I wittered on about my concerns for a bit longer and Harry listened hard.
‘What do you think?’ I asked in the end. I desperately wanted a solution.
‘Well, I don’t promise to have all the answers but, for what it’s worth, I think Enid’s a bit of a red herring,’ he said, finishing his beer with a swig of the bottle.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I think she’s always been the concern. Your parents were anxious about her, the school, teachers, friends . . . You’ve been the one supporting her, being her crutch all these years – especially after your parents died – and no one worried about you. Because you’re neurotypical. “Bess is fine”, I bet everyone’s always said. But you’re not fine. You have your own problems. Everyone does. What about you, Bess? What are you really worried about, aside from Enid?’
I felt my cheeks burn. Although I’ve known Harry for years now, we’d never had such a profound conversation before. I felt a bit indignant, like I’d been found out. But then, I did ask his advice, and I knew he was only trying to be kind. I gulped down some wine.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve upset you,’ Harry said and he looked genuinely concerned. That wobbled me more than anything he’d said. I felt the tears welling in my eyes, but I refused to cry. Not me. I’m the strong one. I need to be the strong one.
‘I guess I just feel like I’m a failure,’ I said. ‘You’re right: I’ve spent my life looking after Enid and I don’t regret it for a moment. But it’s come at a cost. I haven’t dedicated the time I probably should have to studies, or work, or relationships. And now I’m almost forty and I find myself with a man who’s no good for me and the sound of my biological clock ticking is so loud I can hardly hear myself think.’
‘Why do you stay with him? Because you want kids?’
‘Yes,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.
‘So, ditch Nigel and go to a sperm bank?’ Harry suggested with a raised eyebrow.
I thought for a moment I might start to cry after all, but instead I found myself laughing. Harry hadn’t solved a thing for me, but I felt distinctly lighter for unburdening myself to him.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday 4 December 2017
Fred
Less than a week to go until Enid’s arrival and Fred was starting to feel nervous. Nervous, excited . . . excited, nervous. He wondered how on earth Enid was feeling. His preparations were building. The exterior of the house was now fixed with some Christmas lights and a flashing snowman, he’d cleared the place of most of his mum’s possessions, one way or another, tidied up the backyard and given the whole place a good clean.
The pre-visit sort-out had the added benefit of getting the place into a decent state to sell and Fred had already put it on the market. He wasn’t sure where he was going to live once he’d sold up, but at least then he’d have a bit of cash in his pocket and he could start afresh wherever he wanted. Maybe he’d even leave Secret Harbour behind and head to Perth or over to Sydney where several of his old cricketing mates now lived.
The thought of actually having a decent bit of money for once was liberating, but for now he had enough put aside to get through Christmas and hopefully show Enid a good time.
Today he’d driven to Fremantle with Todd’s wife, Lisa, to pick up some Christmas gifts for Enid. Lisa was a Brit, from somewhere in the north of England, and he’d hoped that being both Pommy and female, she’d give him all the right advice on what to get. She’d been gently inquisitive on the drive.
‘Thanks a million for helping me out,’ Fred had said as they set off. Lisa had seemed excited, waving goodbye to Todd and Tess then turning up the music on the car stereo. Shopping without a kid in tow was a rare treat, he guessed.
‘You’re doing me a huge favour, pet,’ she said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘A morning’s shopping in Freo and I don’t even have to spend a dollar! So, tell me about Enid. You’ve been secretive about her, but now I can pry without feeling guilty. If you want some good prezzies for her, I need to know what she’s like!’
Fred laughed. ‘Yeah, fair enough! The thing is, though, she’s not a girly girl, if you know what I mean. She’s not into fashion, or shoes, or anything like that . . .’
Lisa’s face fell. ‘Oh, okay, so that makes my job a bit harder but there’s nowt like a challenge. What is she into then?’
Fred thought hard. ‘Hedgehogs,’ he said, turning to her from the driving seat and smiling. ‘And cats!’
