by Beth Miller
I manage not to shove her away, really hard. ‘They’re just old maternity jeans. Please. Don’t. Worry.’
‘I’ll make more tea, shall I?’ she says. ‘I’m doing brunch soon, and if we’re all leaving today’ – a pointed look at me, instigator of the shiva shutdown – ‘I’d better wake Lissa up.’
I raise my eyebrows at Mama once Heifer’s left the room, but she pretends not to see. She says, ‘Did you get a chance to speak to Melissa yesterday?’
‘I barely said hello.’
Miffy spent ages talking to Danny in the kitchen, and later Heifer monopolised her, huddled her into a corner, trapped her against a wall. I couldn’t take my eyes off Miffy, trying to see the messy-haired little kid I’d known, but she was unrecognisable. If I’d met her in the street, I wouldn’t have known her.
Mama and I don’t really talk about our life in Edgware, our life before we came here. Miffy is a big part of that unspoken history. But Mama has seen Miffy regularly, knows about her life since Michael left Andrea, and right now all the things I’ve ever vaguely wondered about are of the most pressing importance.
‘Mama, do you know why Miffy got divorced?’
Mama, fumbling with a hankie, wipes her eyes. ‘Michael did not discuss the details with me. If he even knew them. He was devastated, I tell you that much. It made him cry.’
‘That’s sad.’
‘Life is sad, bebita. People divorce. People die.’ She blows her nose, an elephant honk. ‘It’s a shame you and Melissa lost touch. You were such nice friends.’
Michael’s death has completely addled her brain.
‘Yes, Mama. It was a shame, wasn’t it?’
Heifer crashes in with a tea tray before I can say anything else. I grab a cup and take it upstairs, my hands shaking, slopping tea on the carpet. Fuck it. I swap my stained jeans for my brown cords, sit at the mirror, do some antenatal breathing to calm down. I touch up my foundation and give myself a pep talk. What’s the matter with me? There’s no need to be stressed. It’s just silly little Miffy, who looked up to me when we were kids. Plain little Miffy with her bushy hair and Bessie Bunter specs. There’s no need for me to get all worked up: not about her, nor about the way my mother seems to think we could somehow all have been friends. Miffy’s the one who should be feeling anxious. Seeing me again after all these years is bound to be difficult. I’ll let her do the fretting for the both of us. I will be calm, cool and sophisticated.
Since the moment I realised I might see Miffy and Danny again, some long-forgotten memories of my early teens have resurfaced, catching me unawares. One floats into my mind now. A missing piece of the Valentine’s card jigsaw: Miffy and I dancing for her parents. Where has that memory been hiding all these years?
We were at Miffy’s house, getting ready for the disco. Michael was just Miffy’s dad then, but I knew he was Mama’s special friend. I liked him too. He was a slim, good-looking man, gold-flecked brown hair falling over his forehead. Hair like Danny’s.
Miffy and I danced for her parents. I showed off, flicking up my short dress. I remember the knickers I was wearing: my favourites, soft pink lace, a present from Uncle Anthony. He worked for a make-up company and loved buying gifts for women. Lots of women, not just Mama, it turned out.
Miffy’s parents clapped, and I kicked my legs up high, again and again, feeling all eyes on me, Miffy trying to keep up, until Andrea Cline abruptly turned off the tape player and asked Miffy to get her a drink of water. Then Andrea turned to me. ‘You’re becoming a sexy young lady, Laura. Like your Mama. Isn’t she Michael?’
I knew it wasn’t a compliment. Neither Michael nor I spoke.
Andrea went on, ‘Michael loves looking at pretty ladies, don’t you, choochie? But you know what they say: most likely to look, least likely to stray. They’d have to drag you by the hair, wouldn’t they, darling?’
I didn’t understand Andrea’s meaning, or why her eyes didn’t match her smile. Then Miffy ran back in and said, ‘I can do the splits, look!’ Practically did herself a mischief in a doomed attempt to get both legs flat on the floor.
Michael stood up. ‘Time I took you girls to the disco.’
Colour me stupid – it’s only now I realise she intended me to tell Mama her comment about Michael straying. But of course I didn’t.
