Between Friends Read online

Mum: But not necessarily glued on in the right places. I’ve got a china doll that looks like Hamlet (she starts laughing – actually laughing - at this point), I’ve got corn-dollies with no heads, pot birds with no beaks and a cracked Old Mother Hubbard cup with no handle. It’s embarrassing when people come round (absolutely no one goes round). Anyway, don’t be so overly-dramatic. You’ll thank me when I’m dead and you’re not lumbered with it all.

  And that was that.

  It’s tragic. I’d have coped better if she’d said she was running off with the pop man (let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time). And what’s worse, I stormed round there to rescue my memorabilia and now it’s me who’s got a mantelpiece full of crap and she’s right, it looks like a TV set for the Hammer House of Horror. I bet your mum’s loft is full of your old stuff – school reports and everything. My mother has absolutely nothing of mine. She’s an uncaring old trout AND (as I told her) she’s even starting to look like one.

  Hope all is good with you?

  Love, Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 15 January

  Hi, Aggie.

  Poor you. But I’m not sure your mum has quite reached ‘old trout’ status yet. Try to see her good points? Surely she has some?

  I know I keep asking for favours, but can you buy me an MP3 player and I’ll settle up with you when I get home. Everyone else seems to have remembered to bring music. Also, can you please put a couple of compilations on a disc for me, like the old-fashioned mixed tapes you used to do for us. Nothing romantic – I’m not in the mood. I need a lift.

  Also, Mum and I made a pact just before I left. I said I would write to her with the truth of my situation – she knew I’d dumb the whole thing down for Dad. I said I would get letters to her via Mrs Jenkins at the Post Office, but can I send them via you, instead? Perhaps you could find an excuse to drop by and put the letter in her hand out of Dad’s sight? Do you still bake? Maybe you could drop round with a cake? I know if you go to Scotland you won’t be able to do this, but in the meantime if you could keep an eye on them I’d appreciate it.

  Take care and please don’t let your mum upset you. I don’t think she means any harm.

  Pol

  P.S. Regarding Scotland, you do know it can be even colder than Yorkshire up there, and you hate the cold, right?

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 18 January

  Hi, Polly

  MP3 player dispatched (mainly upbeat, but with a few memories on there from our melancholic teens, Both Sides Now etc.) and the snow shovel is in position.

  I went on another date last night (internet, obviously). His card was marked from the off due to his terrible choice of pub. It smelt of stale beer and regret. And remind me never to go for a meal on a first date again. He ate like a wild animal and I really didn’t like his hands. It was not the best of nights (I am an unreasonable cow-bag). I’m not sure about this whole internet dating malarkey. Mum is addicted to it and treats dating websites like other people treat clothing catalogues – tries something on for size then sends it back (worn). I know … I’m a big fat hypocrite, but I’m not a mother yet, she is.

  I’d love it if I could meet someone the old fashioned way, with eyes across a crowded room, just like in South Pacific when that foreign chap - is he French? - sings, Some Enchanted Evening. But that kind of thing never happens to me. When I stare around a room hoping to catch someone’s eye I look like I’m stalking my prey. They’re doing speed dating at a pub in Huddersfield next week, so I might give that a go - that’s a crowded room after all, and Huddersfield is sufficient distance from home to avoid the gossips.

  Life here is just the same, except for the minor fact that the village is now at complete loggerheads over the school issue. Every time I go to the shop or the petrol station I’m roped into the debate, but I can see both sides and intend to keep well out of it. Having said that, there’s a meeting tonight in the village hall and I’ll have to go or that bloody Janet in the shop will scowl at me every time I go in. We may witness the lobbing of rotten fruit and the burning of effigies, so it might be a worthwhile trip after all.

  Well, must go. This book of mine won’t write itself, more’s the pity. Still no news on Scotland, but I really do hope I get to go.

  Love, Aggie

  P.S. Is Gethyn a bit of a cock?

