‘I hope so.’ Kneeling down, she begins stacking the pieces of kindling. ‘But who knows.’
I stand in the doorway, watching her carefully building a wigwam of wood. I know not to offer to help. Cricket can be stubborn, but never more so than when it comes to making fires in her own certain way.
‘I wish we could do more of them.’
‘Ah, well, that’s something I was going to talk to you about . . .’
I watch her leaning over the grate, her back to me.
‘I’ve been talking to a leading Arts charity about starting a scheme to put up more little libraries across the borough, maybe even beyond. I thought now I’m selling my house I could use some of the money to fund it.’
She lights a twist of paper and pushes it into the kindling.
‘That would be amazing,’ I enthuse. ‘That’s so generous of you.’
She turns to me now, standing up and dusting off her hands on her skirt. She looks pleased.
‘And it looks like they’ve agreed to help.’
‘Wow!’
‘I’d like it to be in memory of Monty. It was his books that started all this, and you of course—’
‘I just gave you the idea, that’s all,’ I protest, but she shushes me.
‘No, you gave me more than that; you gave me a reason to want to get up in the morning again. Building that free little library was the most invigorated I’d felt since Monty died. It was as though I came back to life.’
Her eyes meet mine and she smiles.
‘I’d been doing all the other things – the art classes, redecorating – but I was just going through the motions really . . . but then you suggested this and—’
She breaks off and sits down in an armchair.
‘We all need a purpose in life, and before Monty died he was my purpose. It’s probably a very old-fashioned thing to admit these days, but he was.’
‘What do I know about being fashionable,’ I shrug with a smile, gesturing to my dog-walking outfit, which I wore this morning and haven’t yet changed out of.
‘I still find it hard though,’ she confesses.
‘Well, it hasn’t been that long,’ I remind her.
‘Yes, I know.’ She looks at the fire. The kindling has caught light, and the fire spits and crackles as the flames take hold. ‘But I’m finding it hard in a different way now. Not just because I miss Monty, but because my life is growing while his has ended.’ She turns to face me. ‘I mean, look at me, I’m having all these new experiences and new interests . . . new friends.’ She smiles at me. ‘And I feel guilty that I’m enjoying life again. That I should be grieving more.’
Her smile drops. Her expression is troubled.
‘What did you say to me once? That grief isn’t linear?’
As I remind her, I see her face relax. ‘Thank you, Nell.’
‘The way I see it, you can grieve for someone and the past, but you’ve also got to live,’ I continue firmly.
Then I go to make the tea, and we sit by the fire and spend the evening talking about all the new plans she has. And it’s only later, when I’m lying in bed, that I realize I wasn’t just talking about Cricket and Monty; I was also talking about my own life.
I’m grateful for:
Cricket asking me to be involved with her new scheme, and my promise that as much as I can, I will. Because, although I would never have imagined it a few months ago, I’m actually really busy these days with work, what with the obituaries and my podcast, and now the play. Maybe this is what happens when you get to this middle stage of life. You don’t just have one job any more; you have lots of different things. Some make money, some don’t, but all together they make up a life fulfilled.
The street sweeper, for not arresting her.
The passer-by who took the huge spider off me after I jumped in the leaves on my way home and nearly screamed the street down.*
Finding a reason.
A Haircut
‘You look smart!’
The next evening I come downstairs to find Edward all dressed up. Not in his yoga gear or his work clothes. But in a really nice shirt and jacket – and is that a pair of designer jeans?
At my compliment he looks very self-conscious and averts his eyes.
I narrow mine.
‘Are you going on a date?’
‘It’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With some friends,’ he adds quickly.
I have never known Edward to go for dinner with ‘some friends’ the whole time I’ve lived here. There’s been yoga. Drinks with people from his office after work. A couple of boozy Saturday afternoon football matches with someone called Pazza, who I’ve never met, but is apparently an old friend from Bristol who he’s going to climb Kilimanjaro with, next year, for charity.
‘Is one of these friends single and female?’ I grin, unable to resist.
‘OK, OK.’ He throws up his hands in surrender. ‘A colleague at work has been trying to set me up ever since I told him about Sophie and me, but I don’t think you can call it a date when my divorce hasn’t even come through yet.’
‘Oh, you can call it a date,’ I reply, remembering my own recent foray into the dating world. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great time.’
He looks relieved that I approve.
‘Though I’m not sure about that hair of yours.’
His hand goes to his head.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing, if you don’t mind looking like you’ve had your finger in a socket,’ I laugh. ‘Let me give it a quick trim.’
He looks at me like I’ve just told him I’m going to walk on the moon.
‘You can cut hair?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I’m Trevor Sorbie, but my mum was a mobile hairdresser, so I’ve learned a few tips.’ I grab a tea towel before he can resist. ‘Here, take off your jacket and put this round your shoulders.’
He takes it from me mutely as I pull out a stool, pushing it down until it’s the right height.
‘Now sit,’ I instruct.
He sits. I’m impressed. I’ve never known him to be so obedient.
‘OK, so I just need some scissors . . .’
‘Oh, I can reach those—’
He leans forward towards the kitchen scissors on the magnetic wall rack. The ones used for everything from cutting flower stems to trimming rind off bacon.