I hear steps in the hall and open the door to see Miffy going downstairs. I call her name – her nickname – and she turns. She looks up at me, her expression unreadable, and gives a sort of nod. Her appearance is still utterly unfamiliar. So different from that eager splits-performing kid. She’s tall, for starters; when did that happen? Her hair’s silky and fair, when I remember an unruly brown cloud. Beautifully dressed in a cream linen shirt and dove-grey trousers, she looks like she’s just walked off the set of Heat And Dust.
Finally she gives me a hesitant smile, and for the first time I see that it is her. The old Miffy is there in the smile, the cats’ eyes crinkling up, the straight white teeth. She used to say her perfect teeth were what she had in common with Marilyn Monroe.
I say, ‘Do you want to come in for a minute?’
She shakes her head, so that I think she means no, but then she walks back up the stairs towards me. She still has a slight limp. Almost unnoticeable, unless you’re looking for it. Unless you know it’s there.
And now here we are in my bedroom. Different room, different town, twenty-four years later. But here are Laura and Miffy, still hanging out.
‘This is weird, isn’t it?’ I say.
She sits down on the bed and leans back against the headboard. I sit upright on a chair facing her, all Miss Prim. Now I look at her properly, she’s not conventionally beautiful. Her eyes are small without her glasses, her nose too long. But there’s something about her. The eye is drawn towards her. Plain little Miffy, who’d have believed it? She wears silver bangles which jingle when she moves. That could get annoying. She’s barely wearing any make-up. She looks so young. God, you’d think she was twenty-five, though she must be ten years more than that, at least; she’s only a little younger than me. I feel mumsy and fat in my flowery shirt and maternity cords.
‘When’s your baby due?’ First thing she’s said to me, other than hello.
‘Bit less than four months now. June.’
‘A June baby. How lucky.’
We used to tease her about her low husky voice. It never occurred to me it might be appealing. The dads who bring their kids to her office – ‘fascinating, what she does’ – must all want to get into her pants.
‘Is Evie looking forward to the baby?’
I’m definitely not going to give anything away to a child psychologist. ‘She’s very excited, of course. And she’ll be a great help. It won’t be like having two only children at all.’ Shit, saying too much. Shut up, Laura.
‘Dad often spoke about Evie. He was so fond of her.’
Michael’s presence is suddenly between us in the room. ‘Listen, Miffy, I’m so sorry we weren’t able to get you here before he died.’
‘It honestly doesn’t matter,’ she says.
There’s a knock on the door and Mama sticks her head in. ‘Would anyone like coffee?’
‘Yes, please, Olivia. It might help me wake up. I’ve never had jet lag before. I was wide-awake in the night, and now it’s gone eleven. Crazy.’
‘I too was awake all night,’ says Mama, ‘but without having need of air travel.’
She goes out and Miffy and I grin at each other. All day – actually, all week – to be honest with you, for twenty-four years, I’ve tried not to think about the last time I saw Miffy. But I’ve never been able to completely wipe it away.
‘So will it be strange? Going back to nappies, after such a long time?’
God, can’t she talk about anything else? ‘I guess so. I wanted to have lots of children all close together, but it didn’t work out that way.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘These things don’t always work out.’
‘Miffy, did you …’
‘No one else calls me Miffy.’ She smoothes a strand of hair away from her face. Her nails are bitten, ragged round the edges. Good to see something’s not perfect.
‘Doesn’t Danny?’
‘Oh, not for years. Not to my face, anyway!’
‘What would you like me to call you, then? Lissa?’
‘Actually, Miffy’s okay. I kind of like it.’
I look down to hide my smile, examine one of my own nails. Not bitten, neatly shaped, but covered in what I now realise is a tacky shade of candyfloss pink.
‘You look just how I remember you, Laura.’
‘Oh, I can’t do! I’ve aged so much. I certainly wouldn’t have recognised you.’
She laughs. ‘Perhaps that’s a good thing. My early teens weren’t my best look.’
‘When did you get so tall?’
‘Growth spurt when I was fifteen. Went from being the smallest to one of the tallest in a few months.’
