The A-Z of Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘We came up here with Patch, didn’t we, on the day he died?’ she asks, staring off into the distance.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ I reply, swatting away a fly and hoping no wasps come and join the party. ‘She said it was his last hurrah, and we carried him the last bit. Poor thing was knackered.’

  ‘Then we had one of Mum’s special garden funerals, didn’t we?’

  I nod, and wonder why she’s picking on this particular memory. Mum had asked us to remember the good times, and we’re here talking about a dead dog. Maybe that’s all she can come up with – and I suppose, in a way, it is part of the good times. Mum’s garden funerals were always quite the occasion, and Patch’s was no exception.

  ‘She read that poem she’d written – an “Ode to Terriers”, or something like that,’ I say. ‘And played “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by the Rolling Stones so loud that all the magpies squawked out of the trees and flew away.’

  ‘But instead of singing “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” in the chorus, we all sang “Jumpin’ Jack Russell” … yeah. Well. As we’ve already established, she was a bit of a nutter … shall we do it, then?’

  ‘Do what?’ I ask. I’m feeling so physically wrung out that I am actually starting to relax a little – the walk, and the sunshine, and the food, and the lack of oxygen, have squeezed at least some of the tension out of me. For a tiny second, I had simply been feeling warm and content, lying in the sunshine, losing myself in the moment.

  ‘The ashes thing,’ Poppy replies, turning to give me a look that makes me feel about as useful as pickled walnut. As though I’ve forgotten why we’re here, because I’m such a knob, and she’s had to remind me. Like she’s had to pack the picnic, and drive the car, and sort out the whole shebang. It is a look that immediately drains me of all contentment, and any fleeting sense of relaxation, and puts all my nerve endings back on high alert.

  I would quite like to punch her in her perfectly skinny face, but that would not be in the spirit of the A–Z of Everything, I remind myself. I can’t fail on A, I just can’t. I need to at least hold out until M for Murder if I want to kill her.

  I climb to my feet – this takes a while – and nod. I get the box out of the Bag 4 Life, and try not to engage with any potential ickiness. This, as my mother said in that letter, is not her – this is simply what is left of her body. It’s not the most important thing about her, and I must not allow myself to collapse at this stage.

  I can’t stop the tears from filling my eyes, though, as I open the horrible thing up. I look at my sister, and see that she is crying too. She nods once, acknowledging what is happening, not even trying to hide her tears, and takes the box from my now trembling hands.

  This is what we came here to do, at least in part – and yet I still don’t feel ready. I don’t feel ready to give her up, throw her away, cast her aside. To admit that she is gone.

  ‘Come on,’ says Poppy, firmly. ‘We can do this. It’s what she wanted. We can’t take her home and keep her in an urn on the mantelpiece – it’s not what she asked for. We’re here, and it’s a beautiful day, and there will never be a good time to do this, so we might as well get it over with. We’ll do this, and we’ll save some for Lewis, and then we’ll move on to “B”.’

  ‘What is “B”?’ I ask, not really caring right now but wanting to put off the inevitable. ‘Have you looked?’

  ‘It’s a recipe, bizarrely. And a card. We’ll read it properly tonight. Are you ready?’

  She lunges towards me, and I have a momentary panic – maybe she wants to punch me in the face, too – until I realise that she was just swatting away a wasp. She always was good at that; a fearless warrior in my ongoing battle with the stingers.

  ‘No,’ I reply, honestly. ‘But I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. So let’s just do it.’

  Poppy nods, opens the folds of the box, and starts to whirl around, energetically throwing the ashes in all directions, whooshing them into the sky as she spins. I’m glad there’s only a gentle breeze, and it whirls away in small clouds, taking what feels like forever. It’s actually quite shocking how much there is in there, for such a tiny woman.

  ‘“Goddess Good and Goddess Fair”,’ chants Poppy, as she whirls, ‘“we cast our mother to your care … Goddess Good and Goddess Fit, keep her out of that cow shit …”’

  Ah, Poppy. She always did have a way with words. A way of expressing herself that wasn’t quite like anybody else’s.

