The A-Z of Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  I nod, and deliberately take an absolute age getting the papers Lewis gave me out of my bag. I take even longer unfolding them, and know I am being ridiculous – but, somehow, I can’t help myself.

  The boxes are sitting at her feet, and looking at them makes me smile, no matter how sad I feel. They’re big, old-fashioned wooden crates, one decorated with beautifully painted poppies, one with roses. The flowers are all red and white against a black background, twining green leaves and draping petals and curling stems blending in with each other to create a floral meltdown.

  ‘I remember those …’ I say, reaching out to touch the wooden sides. ‘Our old Special Things Boxes.’

  Mum had given us one each when we were little, after spending hours painting them. She told us they were for us to keep precious items in, mementos for the future. I suppose she had in mind school prizes and cherished artworks and baby clothes, but we were too immature to understand that, and instead used them as toy boxes. They’d been stashed in the Hideous Extension, crammed with old Barbie dolls and dried-up Play-Doh and Monopoly with all the hotels missing.

  Lost to us, as we got on with our adult lives, but clearly not forgotten. It’s only now, as I stare at them both, that I realise how much time and effort she’d put into the painting. How pretty they are. How much love she’d put into them. And how much we’d taken it all for granted.

  ‘Yep,’ says Rose, her tone still brisk. ‘So do I. Shall we?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, looking at the index. ‘It says here that we start with “A” – fair enough – and that A is a letter, which we’ll find in the Rose box. Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  Chapter 26

  Andrea: A is for Ashes

  My darlings,

  I hope you are both doing as well as you can under the circumstances. I also hope the funeral went swimmingly, and that everyone enjoyed getting drunk in my honour. I know the people in the village must seem like cartoon characters to you girls these days, but I’ve lived among them for so long, they’ve become good friends. The least I owed them was a decent booze-up.

  If you’re reading this, then I have to presume that you are together, in the cottage. That is a very good start, my loves – thank you for at least coming this far. I hope it’s not all too traumatic for you both – this place is practically an Aladdin’s cave of family history, and I know that might feel overwhelming.

  All I can advise is some yoga breathing and possibly a stiff gin. You’ll find that in the usual place, assuming I haven’t knocked it all back by the time I take my leave. That’s always possible; you know I was always a borderline lush!

  This is the very beginning of our little project, and I thought I’d start it with a letter. I’m doing that because at the moment, the pain is manageable, and I’m still at home. I’m writing this in my armchair, using that old Atlas of the World we have on the bookshelves to lean on. I’m planning on finishing this letter, then spending some quality time with the Beeb. There’s a new Dickens coming on that looks like an absolute dream.

  So, I thought I’d start with the obvious – A is for Ashes. I believe it usually takes a little while for an entire human being to be burnt to a crisp, but Lewis has promised to get it expedited. He actually does use words like that – ‘expedited’ – he’s such a love! He’s going to arrange for my corporeal remains to be delivered gift-wrapped to you as soon as possible – a bit like Amazon Prime, darlings, but without that frightfully handsome Polish delivery man who pops in to see me every now and then.

  Check with Lewis, but he thinks about a week in total – so feel free to stay at the cottage, or if that’s simply too much right now, take yourselves off home until I’m ready for my big scene.

  Just so you know, I decided on cremation for a few reasons. My own parents were both buried, and I always feel guilty about not visiting their grave. It’s a long way away, and I never found the whole cemetery chic thing very appealing. There’s something very maudlin about standing by a grave, isn’t there? Imagining your loved one’s flesh rotting and the bones crawling with worms? Or maybe that’s just me, who knows? I was never the same after I did that stint with Hammer.

  Anyway, I didn’t want that for you. I’d rather this unpleasant aspect of the whole affair be over with, and for you two to be able to say goodbye once and for all. It’s just ash, it’s not actually me – I will live forever, in a way, because you two will always carry me in your memories. And, by the time I’ve finished all of this, on memory sticks as well.

  Now, with regard to the whole ashes-to-ashes thing, I do of course have a plan.