‘Must have been weird.’
‘It was brilliant.’
Mama returns with the coffee, and Miffy invites her to sit down. Mama perches stiffly on the edge of the bed.
‘I wanted to ask you both something,’ Miffy says. ‘Danners, Hella and I want to invite you to a party we’re having next month.’
Mama jumps in, all affronted. ‘Thank you, but no. What an extraordinary time to be thinking about parties.’
‘I know what you mean, Olivia,’ Miffy says gently. ‘But it was arranged a long time ago. You know Dad was going to come.’
‘Oh! For Micah’s barmitzvah,’ says Mama. She gives a long shuddering sigh. ‘Michael was looking forward to it.’
‘I’d always planned to throw Micah a barmitzvah party, as he’s my oldest nephew,’ Miffy says to me. ‘Then my friend Amy wanted to give me a welcome home party, so we’re combining them. Amy’s hosting it; her house in Sussex is pretty big.’
‘It sounds great,’ I say. ‘We could use it, after all this sadness.’
‘Exactly. And we thought it could also be a celebration of Dad’s life, Olivia.’
‘That is a nice gesture. But it sounds a bit much right now, to my mind.’ Mama assumes I’ll agree, but to my surprise, the phrase sod it jumps into my head.
‘I’d love to come,’ I say. I’m mystified to be invited, but I’m going to go if it kills me.
Mama says, ‘I’d better see if Hella needs help in the kitchen.’ She goes out without looking at me.
Miffy says, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But you know. Life goes on.’
‘Was Micah named for your dad?’ It’s only just now I’ve noticed that their names are alike.
‘Yes. Unusual. Jews don’t usually name a baby after someone who’s living.’
‘So why did they?’
‘Um. I don’t know. I guess at the time Danners felt that Dad was, well, sort of dead to him.’
‘Oh.’
‘Just got to nip to the loo,’ she says, and slips out with a jingle of bracelets.
I check my face. Great: my lips are all dry and granny-mouth. I put on a conditioning lipstick and pretend to read a magazine. When Miffy comes back she says, ‘Do you still smoke, Laura? When you’re not pregnant, of course.’
‘Me?’ I can barely remember smoking at all. ‘No, not since we were kids. Why, do you?’
‘Can’t you smell it?’
I sniff the air and realise there is a faint smell of smoke. ‘Miffy, have you been smoking in your room?’
Hand over her mouth, she giggles like a schoolgirl. ‘Out the attic window,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t tell your mum!’
After this I find her easier to talk to. I tell her about my life, about Evie and the new baby, Huw’s kids, the shop and Ceri, about La Vida Boring in North Wales. Every time I stop, she asks another question, but finally I manage to ask her about her travels.
She stretches her arms above her head, and rattle rattle go the bracelets. ‘Only impulsive thing I’ve ever done. Everyone said, be sensible, buy a flat, don’t leave your job. But I’d never been anywhere before. Jay, my ex, wasn’t into travelling. I visited Australia, Hong Kong, South America, Africa. It was so exciting. I wish I’d done it years ago, before university, when everyone else went to India and I was …’
She stops abruptly.
‘You were …’
‘Stuck at home with Mum.’
I ask, ‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Jay? Same as before, I guess. He’s a surgeon. Vascular. Works hard. Tennis Sundays. Wine club Thursdays. Probably glad to be back at his mother’s for a while.’
‘Are you and he Orthodox too, like Danny?’
She laughs. ‘No, not at all. Danners is a one-off. I hardly even go to shul. Just for the festivals, you know. Jay and I would try and do Friday night candles, though he usually got back too late. And I still love chicken soup. That’s about it. What about you, do you still go to church?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, once a fortnight. Huw and Evie don’t come so it’s a chance for some peace. And I still go to confession.’
‘I always thought that was such a brilliant idea. Cleansing.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not so into Jewish stuff any more. You always seemed more keen than Danny. With your batmitzvah and all that.’
She shrugs. ‘I think the batmitzvah kind of knocked the religion out of me.’
‘It’s just … I don’t get Danny. Were you surprised when he went religious?’