  Which is one of the things that has always confused me about what eventually happened. Communication was her thing. She was brilliant at it. And yet, somehow, in the run-up to the New Year that effectively ended our relationship, she lost the ability to talk.

  Instead, her actions did all the talking for her – and nobody liked what they had to say.

  Chapter 28

  Rose: New Year at the Disco 2000, the Lake District

  I am, to put it mildly, a bit drunk. But at least I’m not the only one – the whole house is full of dancing queens and disco divas and snogging couples.

  It’s been a brilliant party, completely brilliant. Gareth rented this big old house in the hills above Lake Windermere, totally secluded so we could all see the new millennium in with style.

  The music has been awesome all night, and we celebrated the New Year with the perfect song – ‘Disco 2000’ by Pulp.

  It’s been so nice to catch up with my old friends – some of whom, I realised as they started to arrive, I’ve not seen for way too long. Plus Poppy, of course. Such a relief that she agreed to come. I’ve not seen much of her this year, and there is a tiny part of my brain that feels bad about that. I was starting to wonder if I’d become That Girl – you know, the one who dumps everyone else once they’ve met a cool boy?

  Whenever that part of my brain starts to nag at me, I tell it off. I tell it I’ve made every effort to bring her and Gareth closer, to merge the two halves of my life. Okay, so there was that time I forgot her birthday … that was bad, no getting away from it. But that was almost a year ago now, and so much has happened since then.

  A new flat. A new cat. A new everything, really. Mainly a new me – because I’ve never, ever felt like this before. I’m in love, completely in love, and sometimes it’s hard to see beyond that. It’s like the lake down there, beyond the terrace where I am sitting to cool off, breathing in chilly night air and taking in the scenery. It dominates every part of the surrounding landscape; it’s everywhere you look.

  It’s kind of the same with Gareth. He’s my Lake Windermere. He dominates everything – but in a less creepy way than it sounds. In a harmonious way, like the lake. Especially now Poppy is here, and everything feels better.

  The lake – the real one, not Gareth – is beautiful, and I’m enjoying gazing at it from my perch on the table-scattered terrace. It’s dark and mysterious and shining in the moonlight, surrounded by snow-capped hills and silent forests.

  Well, silent apart from the booming music pouring out from the house. The DJ has moved on to some banging house tunes, those ones with the singing bits in the middle. I preferred the Britpop section myself – dancing around with Poppy to the Stone Roses, doing actions to ‘I Am The Resurrection’ and pogoing to that Blur song about the boys who like girls and girls who like boys.

  It was the only time in the night, truth be told, that Poppy got up to dance. Because while she has at least come, she seems a bit distracted. Off. Like she’s there in body, but not in spirit. It’s probably just Poppy being Poppy – feeling a bit artistic and tortured, and not really fitting in at a party full of bankers and scientists.

  But partly, I suspect, it’s because she actually wanted me to come home for New Year instead. She’d tried to persuade me that a night in the Farmer’s really would be more fun than this. As if!

  Anyway, even if I had been tempted, Gareth had already booked this place. He’d sorted the DJ, arranged the catering, ordered the drinks. I hadn’t had to lift a finger – he’d taken complete co
ntrol, and organised it all. He’d even tried to organise the guest list, but I stepped in at that stage – even I couldn’t face a night with just the bankers.

  He hadn’t included my friends on the initial list, but, well, that was fair enough – he didn’t know most of them. And he hadn’t objected at all when I added a few in. He’d even suggested we invite Mum, but Andrea had wisely said no.

  ‘Thank you so much, darling,’ she’d said on the phone, ‘but I must make my apologies on that one. I have a hot date with a jug of gin and a Jilly Cooper. Such a shame that Rupert Campbell-Black doesn’t drink in the Farmer’s, don’t you think?’

  It is almost 3 a.m. now, and the party is still going strong – but in that stripped-down-to-the-hardcore way that the best parties have. There are fewer people on the dance floor, but they’re giving it their all, and the kitchen is packed with people chatting and flirting and stubbing out cigarette butts in half-drunk glasses of wine.