‘Take me straight home now!’ Lisa ordered, laughing. ‘Seriously, though, what’s her job?’
‘She’s a pet portrait artist.’
‘An artist. Okay, so now we’re getting somewhere . . .’
In the end, Lisa had done what Fred hoped was a brilliant job. On her advice, he’d bought Enid an artist’s pad and high-quality pencils so she could do some sketching while she was in Australia. He’d also got her a book about cats, some sunglasses (he’d been reading up about how the sun’s glare could be hard for people with Asperger’s) and then – something more personal – a painting. It had been Fred, not Lisa, who’d spotted it in the window of a little art gallery on South Terrace.
‘It’s dead expensive, pet,’ cautioned Lisa when she realised what he was looking at. ‘And how’s she going to get it home?’ But having seen it, Fred knew he couldn’t go away without buying it. It was a small oil painting of a woman standing knee-high in the sea and holding her long skirt up above the water. The beach behind her was busy and she looked as though she were ecstatic to be away from all the people, enjoying a moment alone. She didn’t look like Enid, not really. But there were two similarities: the golden hair and the smile.
‘I won’t be long,’ Fred said, turning to Lisa.
Ten minutes later, when he rejoined her with the painting wrapped and under his arm, she grinned at him.
‘You’ve got it bad,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to meet the lass!’
But despite how much Fred had been trying to reassure Enid about the trip, he couldn’t shake off this terrible feeling that she was going to back out at the last minute. He looked now at the presents he’d bought, all laid out on his bed and ready to wrap – only he’d forgotten wrapping paper.
‘Come on, mate,’ he said to himself. ‘She’s not going to bottle it – she’s not; she’s definitely, definitely not . . .’
He just wished he could believe his own words.
Chapter Sixteen
Monday 4 December 2017
Enid
‘So, I just want to start by thanking you all for coming here this evening to discuss the Christmas play,’ Harry Harrison said to us all tonight as he perched on the corner of his desk while the rest of us squeezed our bottoms on to the tiny Year 2 chairs. The room smelt of stinky feet and chalk and freshly baked scones. The combination wasn’t unpleasant.
I don’t like secondary schools at all – I could never go back – but primaries are different. I was happy at primary school. I was accepted, and even admired, for my quirks back then. It was my comprehensive that marked the start of the tormenting: an intense and relentless bullying that Bess tried her best to shield me from, but the current had been too strong. She did all she could but she was just one person. A popular one, but still just one person. She’d been fighting a ferocious oncoming tide.
‘So I hardly know where to begin,’ Harry Harrison continued. ‘All I know is that we want a wintry story about the woods. It’s just Year 2 and we’re going to be performing it on the last day of term – 22 December. I’m sorry, Enid – I know you won’t be here then, but any input you have in terms of woodland creatures would be very much appreciated.’
I nodded, my cheeks flushing as everyone looked round, then the rector saved me. ‘But before you get Enid’s input you need a story and a title. Have you had any ideas?’
Harry Harrison shook his head, looking bewildered and apologetic. ‘Not really . . .’ he admitted.
George jumped up from his tiny chair,
waving his arms around. ‘Let’s try to get some thoughts flowing – the title first, maybe? Winter, woodlands . . . A Winter Wonderland? Too obvious, maybe. Winter’s Creatures, The Forest in Winter, The Christmas Forest.’
‘That one!’ I said, before wondering if I’d said it out loud. ‘The Christmas Forest. That should be the title.’
Harry Harrison looked surprised, as well he might. ‘I agree,’ he smiled. ‘The Christmas Forest. Thank you, George; thank you, Enid. So that’s the title sorted. Only the whole play to devise now,’ he murmured faintly.
But George was clearly in his element. He rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a pen and notepad, scribbling away as he spoke with such infectious enthusiasm that, before long, everyone was chipping in. Morag and Bess came alive with creative ideas, while I enjoyed providing the necessary facts about woodland creatures. George, meanwhile, had a natural instinct for plot and pacing.
