The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories

by Penny Edwards

  I have known Emily for twenty years. We were at the same girls’ school here in Hampshire – I won’t say which one in case any of you are thinking of sending your daughters there and are completely put off doing so by our behaviour today. (RIPPLE, FINGERS CROSSED) The first time I saw her, Em was standing in a corridor looking lost. It was the third day of our first term there and that year she was in a different class to me, so I hadn’t spoken to her before. I asked her if she was lost to which she said thank you, but she wasn’t. She seemed as if she didn’t particularly want to move and I remember walking away from her thinking what a strange girl she was. But I was intrigued nevertheless. (SMILE AT EM)

  The next time we saw each other was in Miss Herbert’s after-school choir – do you remember, Em? – and I was told off for talking to the other girls too much. I had wound up poor old Miss H quite a lot and thought the detention she gave me was fair in the circumstances, but she did shout very loudly and I remember I spotted you in the soprano section and noticed you were crying. I felt a lot worse about you, I can tell you, than I ever did about winding up Miss Herbert. Anyway, the good thing was I had the great common sense to go and apologise to you, we became firm friends and the rest, as they say, is history. (PAUSE)

  It’s customary on these occasions to come up with an anecdote, so I will do nothing to change that tradition.

  Em, as some of you may know, is a very keen horse rider and Tim, as you also may realise, is as keen a walker. Put the two together, it seems, and disaster strikes (RAISE EYEBROW, PAUSE) for they met by virtually colliding into one another. I say virtually because a certain horse called Amelia was an important part of the equation. Tim tells the sad story of a man on foot, lost and thirsty, who sees a woman on a horse coming towards him. He asks her the way to the village he’s trying to get to and as she tries to tell him, Amelia refuses to play ball – this is an intruder after all – and proceeds to keep circling round so Em’s incapable of pointing in the right direction. Not content with that, Amelia misjudges one of her turns and, let’s just say, her rear end and Tim’s face are quite well known to one another. Of course, Em always professes Amelia’s innocence. She does manage to tell Tim the way eventually and, during a few pleasantries, makes the fatal mistake of telling him she lives in the village he’s just come from next to the church. A week or so later, an invitation to a party comes to Amelia from Tim. Immediate attraction is a very misguided thing, ladies and gentlemen, and can lead you to date a horse. (PAUSE)

  Joking aside, I’m so glad Em and Tim did meet one another because I couldn’t wish for a nicer bloke for my best friend than Tim, whose kindness and consideration for others seem to know no bounds. (PAUSE) I’m sure Em would join me in acknowledging that many of her recent successes are due in no small part to the self-confidence Tim has helped her find. (PAUSE)

  Because, as those of you who knew the younger Em will realise – the toddler; the schoolgirl; even the university student – her current, smiley, outgoing personality is a relatively new phenomenon.

  As I said, I felt far guiltier about her crying at our choir practice than I did about any upset I caused our teacher. Miss Herbert was a pretty resilient woman who could withstand quite a lot. Not so, our Em. (PAUSE)

  I remember my mother’s view of Em was that she was a timid little thing who was always very polite and she probably wondered why someone as robust as me would want to be your friend. But it took her a while to see, and she did see it, Em, that you were so much more than either of those things. She saw what I saw. Someone with a wicked sense of humour whose take on the world was both quirky and interesting. But, unfortunately, to those who knew you less well, who merely saw you from a distance, you seemed aloof and disdainful of those around you. Some girls told me they were a bit frightened of you; you had a sharp tongue, they said. I suppose I could see what they meant. Isn’t it funny how we seem to adopt the very traits that have caused us so much pain? (PAUSE)

  I suppose it’s only in the last few years that I’ve started to get a glimpse into the life of Em’s childhood. Don’t get me wrong, ladies and gentlemen, I was part of it and spent many hours at the Frobrishers’, but I never really saw Em’s childhood, if that makes sense. (PAUSE?) Families are very good at tricking us, aren’t they, and there’s no reason on earth why the Frobrishers should be any different in this than the rest of us. And they are very good, ladies and gentlemen. At tricking us. And themselves. They are not exempt.

