Between Friends

by Hudson, Melanie

  But the wave that drenched me also acted as a slap across the face. The sea washed a lightness of spirit over me that took on an immediate effect, and as the boat edged away from the pier and we began to bounce high then low across the sea, I had an overwhelming sensation that all was going to be well. And it might have been my imagination, but when I looked back and saw the little Indian boy standing on the pier, gesticulating towards the pile of tea chests I had left behind, I ignored him, which was a little cruel, considering the limp. Instead, I turned to face forwards, looked at the mountains ahead and allowed my body to enjoy the rise and fall of the ocean. It was as if the angels were telling me to travel light this time, and it felt good.

  Take care, darling Polly. Write again soon.

  Aggie

  P.S. And don’t worry, Casey has left her phone line connected, so I’ll still be able to send eblueys on the internet, thank goodness.

  P.P.S. Re Gethyn, didn’t you read his review? I’m still thinking up my reply …

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mr Day

  To: Polly

  Date: 23 January

  Dear Babe

  Your friend Agatha came round the other day. Oh, but she did make us laugh. She had Mammy in stiches when I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I could even hear them laughing over the noise of the kettle. Agatha told Mammy some cock and bull story about a camping trip she went on a while back. Apparently she ended up stranded with a load of naturalists in a remote Welsh Valley during a hurricane – do you think she makes half of these stories up? She brought us a lovely cake, though. Triple layer!

  Life goes on here as usual. Mammy had one of her appointments yesterday – routine stuff, nothing to worry about. It was good to get her out of the house. She’s obsessed watching the news and I can’t stand it. I swear if anything happens to you she will kill Tony Blair. She spent two hours talking about you to the woman sitting next to us in the waiting area. I don’t think there was anything that poor woman didn’t know about you by the time she left, but at least Mammy chatted to a stranger, which is progress, you’ll agree.

  We’re both hoping you’ll come home to Yorkshire for good after this mess in Iraq is cleared up. You’ll get a job somewhere round here, I’m sure. You could even go back to university to study something new, you’re never too old, and you know me and Mammy will help out financially, when we can. Give it some thought, at least.

  Love you, Babe.

  KYHD

  MumnDad xx

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Agatha

  To: Polly

  Date: 1 February

  Dear, Polly

  I’ve completed my first few days in Scotland as an eccentric recluse and can confirm that Appledart is wet, windy and awash with hill walkers. But it doesn’t matter, because the majestic hills and aquamarine seas are breath-taking whatever the weather, and the good news is that it stopped raining yesterday (I’m in tune with ‘the little things’ now, as you can see).

  Disappointingly, I’m yet to meet a sexy, kilted Scotsman. In fact, there appear to be no Scotsmen here at all, with or without kilts, or, in fact, any single men within my accepted age bracket (which is widening as each year passes). The inhabitants of Appledart are an eclectic mix of international loners, all of whom (bar one, Ishmael) are over the age of fifty-five.

  Shaun (the landlord at the pub) owns the only vehicle on the peninsula (except for Hector’s 1950’s tractor, of course) and uses it to shuttle visitors between Aisig and Morir. He ferried me to the end of the road after my night at the pub.

  You were right about Aisig. It really is a little piece of heaven. I met my neighbours on the first day. Firstly, there is Anya, a white witch in her early sixties who lives in the cottage next door to mine. She’s not actually declared herself to be a witch, but the black cat, the well-used pestle and mortar and the deck of Tarot cards kind of gives her away. She’s got a pixie cut, a fabulous dirty laugh and a sharp sense of both perspective and humour. I love her already. Then there’s Ishmael, a poet, who is a little older than me. I have absolutely no idea how Ishmael found his way to Appledart or where he’s from originally. His accent sounds eastern European. I must ask him. Is Ishmael a Jewish name? He’s built himself a fab house with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the beach (I thought poets were supposed to be poor?). My cottage, on the other hand, is cosy but damp and dark, and is positioned next to the cafe and sits with its toes in the harbour. Anya likes whiskey, Ishmael does not.

  Then there is ‘the family’ who live near the beach and are originally from Brighton. They provide the bay with a little noise and are *bitch alert* intensely annoying. They’ve been here since March having watched a few too many TV programmes about escaping to the country. He works from home (something to do with investments) and she flounces around drinking spinach smoothies and making art installations from beach finds. The kids are home-schooled, which means they get kicked out of the house at breakfast and are let back in at teatime (it’s an OK life, I suppose). The kids, who have ridiculously posh names I can’t remember, run into the café at some point every day, which feels like a tornado passing through. I usually shoo them out after about ten minutes (my tolerance of children has not improved).

  The café is perfect (at least, now I’ve given it a bloody good clean, it is). Anya has been keeping the place open, but with a limited fresh seafood option, which is disappointing for some of the visitors. Her stews are awesome, but her cakes are dry - she just doesn’t put enough love into them, so as from tomorrow, I’m making the cakes! There are a dozen or so customers most days, thanks to Shaun and his Landrover, and even more if there’s a walking tour passing through (luckily the type of people who go on walking holidays are also people who don’t object to the weather in Scotland in the winter).