‘No, not those!’ I cry out.
He jumps back like he’s been shot. ‘Why, what’s wrong with them?’
I pull a face. I know there’s little point explaining the difference between good scissors and bad scissors. Now, if it was the difference between paper and plastic . . .
‘Hang on, I’ll just go get mine. I’ve got a spare pair of Mum’s somewhere.’
A few minutes later I return with my scissors and the spray bottle we use for ironing, and start wetting his hair down and combing it. It’s grown really long. He mustn’t have had it trimmed all year.
‘Put your head down,’ I instruct, tucking the tea towel over his collar.
He does as I say: I quite like this new feeling of authority. Up close, I realize his dark hair has gone quite grey, but it’s still thick and wavy and I comb the curls over his collar, then begin carefully trimming the back, remembering everything Mum used to tell me when she would take me with her as a child, and I would sit transfixed in people’s armchairs, watching her as she deftly cut and shaped.
Unexpectedly, I miss Mum. Since I broke off my engagement and moved back to the UK, we haven’t really spoken much. Not properly.
‘You’re not giving me a crew cut, are you?’
‘You mean you didn’t want one?’
He laughs and I continue around the back, carefully combing onto the nape of his neck. He stays very still as I move around to the sides, using my fingers to pull his hair forwards, snipping the edges with little feather strokes. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close up to Edward. He smells clean, like he’s just got out of th
e shower. That will be the citrus shower gel I always see on the shelf. I notice a scattering of freckles on the sides of his nose that I’ve never seen before. See the pulse beating in his neck. A bit he’s missed shaving.
‘Ta-dah.’
I finish cutting and, taking off the towel, give it a shake. Hair falls onto the floor.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sweep that up,’ I say as he stands up, rubbing his fingers through his hair, then disappears into the hallway to look in the mirror.
‘Wow, you’re actually very good.’
He sounds surprised.
‘I do have some talents, you know,’ I say, as he reappears in the kitchen. ‘Now you just need some product.’
‘Product?’ He looks at me blankly.
‘You might know a lot about saving the planet, but you don’t know much about hair, do you?’ I’ve brought some of my own out of my bedroom, and I squeeze a pea-size blob into my hand. ‘See, it textures and separates,’ I explain, reaching for his hair and rubbing a little in at the front where it’s gone a bit fluffy.
Edward is looking at me as if I’m speaking another language.
‘If you just tease some bits out, like this,’ I say, playing with his fringe and completely forgetting whose hair I’m touching.
Remembering, I spring back.
‘Anyway, there you go,’ I finish awkwardly. I hadn’t realized how intimate cutting someone’s hair can be.
But Edward hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy looking at himself in the mirror again, turning this way and that as if he can’t quite recognize his reflection.
I have to say, I did a pretty good job.
‘I think it’s the best haircut I’ve ever had,’ he announces finally.
‘The tip jar’s over there,’ I laugh, and he turns to me and smiles.
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Any time,’ I shrug, still smiling, as he puts on his jacket and waves goodbye.
Then the door slams and I see him from the window, walking down the street to go and meet his date with his new haircut. I watch him for a few moments, until he disappears out of view.
Anyway.
My hands are all sticky and, turning away, I reach for the tea towel.
Halloween
Halloween never really got to the Lake District in the 1970s. My brother and I grew up being told never to accept sweets from strangers, and our one attempt at trick-or-treating ended with us nearly getting shot by the local farmer for trespassing on his property. Plus, it was always raining. You try to keep a candle in a turnip alight in a ten-force gale while wearing an old bed sheet.
But things have changed. Fast forward A LOT of years and we’ve embraced the American way of doing things; now it’s costume parties and elaborately carved pumpkins and decorated neighbourhoods filled with trick-or-treating children in amazing get-ups, collecting hauls of sweets.
This year I’m celebrating at Fiona’s. She’s decorated the outside of her Victorian semi to look like a House of Horrors and hired a dry-ice machine. My role is to hand out sweets and scare the children when they ring the doorbell (I decided not to ask why she thought I’d be good at that). Max and Michelle and Holly and Adam and all the kids are coming too.
And Annabel.
‘She usually has this amazing party, but of course it’s all changed this year with Clive moving out. She’s bringing Clementine,’ said Fiona, when she called to invite me. ‘I thought it might be a good opportunity to bury the hatchet.’
‘Figuratively, I hope. It is Halloween,’ I replied.
Which made Fiona laugh and gave me an idea for my costume.
I found the axe in the garden shed. Halloween is supposed to be scary, and personally I can’t think of anything scarier than Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Especially when he’s trying to smash down the door with his axe (literally burying the hatchet in it). The charity shop had a checked shirt and I borrowed a jacket from Edward, who I did think about inviting but it turned out he was going on a second date (!). I was really pleased with my costume. Especially the fake door that I made out of cardboard and stuck my head through. When I did my impression in the mirror and waved my axe, I almost terrified myself.