  I looked forward to going round to Em’s after school. Everybody seemed to get on so well; the food was delicious; a house full of homemade cakes and biscuits; a beautiful garden to play in, one that I can now appreciate equals anything we can see here today. The herbaceous border was always perfect. What, as they say, was not to like? A family that was at peace with itself, one that could even laugh at its own idiosyncrasies.

  (AVOID LOOKING AT JAMES) It was Em’s brother, James, who pointed out that, as a family, they had a habit of adopting cosy names for things: biscuits; clothing; home helps. It was something they usually did for visitors, he said, to convey an image to the onlooker of a fairytale from long ago. Did I remember? I said I did. We were sitting in a hospital corridor. It’s a tradition also, on an occasion such as today, to give everyone a version of our family that we want them to see. How full of bonhomie we all are. How close. How loving. “What a lovely family” is a phrase we want to bask in, and we delight in the accepted view that things are going very well for us. Tired but fulfilled, we go to bed congratulating ourselves on what a wonderful day that was.

  When James was in that hospital corridor, ladies and gentlemen, he couldn’t possibly have thought he belonged to a lovely family. We were sitting on uncomfortable chairs drinking coffee. He said there were all sorts of different days, when the same kind of thing happened. Thinking about it, he recalled, there were probably hundreds. One afternoon he particularly remembered and when he thought of it, he felt sick, as he did when he thought of much of his childhood, because it was full of all the usual sneering between his parents and culminated in the all-too-familiar shouting. It started, as it often did, in the car. There was usually some recrimination about the road taken, followed by either a defensive remark about there being roadworks on the other road or passing the blame back by saying this was the chosen route because she always said how much she hated the other road, how depressing it was, all those high-rise flats, how she’d then go on about how she would never understand why councils built those monstrosities, but people had to be put somewhere, but that she hated them almost as much as she hated men. There would, he added, be copious amounts of swearing and he smiled as he said, “Of course I was a man, albeit only nine years old.”

  He said that some years ago, he’d tried to recall this specific afternoon with Em, but she didn’t remember it that way. Instead, she said she quite liked the trips out on a Sunday afternoon. It was to look at houses, wasn’t it, and she thought it was quite enjoyable looking inside other people’s kitchens and living rooms. Anyway, she’d always read a good book in the back of the car. He said that was the trouble. Reading in a car always made him feel sick.

  There were many visits to that hospital, ladies and gentlemen, and James talked, often in a corridor and often accompanied by a cup of coffee, about life at the Frobrishers, where there was an unwritten rule that his parents were the only ones who were allowed to express anything, whether it was anger, negativity about their children, or how their lives would be so much better had they not had James and Emily. But their children were not allowed to express anything. They shouldn’t make a fuss. They certainly couldn’t have any of the vast amount of alcohol that was drunk. Their job was to achieve, so at occasions such as these and in their daily contact with friends they could be seen to be producing something successful. They could, in effect, report a very good turnover. (PAUSE)

  We were in a psychiatric hospital, ladies and gentlemen, and the perso
n we were visiting was Em. I expect there are very few of you here who knew that. Families, ladies and gentlemen, and what they tell us. (PAUSE)

  As you can see, though, Em has made a wonderful recovery. She has to be congratulated on overcoming such a tremendous struggle and all the things she had to try to come to terms with. Something, I know, she is still doing. Well done, Em. She is my best friend and along with Tim, James and everyone here, I would like to wish both Em and Tim a long and happy life together. Please could we all stand and raise our glasses. (PAUSE) To Em and Tim.

  2

  Thank you everyone. It’s wonderful to be here today in these beautiful surroundings with their truly splendid gardens, which were originally designed by that well-known eighteenth-century landscape artist… (LOOK THAT UP) I have never eaten such a delicious meal in such affluent surroundings and if my earnings remain at their current level, I doubt very much if I’ll ever eat this way again. (PAUSE, HOPEFULLY A LITTLE RIPPLE) Thank you, Sally and Ian, for such generosity. (PAUSE)

  I’m very honoured that Emily asked me to speak at her wedding. I’ve always thought of that “unaccustomed as I am” nonsense as being the domain of the other sex, even though I’m only thirty and live in a world where women do pretty much anything. I guess weddings in my mind still belong to that bastion of conservative thinking in which men and women have clearly defined roles.