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Mrs Day

  Date: 18 January

  Hi, Mum

  Sorry it’s taken me a while to write. I’ve been waiting for things to settle down a bit. The truth of the matter (and I’m still taking you on your word that you only wanted me to write the truth) is that we’ve embarked on an express train headed to war, and as the train builds momentum, the desert floor is definitely beginning to rumble with the vibration of western military might, and whatever the politicians are saying at home, I know with absolute certainty that this runaway train is moving too fast to stop now.

  It’s hard to describe how I feel about all of this without seeming cold. Truth is, I feel detached. Fox news plays on a constant loop inside the HQ tent, and it all seems so artificial. When the war starts, the guys I work with in HQ will dictate the pace of the operation. But just like the rest of the world, they too will watch the horror on the front line - just three kilometres away - unfold on TV. Try to imagine a tented prison – a prison with no showers, no light relief, no time off for good behaviour, a prison that is far too cold at night and far too hot during the day. And just like a prison, if I step outside I can see no horizon, no people, no life, just a wall of sand and it gets in everything.

  I’ll sign off there, but can you please send more wet wipes, sanitary towels (super-plus) and Tampax. I started taking the pill before I came out so I wouldn’t get my period, but left the pills in the side pocket of my big rucksack which I ditched, so I’ve missed taking it for a couple of days which means I’m bound to get my period in a week or so.

  Thanks mum. I’m so sorry to be putting you and Dad through the worry of it all.

  Miss you both so much.

  Love you, Polly x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 18 January

  Hi, Ag

  Nooooo, Gethyn isn’t a cock. He’s lovely. He’s just quirky and very intelligent. Why, what did he say?

  Things have changed quite a bit out here. We’ve left the American camp behind and have hit the Baghdad Highway. We’re now in the middle of the desert closer to Iraq and I sleep on a camp bed on the sand next to an army truck. It’s still very cold at night and my sleeping bag just doesn’t cut the mustard. I wear every item of clothing I have (which isn’t much) and that just about keeps me warm enough. Please do not imagine me swanning around in Lawrence of Arabia style sand dunes. Imagine Norfolk covered in a layer of sand with black stuff (oil?) rising up out of it sporadically.

  The army have built a burm around our camp. A burm is a long pile of sand in the shape of a square pushed into a mound that wraps around the perimeter of the camp – a bit like an inverted moat. As we drove north from Kuwait city I noticed that the desert is strewn with abandoned burms - and litter - which is either dumped where it’s created or buried by the army. As far as toilets go, the army dig a deep trench then place a row of portaloos across it. There’s no bottom in the loo so your business goes straight into the trench.

  Which brings me onto my biggest fear – losing my pistol. In order to drop my trousers I have to take my belt off, which holds my holster (men do not have this problem) and I’m frightened to death I might drop the pistol into the trench. Losing your pistol is a serious offence. I think I’d be in less trouble if I shot the queen.

  I’ve just read the letter back and I’ve had to laugh at my moaning, I mean, what the hell did I expect conditions to be like? The Hilton? What a naïve fool I was. I ha
ve to stop feeling sorry for myself and see the whole process as an exercise in both self-discipline and learning to cope with very little.

  That’s all for now. Sorry I’ve nothing much to write about except toilets.

  Love, Pol

  P.S. Meant to say, I’m gutted you didn’t manage to solve the problem of Maria. But you’re right, sod em.

  P.P.S. Don’t compare your mum with mine. No mum is perfect, although we do expect them to be, don’t we? And you have not always been a model daughter either, Agatha Braithwaite. Remember when you went through your ‘great women of history’ phase and paraded through Midhope dressed as Boudica for a month – and don’t even get me started on your Joan of Arc antics.

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 19 January

  Hi, Pol

  Being chucked over for the part of Maria was obviously meant to be. It’s decided! I’m closing the house up for six months and hot-footing it to Scotland. I catch the train to Mallaig on the 23rd and then a little man called Hector will meet me at the pier with his boat and take me to Appledart. My mail will be redirected, so if you’ve already sent a letter to Yorkshire, don’t worry.