I turn up to find Fiona in an amazing witch costume, Holly in her gym kit looking exactly the same as always, only with a skeleton mask she bought from a petrol station on the way over, and Michelle apologizing profusely for her lack of costume, but telling us that after spending all afternoon with a glue gun making three costumes for the kids – while still breastfeeding – we’re lucky she’s even dressed.
Annabel, meanwhile, comes as a sexy nurse.
‘How is that even a costume?’ I hiss, as she arrives in a minuscule uniform and push-up bra, and promptly begins handing out sugar- and gluten-free sweets to the trick-or-treaters (note: it’s the first time I’ve ever seen children put sweets back). At least she’s had the good grace to add a bit of fake blood to her apron, but still. ‘Did she not get the memo? Halloween’s supposed to be scary.’
‘Please tell me her boobs aren’t real,’ whimpers Michelle.
The men, however, seem to like it. Max’s eyes nearly come out on stalks (admittedly he’s a zombie so they’re supposed to look like that) and Adam, who’s dressed as Dracula, is so fixated he trips over the polystyrene coffin and ends up in it. Meanwhile, werewolf David keeps having to clear his throat and starts going on about the state of the NHS.
‘Olive branch, remember,’ hisses Fiona, before disappearing to the loo and leaving me alone . . . with Annabel heading towards me.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’
And now I’m cornered by the sub-zero fridge. We engage in a few awkward pleasantries, during which I mentally plot my escape, when –
‘I owe you an apology.’
I wasn’t expecting that at all.
‘Oh . . . no . . . don’t be silly,’ I say, batting it away in the same embarrassed way I treat a compliment.
‘I should never have elbowed you like that in the fun run.’
All at once I feel vindicated. I knew it!
‘Or tripped you up. I was totally in the wrong. I’m sorry.’
Annabel looks at me, waiting for a reaction. Her eyes really are perfectly blue, with the brightest whites I’ve ever seen, and thick long lashes. I stand there marvelling at her, with the fake cardboard door stuck over my head, and suddenly all my grievances fall away and all I can see is the funny side.
‘I’m sorry too,’ I say, ‘but at least me faceplanting got a few laughs from the crowds.’
Seeing me grinning, she smiles, then looks abashed. ‘I was jealous . . . of your friendship with Fiona. I felt threatened. I’ve never had a best friend like Fiona.’
‘I was jealous of you. Of you being so perfect,’ I admit.
‘Well, yes,’ she nods, with a look of understanding. ‘I get that.’
Oh.
‘Friends?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ I joke, but I forget Annabel doesn’t have a sense of humour and she stares at me blankly, her perfect smile appearing to set ever so slightly around the edges. ‘Sorry, yes, of course we are,’ I say quickly, returning her smile with an even wider one.
At which point she asks, ‘Nell, in that case would you mind putting down that axe?’
And I realize that, actually, maybe I’m wrong about the sense of humour.
By 7 p.m. the trick-or-treaters have all gone home, the doorbell has finally stopped ringing, and the men and women have separated into two camps:
In the living room, along with the children, who peaked earlier with an insane sugar rush and are now semi-comatose in front of Ghostbusters, we have The Dads. Beers in hand, they appear to be ‘helping’ the children eat all their treats and are more into the movie than the kids are.
In the kitchen we have The Mums and me, slumped and exhausted around the table, drinking wine and eating what’s left of the Halloween candy. Scaring children is both a tiring and thir
sty business. We’re onto our second bottle. It’s the first time we’ve all got together since the baby shower, and we’re using the opportunity to catch up properly.
Music plays in the background. Max’s iPhone is plugged into the stereo and his Halloween playlist is on a loop. As Fiona reaches for the remote to turn it off, Echo & the Bunnymen’s cover of ‘People Are Strange’ comes on.
‘Oh, I used to love this,’ says Michelle, who’s just finished breastfeeding Tom and is rocking him to sleep in his car seat. ‘It was from that film, what was it called? The one where they all turned into vampires—’
‘The Lost Boys.’
‘Only one of the best films ever,’ pipes up Holly. ‘I must have watched it a hundred times. I was in love with that actor, whatshisname—’
‘Kiefer Sutherland?’ suggests someone.
‘No! But he was gorgeous too.’
‘Jason Patric?’ I grab the name from the teenage depths of my memory.
‘Yes, that’s him!’ Holly’s face lights up. ‘I had a major crush on him. I used to dream I was going to grow up and marry him, and we were going to race around on a motorbike together . . .’ She trails off wistfully. ‘And now I’m married to Adam and we get to drive around together in a Volvo.’
‘Life goals,’ I grin.
‘I like Volvos,’ says Michelle, ‘I wish we had one instead of our old banger.’
‘I think I need a drink.’ Holly goes to get up but Fiona, ever the perfect hostess, is already on it.
‘Still or sparkling?’
‘No, I mean a proper drink.’
‘I thought you weren’t drinking as you’re in training,’ I say, turning to Holly who’s been on water all evening, but Fiona’s already raiding the fridge.
‘We’ve got more wine, I’ll open another bottle!’
She emerges, triumphant, a bottle of something from New Zealand held aloft like an Olympic torch.
‘On a school night?’
A voice from the end of the table. It’s Annabel. Met with a tableful of glares, she promptly falls silent.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 29