  I have known Emily for twenty years. We were at the same girls’ school here in Hampshire – I won’t say which one in case any of you are thinking of sending your daughters there and are completely put off doing so by our behaviour today. (RIPPLE, FINGERS CROSSED) The first time I saw her, Emily was standing in a corridor looking lost. It was the third day of our first term there and that year she was in a different class to me, so I hadn’t spoken to her before. I asked her if she was lost to which she said thank you, but she wasn’t. She seemed as if she didn’t particularly want to move and I remember walking away from her thinking what a strange girl she was. But I was intrigued nevertheless. (SMILE AT EM)

  The next time we saw each other was in Miss Herbert’s after-school choir – do you remember, Emily? – and I was told off for talking to the other girls too much. I had wound up poor old Miss H quite a lot and thought the detention she gave me was fair in the circumstances, but I saw that you were giving all this your full attention, so afterwards, I came up to you and said hello and we became firm friends. The rest, as they say, is history.

  It’s customary on these occasions to come up with an anecdote, so I will do nothing to change that tradition.

  Emily, as some of you may know, is a very keen horse rider and Tim, as you also may realise, is as keen a walker. Put the two together, it seems, and disaster strikes (RAISE EYEBROW, PAUSE) for they met by virtually colliding into one another. I say virtually because a certain horse called Amelia was an important part of the equation. Tim tells the sad story of a man on foot, lost and thirsty, who sees a woman on a horse coming towards him. He asks her the way to the village he’s trying to get to and as she tries to tell him, Amelia refuses to play ball – this is an intruder after all – and proceeds to keep circling round so Emily’s incapable of pointing in the right direction. Not content with that, Amelia misjudges one of her turns and, let’s just say, her rear end and Tim’s face are quite well known to one another. Of course, Emily always professes Amelia’s innocence. She does manage to tell Tim the way eventually and, during a few pleasantries, makes the fatal mistake of telling him she lives in the village he’s just come from next to the church. A week or so later, an invitation to a party comes to Amelia from Tim. Immediate attraction is a very misguided thing, ladies and gentlemen, and can lead you to date a horse. (PAUSE)

  Joking aside, I’m so glad Emily and Tim did meet one another because I couldn’t wish for a nicer bloke for my best friend than Tim, whose kindness and consideration for others seem to know no bounds. I’m sure Emily would join me in acknowledging that many of her recent successes are due in no small part to the self-confidence Tim has helped her find.

  Indeed, Emily has come a long way since those days in the choir. They certainly didn’t seem to put her off because, as most, if not all of us know, Emily has pursued a very successful career in music as a superb and extraordinarily talented violinist, whose rise has been quite phenomenal, given that she started playing again in earnest only about seven years ago. And now a member of the London Symphony Orchestra. (PAUSE)

  Sally and Ian, you must be extremely proud of your little girl. I remember when she first expressed an interest in wanting to play the violin in our first year and I thought how little I envied her family. A beautiful instrument in the hands of an accomplished musician… (PAUSE) You must have had a lot of patience, all of you. I only heard Emily once she’d been playing for a while. We were all sitting around your living room (LOOK AT SALLY AND IAN) after one of Sally’s scrumptious meals and Emily played a duet, with you on the piano, Ian. It was quite beautiful.

  Her progression continued from school to university concerts and we all thought then that a promising career was only just round the corner, but, of course, Emily decided to travel for a couple of years and so her musical career lay in wait. It was at that time that I got to know her brother, James. I obviously can’t cope without a Frobrisher in my life, ladies and gentlemen. (GIVE EM AND JAMES A REASSURING LOOK)

  But after she’d finished travelling, Emily resumed her musical career, and she’s been travelling with various orchestras ever since, so please feel free to test her geography.