  It’s that time of the party where people will start to couple up, or puke up, or come up on the drugs that they might just possibly have consumed.

  That doesn’t include me – I’m not beyond the occasional toke on a joint, but the rest simply isn’t my scene. I stick to booze, because I know exactly where I am with that. The others, though?

  Well, I’d have to be blind not to realise that at least a few recreational pharmaceuticals are floating around in there. Scientists and bankers are bonding over little white pills and small foil wrappers. I suspect, though I’m not sure, that Gareth has even been responsible for providing some of it – seeing it as part of his party host duties.

  Still, there’s no harm, I suppose. Everyone is a consenting adult; it’s not like anybody is being corrupted. Even my little sister is a grown-up these days, although she doesn’t always act like one.

  I’m starting to wonder where Poppy is. After the dancing, she disappeared off to get more booze, and the last time I saw her she was coming out of the kitchen with a pint glass full of Bailey’s and a slice of pizza, looking glassy-eyed and slightly unsteady on her long legs. Like Bambi after a night out on the piss with Thumper.

  I decide to go and look for her. I’ve drunk enough champagne already, and I’m starting to feel cold, and now it’s occurred to me, I’m a bit worried about Pops.

  Setting aside the fact that she’s an alleged grown-up, one who has just in fact bagged a traineeship in marketing with a big publishing company, she seems a bit vulnerable at the moment.

  She might have brilliantly ferocious one-liners and appear to be as tough as nails, but she’s still my little sister. I should find her, and tell her I love her. It’s New Year after all – you’re allowed to be sentimental.

  I head back inside, and laugh as I see a group of people doing a limbo dance to a remix of ‘I Will Survive’. I check the kitchen, and the second living room.

  I see plenty of amusing sights – and some slightly disturbing ones, as people are clearly heading towards an amorous state of mind – but no Poppy.

  I chat to people as I go, repeatedly being told what a great party this is, and head up the winding, wooden staircase. The house is old, and magnificent, but slightly past its best – the carpets are a little frayed, the oil paintings a little grimy, the chandeliers a little dusty. It’s a house that’s seen better times, and needs some TLC – which is probably why Gareth was able to persuade the rental company to let it out to a gang of party animal 20-somethings for the New Year.

  I walk up the steps carefully, conscious of the fact that I’ve definitely had too much to drink now, holding on to the unpolished wooden rail as I go.

  There are lots of rooms up here – it was built in an era when people had big families and big amounts of servants to look after them – and I start to go through them all, knocking politely before I look inside. Heaven forbid I scald my retinas with anything full frontal.

  Some of the rooms are occupied, others are empty apart from rucksacks and suit carriers and abandoned make-up bags, still bearing the signs of people getting ready to party. The master suite I’m sharing with Gareth is filled with our clothes and belongings, scattered over the floor, the bed still unmade. I smile as I see the vase full of roses on the dresser – he’d presented them to me earlier in the day, a cascade of fragrant red and white. Gorgeous.

  I stroll down the hallway until I reach the room that Poppy is staying in. She’s probably in here, on her own, reading something by Hemingway and underlining sections with red pen. Old habits die hard.

  I knock, very gently, not wanting to wake her if she’s actually managed to fall asleep, despite the din roaring up from downstairs.

  I push the door open, and light from the hallway spills into the darkened room.

  It floods from the hallway, into the room, and right on to two bodies. One is female, pushed up against a wall, skirt hiked up to her waist, legs wrapped around a man’s body, fingers twined in his hair. The man is pounding away, grunting and moaning, his face clasped into the woman’s breasts by eager hands.

  My first thought is to apologise and run away, but for some reason I squint my eyes to see better.

  As soon as I do, the whole world falls away. The sounds of the party disappear, and the cheers of the guests fade into nothing, and the booze fizzing through my veins turns to ice.

  Everything changes in that one moment. Everything turns upside down.

  Because the man is Gareth, and the woman is Poppy.