  I can’t wait to get away. Casey’s café is called, The Café at Road’s End, because it literally is at the end of one of the most remote roads in Britain. Appledart is only accessible by boat, or on foot across the Highlands. Perhaps I’m putting my writing career in jeopardy by going. Perhaps it’s subconscious sabotage. My latest novel is due for submission at the end of April. But focus eludes me at the moment, what with Mum popping round and the village in uproar about the school and the proposed housing development, it’s like a sodding war zone back here, never mind Iraq. I try to keep my letters to you up beat, but the truth is, I’m at a low ebb just now. God knows why I shagged that Irish bloke. Talk about desperate. Who flies all the way to Italy to meet a complete stranger? And even worse, who shags a stranger even though she doesn’t really fancy him? I’m turning into my mother and it frightens me.

  Sometimes I think my life is more unrealistic than my fiction. I’m approaching middle age, single and very lonely, and I can’t see how that’s going to change. I had some counselling last year, but it was a bit of a waste of time. I spent nearly a thousand pounds to come to a conclusion that I’m a fat old maid who nobody fancies.

  But that’s not the only reason for fleeing to Scotland. I’m under so much pressure with my writing, I’ve begun to despise sitting down in front of the laptop, but I have to keep the Isabella Gambini cash cow coming in to pay the mortgage. I also help Mum out financially, too. In my letters I’ve been playing the part of sixteen year old Aggie Braithwaite. I didn’t want you to see the mess I’m in, but if you can fess up about your worries and heartaches, so can I. My new address is:

  Meadowsweet Cottage, Aisig, Appledart, Scotland.

  My only regret in going is that I won’t be able to take care of your mum and dad, as you asked. I’m so sorry, but I’ll take them a cake before I go.

  Lots of love, Aggie

  P.S. You asked if I want to have a baby. Yes, definitely. But I’ve often wondered if I would be the same sort of mother as my own, and if that were the case, I’d rather not perpetuate the appalling mamma gene pool. I take it you’re asking because it’s a subject that is troubling you?

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Agatha

  Date: 19 January

  Hi, Aggie

  Yes, the ticking clock baby issue troubles me, but more of that another time, perhaps. I’m sorry your life isn’t all you would have it be – we make a right pair of sops, don’t we? And don’t worry about not looking after Mum and Dad for me, they’ll be fine.

  Have a safe trip to Appledart. Josh and I went there on holiday once. It was heavenly. We walked the eight miles from our cottage to find your friend’s café. We had a lovely meal and watched the sun set over the Isle of Skye. It should have been the most romantic moment of my life, but I ruined it for reasons I won’t bore you with now. You’ll love it there. Also, for what it’s worth, you are not an old maid. You’re gorgeous! You’re the most lovable, kind person any (very lucky) man could ever know.

  Love, Pol

  Bluey

  From: Mrs Day

  To: Polly

  Date: 19 January

  Hello, Polly, my love.

  Agatha Braithwaite is leaving home again – did you know? She’s going on some kind of Yoga retreat for a while. I don’t know what she’s really up to, but from what I remember of Agatha, it won’t be yoga. Her mother has come up with some fabrication that she’s a ghost writer for a famous chef and she needs to go away to write her latest best seller. Do you think her mother is unhinged? She always was a little different, wasn’t she? Anyway, I’ve told Mrs Jenkins you’ll send your letters to me via the post office and she’ll pop them round.

  Dad’s getting into a bit of a pickle. This school business is winding him up. I suggested he resign from the Board of Governors years ago and he’s beginning to wish he had, but it seemed to fill the void after he finished working, not that he’s ever really let go. Difficult to let go, really, after all those years. I don’t think it helps that you’re away, and nothing has been the same since Simon left. Look after yourself.

  Love you, Mum. x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 23 January

  Dear, Polly

  Hurray! I’ve arrived in Appledart. I’m staying at the pub tonight.

  Predictably, Mum took umbrage at my decision to leave and is now refusing to interact with me in any way. She said it was yet another ridiculous moonlight flit and, oh, I’m dead to her. I’m not too concerned. I’ve been dead to her at least four times before and somehow I always manage a miraculous resurrection. Casey has already left for Argentina, but I’m too knackered to head to the cottage tonight. This evening is for eating food I don’t have to cook and sleeping in a bed I don’t have to make.

