault. I could probably have you arrested.’
Back in my other life, before I gave up everything to be Mum and Graham’s carer, I really enjoyed my time at the food place, mostly because of the great people I worked with. Steph, Ahmed, Georgia, Mark, Khatira and Tracey. And of course Jamie Powell, the photocopier repair man, of the Spider Man boxer shorts. I worked there straight from school – Mum helped me fill in the application form pretty much as soon as I’d got home from my final exam. She put the pen in my hand as I stepped off the bus.
‘Earn your own money,’ she was always saying. ‘Don’t ever let yourself get dependent on anyone.’
Steph was my age and started the same day as me, and Tracey was a few years older and had shown us round the office and trained us up. As part of our induction, she gave us a ten-minute lecture over a ciggie in the ladies’ loos about the company’s policy on bullying and harassment. This was ten years ago so admittedly things have changed a bit since then. You could still have an illicit ciggie in the loos in those days. As long as you wafted the smoke away from the smoke detectors.
‘Basically, you can’t take the piss out of anyone any more,’ Trace said, with a sad shake of the head. ‘It’s criminal.’
‘Is it really?’ Steph asked, her face going white with worry.
‘Yeah. Totally. I’ll give you an example. OK. There’s this bloke who works in the post room – Alistair. Killer B.O. and breath that will slay you where you stand if you get within six feet of it. But you can’t call him Allie-tosis or your feet won’t touch the ground. I’m serious. I mean, a name like Allie, with bad breath, it’s a gift, but you just can’t do it. Criminal.’
Steph widened her eyes at me. ‘I’m gonna try and stay out of the post room, then,’ she whispered, obviously beside herself with worry that she might forget herself one day and accidentally say the word ‘Allie-tosis’ out loud.
‘Oh, everyone still does it,’ Tracey said, stubbing her ciggie out in the sink and dropping the end into the waste paper basket. ‘Christ, no one can pass up an opportunity like that. I’m just saying don’t get caught saying it.’
I had quite a nice life, back then.
So I feel like I have a pretty good understanding of what’s allowed and what isn’t. And to imply that someone is so fat they would provide a nice comfy landing for someone falling off a ladder is most definitely not.
‘Arrested?’ the voice from the ladder says now
. ‘For pointing out that falling onto a human body would be a darn sight more comfortable and enjoyable than falling onto concrete? I don’t have a law degree so don’t quote me, but I’m pretty sure that’s not an arrestable offence.’
At this moment my phone quacks, rather loudly, and the shadow on the ladder jerks in surprise. I could retort but it’s a message from Facebook, so I tut loudly, to make sure he knows I am not happy and am still consider-ing making a formal complaint, then walk on, pulling my phone out of my pocket.
‘Are you carrying a duck in your pocket?’ the voice calls out after me, but I don’t stop, I want to read the message. ‘Coz I’m pretty sure that is illegal,’ I hear as I click onto Facebook. There’s a pause. ‘Or, you know, it’s frowned upon, anyway.’
The message is from Abby. And it fills me with dread.
Abby Marcus What are you doing? Where are you?
Daisy Mack Duh. You can have one guess and not a single guess more.
Abby Marcus OK, I’m absolutely sure you haven’t forgotten that we’re going to my neighbour’s barbecue this afternoon, have you?
Daisy Mack Of course I haven’t. Been looking forward to it for ages. Can’t wait!
Abby Marcus Well luckily for you, you won’t have to. We have to be there in twenty minutes.
TEN
Daisy Mack
It seems barbecue season has finally arrived.
Nat ‘Wiggy’ Nicholson likes this.
Suzanne Allen Yum yum, sausages, salad and sunshine. And pavlova afterwards. Lucky you!
Daisy Mack Oh yes Suze. There really is nothing finer, is there?
Abby Marcus Get off your phone and get your arse in here.
Georgia Ling PMSL!!!
I hate barbecues. They’re such a farce, aren’t they? It’s taken thousands upon thousands of years of evolutionary struggle for the human race to haul itself out of caves and into purpose-built mud huts, invent the house brick, install central heating, double glazing and a state-of-the-art dual hob range with fan-assisted oven. But every May, without fail, with the arrival of the first warm afternoon of the year, man likes to remember the old ways. He squats barefoot (or in flip-flops) over an open flame and cooks meat for the family using only the fuel that nature provided (unless it doesn’t catch, then he’ll pour petrol from the lawnmower on it), then eats it – partially raw – using only his fingers and teeth to rend flesh from bone, on a purpose-built block paved patio that his brother’s mate did for him at cost.