The storyline developed quickly: the tale of a fox who leaves his forest home to visit the city and comes back full of stories about Christmas, only he can’t remember the reason for it. His woodland family decide that, before they can celebrate it, they need to find out what it means.
‘Perhaps in the end they could come across a baby hedgehog – a hoglet,’ I suggested. ‘An autumn juvenile or perhaps an orphan, like my little one born a few weeks ago. And seeing new life reminds the fox what Christmas is all about . . .’
‘The search for the true meaning of Christmas,’ said George. ‘It’s the perfect sermon. I might just read out The Christmas Forest in church on Christmas Day! Now, going back to the characters, is Fox going to be all sly and wily?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Morag. ‘Let’s defy stereotypes in this play. How about if Fox is full of life and exuberance and not at all sly?’
‘I like it!’ George agreed, scribbling again. ‘And Rabbit is lazy, and Deer is bossy.’
‘And Owl isn’t at all wise?’ Bess asked.
‘Oh no, I’m sorry,’ said Harry Harrison. ‘But Owl must most definitely be wise. Dan won’t have it any other way.’
‘And I’d rather we didn’t have any atypical hedgehogs,’ I admitted.
George laughed. ‘Okay, okay! So some of the characters defy stereotyping. I think we have enough to be getting on with. Let me type something up. I’ll have it with you by tomorrow afternoon. Does that give you enough time, Harry?’
‘Perfect,’ Harry Harrison replied, smiling. It was clear, even to me, that he looked thoroughly relieved.
So all we need now are the performers. Bess is going to be listening to the kids read tomorrow, so she’s going to help Harry Harrison with the casting and then rehearsals will start before the end of the week. I’ve enjoyed being part of the play preparations more than I thought I would. For one thing, it’s taken my mind off the trip.
I expect poor Fred is getting worried that I’m going to get cold feet. But I’m not. I’m anxious – of course I am. But I’m also determined. Determined to make it. To step out of my comfort zone and my routine and away from my beloved pets. Because I know that Fred will be worth it. I absolutely do.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday 5 December 2017
Bess
For someone so mild-mannered, Harry is incredibly commanding with the kids. There was a surprising number of children keen to audition for a part in the play and Harry had them all lining up neatly and quietly, waiting their turn. A couple were overly precocious, but a decent number seemed genuinely talented. The part of Fox was given to a child who was naturally exuberant, without being cocky, and some of the other roles seemed to have natural choices.
When it came to Owl, I was astonished to see Dan lining up to audition. Bless his heart – the bravery it must have taken him even to turn up. He was up against three other kids and when he got up on the stage in the school hall and just stood there looking petrified, I found myself holding my breath. Come on, Dan, I willed him. I was worried that when he got started he’d mumble, but when he finally spoke his voice was clear and carried well. It was monotonous and geeky, as always, but in a way I thought this was perfect: after all, wise old Owl was likely to be quite monotonous and geeky himself.
After the other children had auditioned, Harry and I took a break to have a coffee. Harry rubbed his hands over his face, looking anxious.
‘What did you think?’ he asked. ‘Honestly?’
‘I honestly thought Dan was the best choice,’ I told him. ‘The others were too bright and perky and cheerful.’
Harry groaned. ‘But I can’t give the part to him, can I? I’ll get shot down in flames for favouritism.’
‘But you can’t not give it to him when he’s the best, just because you’re related. Tell you what,’ I said, slapping Harry on the arm. ‘Wait here.’
Within half an hour I had Dan and the other children poised to re-audition. Sitting on plastic chairs with me in front of the stage were Enid, George and Morag.
‘You can go,’ I said to Harry. ‘We’ll watch them and then we’ll vote. That way, whatever the decision, you can’t be held to account.’
Harry smiled. ‘You’re a genius!’
Later, Harry turned up at the pub to ask me who’d got the part. I passed him a pint on the house.
‘Dan did,’ I told him. ‘Fair and square! You know he’s going to make the perfect Owl.’