  I’d like you to take me up to Stapeley Hill – you remember, near the Mitchell’s Fold stone circle? We used to go there a lot, when we still had Patch. It was the one where the big stone was supposed to be a witch who drained a magic cow of all its magic milk. In which case, of course, it served her right – we should all be more kind to magic cows; you never know when you might need one!

  I hope you remember it, and remember it fondly. I’ve not been up there with you two since you were about 14 and 12, I don’t think. Life seemed complicated then, but in comparison to what followed, it was relatively simple, really. A big bottle of water, some ham sandwiches, a few Granny Smiths, and we were all happy. Though I did once take a hip flask with me for a few sneaky fortifiers.

  Anyway, that’s where I’d like my ashes to be scattered – up on that hill. The views there are wonderful, you can see for miles, and the modern world hardly seems to intrude at all. Take me there – hopefully on a blissfully sunny summer’s day – and scatter me to the four winds.

  I’d like you to take a picnic – you can use the old wicker basket, it’s in the Hideous Extension somewhere – and, more importantly, take your time. Talk to each other. Remember the good times, my angels – because there were so many of them. It’s been one of my greatest sadnesses that more recent events have completely overshadowed the past, and I’d like you to try and focus on how much fun we had together, us three, all those years ago.

  I feel a little mean about leaving Lewis out of this one – he has been my Stapeley Hill walking partner in the last few years, after all, along with his old spaniel Betty (who, I warn you, if you ever meet her, is extremely flatulent). So, if it’s not too totally disgusting, maybe you could save a bit of my magic fairy dust for him? Scoop a few spoonfuls into an old champagne bottle or something, perhaps? But only if you can face it. He’ll understand if not. He’s good like that.

  And, just to mention, I’d be really happy if you could take a look at B on the same day – all will become clear (don’t skip ahead, that’s cheating – and Poppy, I’m probably talking to you here, you always were so impatient!). After A is done and dusted – so to speak – you’ll need to spend a night in the cottage, so don’t be sneaking off to a hotel or anything.

  Anyway, I’d better sign off for now. My fingers are a little tired, and I’m going to need all my energy if I’m going to properly savour this new show. I shall enjoy myself quietly bitching about the quality of the acting, even if it’s tremendous – small pleasures.

  I am sending you, as ever, all of my heart – and remember, girls: I loved you, and I know you loved me. Everything will be fine. You just have to trust your old ma one last time,

  Mum xxx

  Chapter 27

  Rose

  It is boiling hot, and my thighs are chafing. I very unwisely decided on a sundress today, which undoubtedly means I will have lobster-red shoulders by the end of our walk. But that’s okay – at least they’ll match my face.

  I’m feeling down, for so many reasons, and also feel bad because Mum wanted us to remember the good times. Looking around as we traipse up the hill, I can remember them – but those memories are distant, intangible, like faraway scenes from somebody else’s life.

  We came in Poppy’s car, which made sense as mine is on its last legs, and parked down the lane, after a journey spent in stony silence. So far, I feel like we’re
technically doing what Mum asked – but neither of us seems to have the will to storm the barricades and embrace it in spirit as well. Two days apart, while Lewis sorted out the cremation situation, have only served to make us both even more entrenched on our respective sides of the fence.

  Still. We’re here, and we’re doing it, and perhaps for now, that’s all that matters.

  Poppy has the picnic basket, which she has filled, and I have the cardboard box, hanging over my shoulder in one of those Bags 4 Life, which is ironic when you consider its current contents.

  Joe has been dispatched to London to see his dad and, as ever, I became a morose lump the minute his train pulled away from the platform, waving him off with a fake smile on my face. I try not to let him see how much I will miss him, but he’s not daft, and he always texts me the minute he’s left.

  He’ll be gone for three weeks, as usual in the summer, and I hope he enjoys it. It’s probably for the best, all things considered – it will give me and Poppy time to get through this, without dragging him through the mire of all our emotional baggage. He’ll enjoy himself at his dad’s, and is excited about spending time with his range of half-siblings. It’s a part of his life I’ll never be involved in, and it’s good for him to have time away. From me, from our house, from everything that’s playing out around him.