She stares at the ceiling. ‘I used to think he’d change back, but he’s totally immersed.’
‘How come he doesn’t wear the black hat like I used to see in Edgware?’
‘And the long curls? No, Hella was brought up ultra-Orthodox, but she and Danny are more modern.’
‘When I think back to what he was like …’
‘I know. But I do understand it, even though it’s not for me. Danners really needed some certainty in his life back then, after, you know, everything that happened.’
My throat feels dry and I sip my coffee. Cold.
She says, ‘The Orthodox have a rule for everything, and Danners likes that.’ Then she grins. ‘Well, most of the time he does. This morning he’s bunked off. He reckoned he had to go to Norwich to discuss the gravestone, but I think he could have done it just as easily by phone.’
Without thinking I say, ‘So is Heifer sitting shiva all by herself down there?’
Miffy explodes with laughter at the nickname, reminding me vividly of when we were kids and she used to almost wet herself having hysterics.
Mama calls up, ‘Food is ready!’
Miffy says, ‘Be serious, Laura!’ and we go downstairs, still giggling.
Brunch is a strange meal made of everything Mama wants to use up, cooked in Heifer’s inimitable style. I seem to have toast spread with marge, fried eggs and a portion of kosher chicken.
Evie is fascinated by Miffy, makes sure to sit next to her. When Miffy turns to talk to her, Evie, embarrassingly, reaches up and strokes her hair. Miffy is unfazed. ‘Hey, Evie. Did you ever know your mum when she had long hair? I was so envious. I grew mine to be the same.’
‘I think she cut it when I was little.’
‘It got in the way,’ I say. ‘Evie was always pulling it when she was a baby.’ I miss my long hair.
Huw eats standing up, old-fashionedly letting the ladies and children have the chairs. He chats to Miffy about her travels and they discuss the history of various places. He’s doing his urbane lecturer shtick to impress her. Mama watches me watching Huw and Miffy.
‘Maybe it is best we are leaving today, bebita,’ she whispers.
Furious at the implication – I wish to fuck I hadn’t told her about Huw and the New Year’s Eve tart – I look her straight in the eye and say, ‘Why?’
She’s shocked. It’s the second time I’ve been off message today. She’s always prided herself on our great understanding. ‘Like sisters.’ She tells friends,
strangers, everyone, how close we are.
‘We are maybe just a bit too crowded here,’ she says, scraping her uneaten food into the bin.
Miffy disappears after the meal, and when she comes back to the kitchen, smelling of peppermint, she is dragging her enormous rucksack.
I can’t help it; I am so uncool. ‘Oh, you’re not going already, are you?’
She smiles. ‘Well, you’re off today too, and I want to get the one-fifteen train. I must go and see Mum.’
Mama is standing at the counter. Her back stiffens at this reference to Andrea Cline. Miffy carries on, ‘I haven’t seen her yet. I came straight here from Heathrow. She’ll be upset about Dad, despite everything.’
I ask Miffy why she doesn’t travel with Danny and Hella, and she laughs. ‘Danners did offer, but they’re already breaking the rules about how many people you should have in one Volvo. Have you not experienced his kosher driving?’
‘His what?’
‘Oh, he thinks he doesn’t need to pay attention to the road because God’s keeping an eye on him. So far, God does actually seem to have been paying attention, but I don’t want to be there when He turns away to sort out a war or something.’
Danny comes in while she’s talking, and grins. ‘You’re letting me drive you to the station, though.’
‘I’ve weighed up the odds of how much damage you can do in such a short distance, and decided to risk it.’
Outside the cottage, Miffy kisses us all goodbye, including me. I catch the scent of mint.
‘Will you let me know about the party?’ I ask.
‘Of course!’ she says. ‘I got your number from the noticeboard in your Mum’s kitchen.’
This gives me the same thrill I once felt when boys used to secretly copy down my number from Mama’s old dial-phone in the hall.
When Danny’s driven her away, I go to help Mama pack. I feel very restless.
‘Stop pacing, Laura. If you want to help, help. If not, please do something else.’
‘Sorry, Mama. Just thinking. Hasn’t Miffy changed? I’d hardly have known her.’