‘You’re a star, Bess – thank you so much,’ Harry said, taking a sip of his drink and looking relieved. ‘You don’t know how much that means at the moment. I’ve had Melissa on about those autism cure trials again. I don’t know if she really means to do something about it, or if it’s all just threats to make me worry.’
‘Why don’t you properly take her on about it? Suggest you meet to discuss it with a neutral party. You could go and see her with someone eminently sensible who’ll perhaps manage to put her off. At least for now, while Dan’s so young. Perhaps when he’s a bit older things will change: maybe Dan will be old enough to decide himself whether he wants to try a “cure”; maybe science will progress so much the decision will become easier . . .’
‘That’s a brilliant idea. But who should I take?’
I paused, thinking, then I smiled. ‘I know exactly who you should ask! George! Ask the rector! You know Melissa’s always been a bit funny about religion – if anyone’s going to make her think twice about making threats she’s not actually going to see through, it’ll be George!’
Harry leant across the bar to kiss me on the cheek, only – more used to hugs from Harry – it took me slightly by surprise, and our lips clashed clumsily instead. I was amazed to find myself feeling a little flustered. I can’t deny it – I felt a definite buzz from our accidental kiss, though I dismissed the feeling immediately.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!’ Harry said, but he was smiling. ‘I’ve got to go . . . got to talk to George! Thank you, Bess! You’re a wonder!’
I was still blushing when Laura, the local doctor, came running into the pub.
‘Bess, has the rector been in? I’m trying to track him down!’
‘No, sorry,’ I replied. ‘He’s in high demand tonight. Why do you need him?’
‘It’s Patricia,’ she said. ‘From the post office in St Aubin.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I shouldn’t say anything, but I know you won’t gossip. Listen, she’s had a heart attack – at the shop this afternoon – and we need George for the last rites. If you see him, can you ask him to ring me right away?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I promise.’ It was a real shock. Not because I knew Patricia very well; it was more the sudden sense of mortality that hearing that kind of news always provokes.
When I arrived home at midnight I saw that the lights were on at Enid’s. Suddenly in need of some sisterly company, I rang her bell, and a few moments later she answered the door in her pyjamas, Clifford in her arms.
‘Bess!’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just wanted to see you . . .’
‘Come in,’ she said, gently popping Clifford on the floor.
‘Enid, can I have a drink?’ I asked.
‘What sort? A cup of tea or a glass of wine?’
‘Wine, Enid, wine . . .’
For once, Enid had lit her log burner, and I saw there were letters and photos of Fred spread across the coffee table. I was touched that she must have been sitting by the fire looking at them. I sat down while she went off to find a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. She plonked them down on the table and quickly tidied away the letters and photos while I poured the wine.
‘Is it Nigel? Has he dumped you?’ Enid seemed almost excited at the thought. She sat down on the armchair next to the fire and picked up Clifford again.
‘No, nothing like that. It’s Patricia.’
‘Patricia?’ Enid asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion. ‘You mean the obese lady from the post office?’
‘She’s about to die,’ I said, desperate to get the news off my chest. It wasn’t gossiping, surely, just to tell my sister.
‘How do you know?’ Enid looked even more confused.
‘The doctor came into the pub looking for George, saying he was needed for the last rites. Apparently she had a heart attack this afternoon at the post office. Isn’t it awful?’ I said, gulping back some wine.
Enid nodded, pensive, stroking Clifford methodically from head to tail. She bit her lip. ‘You know, Bess, I never said to Patricia that she was unhealthily overweight because you taught me it wouldn’t be polite. But maybe I should have said something. Maybe some honest words from me might have shocked her into action, got her on a diet. You neurotypicals . . . You think you have it all the way it should be. All your rules about what’s polite and what isn’t. I’m not sure now, Bess . . . What if your rules are wrong?’
And not for the first time I wondered if Enid actually had life worked out far, far better than the rest of us.
Chapter Eighteen
Saturday 9 December 2017
The Christmas Forest Page 6