  To surmise, I love it here, and the good news is there’s no mobile phone signal which means that if I ignore their emails, I can hide from my agent and from Isabella for weeks. For the first time in years I don’t feel lonely, even though I’m living so remotely. I suppose, because Anya and Ishmael live alone, and because I go to the café every day, we’re all collectively alone, but together. Anyway, that’s my update. Stay safe, lovely lady.

  Aggie

  P.S. Ishmael is not for me AT ALL (if that’s what you’re thinking).

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Agatha

  To: Polly

  Date: 2 February

  Hi, Pol

  I’ve just got back to the cottage after a stint at the café. The fire and the candles are lit, dinner is reheating on the hob (leftover chorizo and chickpea stew, care of Anya) and I’m going to settle down with a book. Who needs a man, eh? The cottage has a bookshelf full of fab titles, and I’m going to devour them all. I’ve been so busy writing books over the last few years, I’ve practically stopped reading, and as you’ll remember, reading was always my first love (strike that, my first love was and is baking, but reading comes a close second).

  The not so good news is that, despite travelling several hundred miles north to my self-imposed retreat, the writing still isn’t flowing. I sit down in front of my laptop and perform my creative ritual every day - light a candle, place my Cornish pixie on the table next to me, and then begin. Only I don’t … begin, that is. Anya has given me a blue-coloured stone to keep in my pocket. It’s supposed to enhance the imagination. Let’s hope it works.

  I’m going to sign off now as I want to email Mum. But for the first time in my life I’m not going to beg her for forgiveness, but just let her go. Wish me luck!

  Loads of love,

  Aggie

  From: aggieb@yahoo.com

  To: sexymamma@yahoo.com

  Date: 2 February

  Subject: Don’t be mad at me, Mamma

  Hi, Mamma

  I know you’ll be checking your inbox for internet dating messages, so please don’t pretend that you haven’t read this. Firstly, I want you to know that I love you,
but please try to understand that in coming to Scotland my main priority was to help my friend and yes, I admit, I wanted to get away for a while. But the important point is this: I needed to get away from my life, not from you. I need to understand why I’m no longer able to focus on my writing and, like you have always said, a change is as good as a rest. I’ll phone tomorrow night to check you’re OK. Please pick up the phone when I ring, or maybe you could phone me? My number and address are on the card I left for you on my mantelpiece, next to the clog. Don’t go quiet on me again, Mamma. You’ve done this too many times over the years and each time it hurts more than you can possibly imagine, because it makes no sense. Pick up the phone when I ring, please. I love you.

  Your, Agatha x

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Mrs Day

  Date: 2 February

  Hi, Mum

  You’ve probably guessed that I broke Dad’s snow shovel. Aggie has replaced it. Have a look behind the greenhouse. Also, Josh broke Dad’s planer when he was sanding down the kitchen door at Rose Cottage, and, come to think of it, we may have nicked his adjustable spanner and wallpaper steamer too. I’ll ask Josh to send everything back when he sorts the house out. Regarding Aggie, you’re right, she isn’t on a yoga retreat. She’s gone to Scotland to look after a friend’s café. I think a lot of her jolliness is a façade; truth is, she’s very lonely. Her mum is furious that she’s gone away again, and is refusing to communicate. They are almost as bad as each other, with Aggie repeatedly trotting off on a whim, and her mother wanting to keep her close but then acting like a child when she can’t. Obviously I wouldn’t say any of this to Aggie, she would be furious!

  What’s odd about Aggie’s trip is that she’s gone to Appledart - where I took Josh for that disastrous holiday when I was pretending everything was OK. Do you remember I told you I’d seen a fortune teller? That’s where I saw her, on Appledart. I heard about her from a friend of a friend. Anyway, the fortune teller told me that I’d find peace in the desert and believe it or not, her prediction is one of the reasons I accepted the posting. Wouldn’t it be great, Mum, to stop the fog? To wake up each morning without that feeling of terrible despair. To have a few hours where every single thing I see and do isn’t shrouded with the cloak of Angelica’s death? Let’s hope so, eh?