  Obviously, much of this has been helped, as Emily often says, by the support of others. She wanted me to thank her parents, so of course I will. Sally and Ian, I remember your home: the food was delicious; a house full of homemade cakes and biscuits; a garden to play in, one that I can now see equals anything we see here today. The herbaceous border was always perfect. And Emily says she always remembers the family outings on Sunday afternoons, in search of an even better house, if one could be found. Somewhere, there was an even more perfect herbaceous border, perhaps.

  She would also like me to thank her brother, James, who I am more than happy to acknowledge, for Emily owes so much to him. Thank you, James. I know I wouldn’t have the friend I have today were it not for the fact that she has such a loving and dedicated brother.

  And, of course, there’s Emily’s husband. (EMPHASISE AND WAIT FOR APPLAUSE) When Tim first saw Emily on her horse, she had recently returned from her travels. Thank goodness he did, for he soon saw that Emily’s passion lay in music and he gave her all the encouragement she needed to pick up the violin again.

  In turn, Emily is terrific for Tim. He always says she has given him so much support in his career as an architect; he knows he can talk to her about anything and everything and that she is the kindest, most understanding person he has ever met. He loves watching her play in the orchestra and just wants to burst with pride. He is, he says, the luckiest man alive. (PAUSE) He also said he felt guilty about this and didn’t want to cast her in a traditional role, but she is an absolutely fabulous cook. Everyone round to their house on their return from honeymoon. (PAUSE)

  Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to wish Emily and Tim a long and happy life together. Please could we all stand and raise our glasses. (PAUSE) To Emily and Tim.

  9.58 SECONDS

  “When was that operation?” Hilda asked.

  It wasn’t really a question to him because she was looking into space with that expression she had that showed little awareness of anyone else, but Reg answered it anyway, probably because this had generally been his role, to plant words into a social void, whenever it was required. She’d never bothered much about awkward silences, which, he had to admit, he found unusual in a woman.

  So he tried, “It was just before your mum died, wasn’t it? When was that, then?”

  The glance into space and an accompanying question had not bee
n unfruitful.

  “It was 1989,” she said, completely ignoring the help she’d received, so it was touch and go as to whether she’d actually heard the words of her husband that had floated into the cloying air of the living room. “Of course, it was 1989,” she repeated, pleased that her hard work had paid off. “Our Carol had just had Joshy. How could I have forgotten that?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. You were blubbing on the ward that you couldn’t see your grandson.” Reg turned to Amanda. “She was blubbing on the ward that she couldn’t see her grandson. ‘Joshua Jenkins,’ you kept saying and you burst out crying every time you said his name. ‘I want to see him, not be in this poxy hospital.’”

  “I doubt if it was ‘poxy’ I said,” she corrected and they both burst out laughing.

  “Yeah, well, we’ve got company. We don’t want to shock her, do we?”

  “Nothing she hasn’t heard before, is it, love?” and they all decided that laughter was the best response.

  He continued. “I said, ‘Stop saying his name, it’s upsetting you.’ She told me to bugger off, didn’t you? Said, as I didn’t understand, I might as well go home. I was more of a hindrance than a help, you said. Yes, it was 1989,” he said and nodded, as if to say, “Write it down, it’s correct and we might forget again in a minute.”

  He quite liked the look of this support worker – he thought that was what she called herself; these titles were all the same to him – they just needed some help. She seemed to know her way around a form. He hated the damned things. They always seemed to be trying to trip you up, asking similar things repeatedly, like they were checking you knew your story. He had visions of people sitting in offices, triumphant they’d got someone on question twelve, subsection four a. Not only that, his writing wasn’t at all good. Over the years, he hadn’t had it put to the test, except at school, where he’d been told he was a disaster and would never get a proper handle on it. Consequently, forms just mithered him. They had that effect on both of them. Hilda felt just the same, probably because she hadn’t ever written much either, apart from birthday cards and shopping lists. He’d once asked her, “Is that how you spell cauliflower?” and they’d both had a good laugh as it had flummoxed both of them.