  Now, we’re here, and Poppy is galloping ahead on her stupidly long legs, showing off her superior cardio-vascular fitness levels, looking like a dark, skinny streak as she bounds towards the stone circle. I think she looks a bit too thin – a bit too fit – but that could very well just be jealousy speaking.

  She comes to a standstill in the middle, and waits for me to catch up. I do so, trying to hide how hard I’m puffing, and we stand together, gazing around. Some of the stones are small and jagged, poking up from the earth like old grey teeth. Others are smooth from the thousands of bottoms that have sat on them, admiring the views over the hills. The biggest – the Witch Stone – is tall and rugged, and I walk over, laying my hands on it and enjoying the texture.

  At the moment we’re the only people here, although it’s a popular route for dog walkers. We’re surrounded by beautiful countryside, hills and valleys in dazzling shades of green, colliding with the vivid blue of the sky. I can hear skylarks singing, and the buzzing of small insects, and the distant mooing of cows. It’s utterly and completely peaceful, and I can see why the ancient dudes chose exactly this spot to build their stone circle.

  I’m not one for hippy-dippy shit, but this place does feel special – even the touch of the stone beneath my fingers has a certain restful energy to it. I wish Joe was here to see it all, and make a pledge to bring him back one day, under happier circumstances.

  Poppy joins me, and places both her hands on the Witch Stone. Her long hair is tied up in a ponytail, and it makes her look younger.

  Our fingers briefly touch on the stone, and we both jerk away a little, like we’ve had an electric shock. All it takes is that tiny contact to unleash at least some of the memories I’ve subconsciously been trying to avoid. They play out in my mind, still unreal, still tethered in some alternate universe that exists only in the past.

  ‘Do you remember coming here?’ I ask, leaning my face against the cool surface of the stone. ‘And the way Mum always made us both dance round the stones, making up chants? Something about a picnic goddess?’

  She smiles, and I realise that I’ve not seen her smile for … well, years. And I realise that I’ve missed it.

  ‘I do remember. She sang it like a nursery rhyme, prancing around like a loon: “Goddess Good, Goddess Fair, please don’t leave our hamper bare …”’

  As she chants, I can almost hear my mother’s voice, trying to sound serious and sacred, us two giggling on her heels, pigtails flying, feet encased in the jelly sandals that were the very height of childhood fashion back then.

  ‘“Bring us an apple,”’ I continue, smiling at the thought, ‘“bring us a pear, bring us a Mars Bar if you dare …”’

  ‘Then wasn’t there something about cow shit?’ asks Poppy, frowning as she tries to dig up the line.

  ‘Kind of,’ I reply. ‘Although she was far too much of a lady to use words like that. What was it? Something like “Goddess Good, Goddess Pure, shelter us from cow manure …”?’

  Poppy laughs, and I can’t help but join in. I don’t really want to – it is far easier to cling to my protective barrier of silence – but I do. The sound echoes around the stones, blending in with the birdsong and the buzzing, as though it belongs there, hovering in the sun-hazed air.

  ‘She really was a bit of a nutter, wasn’t she?’ asks Poppy, pulling away from the stone and picking up the wicker basket again.

  ‘Yep,’ I reply, reluctantly removing my hands from the Witch Stone. ‘She really was. Come on. We still have another hill to climb.’

  We continue our trek upwards, interrupted by occasional walkers and one especially intrusive beagle that takes an unhealthy interest in Poppy’s crotch. We are both quiet again, as though that one tiny step towards each other has worn us out. Scared us, maybe. Looking at Poppy’s rigid expression, the way she is concentrating on the path, I can tell that she is tense, bundled up in the same anxiety that I am, wearing it like a suit of armour.

  We pick our way through the paths, weaving around the bushes and patches of flowers that dot the heathland, climbing stiles and crossing bridges and going through gates, passing more stone circles, until we eventually reach the top of the hill. The view, as I make my way up to join Poppy, is spectacular, stretching and tumbling out around us, an ancient landscape that seems to be caught in time. I can’t even see the electricity pylons that I know must be there.