  Chapter 29

  Andrea: B is for Beef Wellington – and also for Bastards

  Darlings,

  How did it go today? I do hope it wasn’t too windy, and I didn’t end up as grit in your eyes – how amusing would that be?

  Do you like the card, by the way? It’s from that set that Joe bought me for Christmas, Rose, with the pretty pictures of British mammals on them. I especially like this hedgehog. He’s rather dashing, don’t you think? I shall call him Henry.

  Anyway, not so much space on here, and I am about to turn in for the night, so I’ll keep it brief. Tonight, my sweets, I’d like you to eat a meal together. I’ve left you a lovely recipe for Beef Wellington, and my Tinkerbell, Lewis, will have left everything you need in the fridge. I opted for ready-made pastry; I don’t suspect either of you is in the mood for kneading right now.

  No idea how it’ll turn out – Rose, you don’t seem to cook much any more, and Poppy, you barely seem to eat – but give it a go. Cook a splendid meal, and eat it in the Posh Room, and drink some bubbly, and talk.

  What I’d like you to talk about, specifically, is Bastards. We’ve all known them, my loves, even me. I had a torrid affair with my former manager when I was barely out of my teens, only to discover that not only was he married, but he was screwing half his other clients as well! Utter Bastard – but he did get me some of my best roles, so I forgave him.

  Some, though, are not as easy to forget. Some leave their mark on everyone around them. Some simply destroy everything good that crosses their path – and they’re often the ones with the most handsome face, the wittiest of conversation, the most charming of demeanours. They seem full of life and energy, but they’re secretly empty – and they try to fill themselves up by sucking the life out of the people around them. Usually women who’ve fallen under their spell.

  I think we all know who I’m talking about here, and it’s time it came out into the open. So eat, drink, and be honest – and remember, girls, that Bastards only have power over us if we let them.

  And while I’m at it, scoot forward to C now – it’s one line on the ever-efficient index that Lewis will have prepared, and I think it sits magnificently with your dinner.

  Bon appetit!

  Mum xxx

  Chapter 30

  Poppy

  ‘Looks like she stole this from a magazine,’ says Rose, brandishing the laminated recipe sheet and waving it around like a referee’s yellow card. ‘It’s Gordon Ramsay.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m allowed to swear in
the kitchen?’ I say, wrestling with the bloody pastry in an attempt to wrap it around the beef. The pastry is winning.

  I hate cooking. I always did. I never helped out at home when I was younger, and I was one of those students who survived on crumpets, coffee and fags for three years. These days, my shopping consists of what I can get from the deli counter. Usually I just emerge from Sainsbury’s with a bottle of gin and a packet of prawns.

  I give up on making the pastry look at all presentable, and slam it into the fridge. It’s supposed to chill for half an hour, according to Gordon, but I’m not sure I can be arsed with waiting that long.

  Rose has been preparing new potatoes and runner beans to go with it, and we’ve edged around each other warily in the not-especially-large cottage kitchen, both being careful not to collide or make any bodily contact at all. It’s been a tough day, and I have the feeling that we both need a hug – but we’re nowhere near the stage where we can offer that to each other. At the moment, we can barely offer each other civilised silence.

  We arrived back at the cottage late in the afternoon. Rose had taken the whole ashes ceremony hard, and I could tell she was struggling to keep herself together on the drive back. She was deep in thought, and possibly revisiting things I was deeply ashamed of.

  I left her to it – there was nothing I could say that would help, and I had enough pain of my own to deal with. I turned up the air con, switched on the radio, and simply got us home.

  It was clear as soon as we arrived that Lewis had been over. The fridge was full of fresh ingredients, neatly lined up. Beef fillet, mushrooms, herbs, butter, oil, ready-roll pastry, three bottles of very nice Bollinger.

  He’d done his job well, I have to say. In and out while we were at Stapeley Hill, like a huge, bear-shaped Ninja. The fridge isn’t the only sign of his visit – he’s also mowed the lawn and restocked the bird table. There are a pair of tiny blue tits out there now, I can see, one bathing in the water and the other pecking at the seed wire.