  Love you,

  Polly x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mr Day

  To: Polly

  Date: 4 February

  Dear, Babe

  It’s been snowing buckets! But worry not, your friends at the Met Office got it right and so we did a big shop on Friday. We’ve hunkered down and can sit it out till April if necessary. Good news though … a couple of days ago my snow shovel materialised behind the compost heap. Strangest thing: it’s got a red blade, not black, and the handle is wooden not cork. Mammy says I’m going mad but I’m sure it’s not the same shovel. Anyway, it’s a good ‘un, wherever it’s from. I had the drive cleared quick sticks (mammy was nagging me to get it done so the dog can still get out to have a pee). We’ve been watching Lovejoy on Sky Gold and are just about to have a splash of whiskey in our tea and then get to bed. This school business isn’t looking good. The council want to cut their losses and build an extension at Oakworth Primary. Surely Oakworth is too far away for our poor little mites to travel every day. We’re still fighting – the spirit of the Blitz is strong in Midhope. I told that councillor fella at the meeting, I said, ‘The school is the heart of our little community, and if that goes, the village will lose its soul’. For once it helps that the council is a slow old beast, so we’ve a while to wait for a decision. I shouldn’t imagine we’ll know what’s to be done this side of May. Keep your fingers crossed and we’ll save the old girl yet!

  Love you lots babe and remember, KYHD.

  MumnDad x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Agatha

  To: Polly

  Date: 4 February

  Hi, Pol

  I’m never leaving Appledart! The cottage is lovely, but cold. Some nights I sleep downstairs on the settee, in front of the wood-burner, which is cosy. Despite the cold, Nature is a good neighbour to me here (we were only on nodding terms in Yorkshire). I will admit, she lulled me into a false sense of security yesterday. The sun, acting as a wrecker’s lantern, encouraged me outdoors with an arm full of washing, pegs and a hatless head. Two minutes later I was back out there in a squall, dragging the washing off the line, pegs flying everywhere, my hair stuck to my head. But on the whole, the cold is not keeping me indoors in Scotland, although I will admit that my cheeks and hands are taking the brunt of the breeze. I danced a little jig when I discovered a pot of Vaseline at the back of the bathroom cabinet the other day. Anya has given me a Shetland wool jumper to keep the wind at bay and what with my thermal-lined wellies and ear muffs, I’m good to go.

  Why is it, do you think, that we eventually despise the familiar? I never could bear the wind at home. Oh, I know I imagined myself as Cathy searching for Heathcliff on the moors, but I never ventured out if it was really windy, and in my adult years I’ve been known to stay indoors for a week, concocting bizarre meals from freezer-finds, if a spell of bad weather was passing through. And yet here, hundreds of miles north, the wind - that very same bundle energy - is a tonic to me and I rush to the beach to greet it every day. I do feel sorry for the chickens, though. They look as miserable as sin. I love all of them, except for one who has the beady-eyed glance of a psychopath. But the rest of my avian friends are all beaks, balls of fluff and twiggy legs. They’ve inspired me to write a little story called No Room For Chickens. Drumming up children’s stories is a regular pastime at the moment as it’s the only way to quieten down the annoying kids from the ‘too good to be true’ family. I give their faces a good wipe-down with the dishcloth and then tell them stories, the latest one being about a little boy who wants to smuggle his best friends – the chickens – on holiday with him. They loved it. Worryingly, it’s the best story telling I’ve done in months!

  Speaking of feathers, I’m still spitting some of my own. Your mate Gethyn believes me to be the obedient slave of a mediocre publishing machine. Apparently, I bang out shallow tosh to satisfy the greed of uneducated masses, who wish for nothing more stimulating than a fast read of mindless drivel. He thinks I should write a book that reflects more accurately that complex yet fascinating enigma often referred to as the ‘human condition’. Ask him which human condition would he like me to write about next? Syphilis?

  Anyway, must be off, but do kick Gethyn in the shins for me next time he passes your desk – don’t worry if you aim higher.

  With love, Aggie

  P.S. Don’t show him this.

  P.P.S. Sod it, you can. I don’t care.

  P.P.P.S No, second thoughts, don’t. I’m off to the café. I’m making Isabella’s triple layer tropical coconut sponge today. I’ll think of my response while I’m baking …

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 4 February

  Dear, Gethyn

  Thank you for your review which has taken me some time to digest. You asked for my thoughts on your thoughts. Here they are:

  You say my novel is formulaic and lacks a degree of reality. I disagree. If romantic fiction is formulaic then life, too, follows a formula. For centuries humans in the western world have been raised from childhood to expect a stereotypical monogamous relationship. Christian religion, to a certain extent, has played its part in this by promoting marriage, but to be fair to Christianity, being married is surely preferable to living in a harem? On the whole, the lives of my readership follow a formulaic pattern: i.e. they meet a partner, fall in love (romance stage), marry, have children, stay together (or divorce when it gets boring) then die. The course of true love may or may not run smoothly during the ‘fall in love’ stage, and it’s a good job love does not always run smoothly because ‘smooth’ does not make for an intere
sting read. It is far more interesting if the couple concerned have a rough ride before the consummation of their relationship – and yes, by ‘consummation’, I mean sex.

  We want our protagonists to have to work for their reward.

  Do you know that a reader becomes awash with endorphins when they close the final page of a feel-good book? This is the same physiological reaction we experience during orgasm (I suppose being a doctor you will know this). So, given the choice, wouldn’t you prefer to have an orgasm than a headache?