  I would appreciate the view more, but by this time, I am struggling – even with a relatively gentle climb like this one; my body is complaining, my lungs whining and my legs straining. I’ve been a stranger to exercise for so long, and it is added to a now very long list of things I am unhappy about.

  I’m sickened by my own lack of fitness – and I’m not talking about running-a-marathon or doing-a-triathlon fitness, I’m talking about going-for-a-walk fitness. Liverpool is largely flat, and a gentle stroll on the beach near our home isn’t exactly challenging – not that I even bother doing that, these days. I tend to just park the car and watch the sunsets from the Ford Fiesta instead of getting out there and enjoying it.

  When I was a kid, we would be all over these hills, scrambling up and down them like mountain goats in patched jeans, running for the joy of it, shouting into the wind, filled with energy. And when Joe was little, I wasn’t too bad – you have to get out and about with kids, or you end up wanting to kill them. But these days, as Joe gets himself from A to B, and I drive everywhere, I’ve sunk into a pit of inactivity. I don’t like it – it makes me feel weak, and vulnerable, and as though I’d be the first to die in a zombie attack.

  I suppose, perhaps, that I need to change it. I’ll never be like Poppy – I was never as limber or as agile, even when we were little – but I could most definitely be a new and improved version of myself. Maybe, by the time I bring Joe back here, I’ll be able to actually enjoy it, instead of wheezing like a vandalised steam engine.

  Poppy is standing still at the summit, a few feet away and, as I look up at her, I see a strange expression on her face. I’d expected contempt, possibly disgust, but instead, I see … sympathy. For some reason, this makes me feel even worse, and I put on as much of a sprint as I can to catch up with her.

  By the time I do, she is opening the hamper, making herself busy – deliberately, I suspect, to give me the chance to catch my breath again. Allowing me some dignity as I suck in air. A small kindness that I don’t want to be on the receiving end of.

  She pulls the achingly familiar black-and-red tartan blanket out, gathers it into her fists, and sniffs it so hard it looks as if she is inhaling it whole. I screw my eyes shut, and try not to cry. I know what she is doing – she is looking f
or the lost traces of our mother – and it is like a punch to the heart. I fight the urge to run at her, snatch the bobbled fleece from her hands, and do exactly the same.

  She throws it out, and stretches it over the shaggy grass, and starts to unpack the picnic. So much for an apple, a pear and a Mars Bar if you dare – there’s practically the entire contents of a posh deli here. Slivers of Parma ham, smoked salmon, a chunk of Brie, cherries, nectarines. Granary bread rolls, pastries, a small glass jar of duck paté. Just as I think she’s finished, she produces a box of Ritz crackers and a plastic tub of cocktail sausages. My childhood favourites.

  ‘I didn’t know if you still liked these …’ she says, looking vaguely embarrassed. As though remembering has somehow rendered her less impressive.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I reply, lowering myself to the ground. ‘You don’t get a figure like this without comfort food, Poppy. And I guess I’ve needed a lot of comfort over the years.’

  She looks up at me sharply, and actually bites her lip so hard it bleeds. Like she’s snatching back sharp words. Like what I’ve just said has been perceived as a dig, which I suppose, from her point of view, it could have been. It wasn’t a dig – not at her, at least – but I don’t have the energy to explain the complexities of my current self-loathing, and instead distract us both by tearing open the box.

  We sit, and we eat – some more than others – and we sip the chilled bottles of Buck’s Fizz that she’s brought with her.

  Afterwards, full and very slightly tipsy, I lie back in the sunlight, letting it warm my face, screwing my eyes shut against the glare. I try to pretend that I am alone here, or at least with someone I want to be with, like Joe or my mum, and let my mind wander. Poppy stays sitting, her knees drawn up sharply to her stomach, clasped into the embrace of her own arms. She’s wound so tight she could explode at any moment.