  I spent the time on the train staring out of the window and thinking about my novel - where I want to go with it. As we left Glasgow, it struck me that I might be able to cobble together a story that ends with a life-affirming train journey. Oh, I know it’s been done to death, but who cares, I just need an ending. You know the sort of thing. The rhythmic rocking of the carriage soothes the heroine’s troubled mind as she rests her forehead on the cold window and gazes, unfocussed, at the landscape as it passes by. The landscape is a welcome stranger - it harbours no painful connection to the past. When she reaches her destination, the heroine steps off the train, glances around, finds the energy to smile at unfamiliar faces and, with the sudden realisation that all will be well, she takes a deep breath, grabs her bag, and disappears through a cloud of steam into a brighter future. But before leaving the platform, she takes one last look down the line, and with tears in her eyes she watches the train as it disappears into the distance. There can be no going back now, the train has gone; the ending has become the beginning (bla bla bla).

  Having pictured myself as the heroine in my own story, I half-expected my own epic train journey (Huddersfield to Mallaig) to lead me to an immediate epiphany. I even booked myself onto a steam train from Fort William to ensure the environment was as fitting as possible. As I walked onto the platform at Fort William, I visualised myself as Ingrid Bergman in The Inn of the Sixth Happiness - kind and ethereal, but with fewer kids. My bubble burst, however, when I realised I was about to board the bloody Hogwarts Express. Dozens – scratch that – hundreds of kids appeared on the platform, all dressed in school gowns and jimmy wigs (homage to Ron Weasley, no doubt) flourishing twigs and shouting, ‘expelliarmous’.

  I wished they would!

  I survived the journey by playing eye spy with the little girl sitting opposite. She was a dour little thing (either that or she was doing a spot of Hermione impro). An hour of mountains and moorland rolled by,
and after a final, ‘Something beginning with T’, the train coughed out its last choo choo and we pulled into Mallaig station just as the rain began to pour. Determined to have my spiritual epiphany one way or another, I said a few expelliarmous’ of my own and waited for the kids to disperse before getting off the train. But my old friend Disappointment continued to act as an overly keen travelling companion, and when I stepped onto the platform I noticed a buffer stop and it dawned on me that I would not be left standing in a cloud of steam next to Bernard Cribbins, after all. Mallaig is the end of the line.

  You won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve brought more baggage than one woman could possibly need. As I lugged my cases across the road to get the harbour (of course, it would be raining) you popped into my mind and I gave myself a good talking to about travelling light - you survive in Iraq with nothing more than a change of clothes and a packet of baby wipes! These thoughts stayed with me and I visualised the excess of emotional baggage I’m also dragging in my wake which, in my imagination, was manifested as a great pile of tea chests pushed along by a little Indian boy dressed in traditional dress of the Raj (the boy had a gammy leg too, poor thing). It hit me as my eyes welled with tears (at the thought of the orphaned Indian child) that I really do need to have a break from my imagination for a while, or else I’m probably only one more bad metaphor from parting company with my mental health altogether.

  Anyway, an old gentlemen dressed in yellow wellies and a woolly jumper (so thick I wondered if he was actually just wearing a whole sheep), snapped me back into the real world by saying, ‘Hello, you must be Agatha. I’m Hector. Let’s get you on board,’ (how is it that some wonderful people manage to talk and smile at the same time?). He nodded towards a boat. A handful of tourists were already impersonating a tin of sardines stuffed into the boat’s cockpit, hiding out of the rain. I made a right tit of myself embarking. My foot slipped and I’m still rubbing a twanged hamstring having fallen down the last three rungs of the ladder. There was no room for me in the sardine tin, but I didn’t really care. My jeans were wet anyway. I perched my bottom on a lobster pot, rubbed my thigh and glanced into the cockpit, but immediately wished I hadn’t. A young couple, clearly in love, stole a kiss. The man placed a protective arm around the lady’s shoulder and at this point my eyes stung with tears, just as a goffer of a wave hit me side on.