by Debby Holt
Freya opened her top left-hand drawer and pulled out her perfect displacement-activity project. In just over three months, she and Felix would celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Six weeks ago, demoralised by an inconclusive trip to the National Archives in Kew, she had brought out a new pink folder and labelled it ‘Anniversary Stuff’. She had selected a possible date for a party, one close to Christmas when Felix’s mother would be with them. This morning she would spend a half-hour composing a speech.
She pushed her laptop away, reached for her pad of A4 paper and picked up her pen. She imagined the sitting room, full of family and friends all staring expectantly at her . . .
Thank you for coming here tonight. Thank you for helping Felix and me to celebrate our anniversary. And forgive me for making a speech. I know it’s self-indulgent but you are a captive audience and I’d like to say a few words about marriage.
First of all, I like it, obviously. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this party. But actually, now I’m so old, I do find it odd that I went into marriage and motherhood with such blithe optimism.
Motherhood is easier to understand. You feel broody. You have a baby – in my case you have two at once – and you love them. They love you. And then they’re teenagers and they want nothing to do with you. Even when they’re adults, you’re still low on their list of priorities.
Marriage seems equally straightforward at first. You fall in love with a man, he falls for you and you marry. Then you discover there are times when he irritates you. Even more outrageous, you know there are times when you irritate him. You can catch him staring at you like you’re a stranger and . . .
Oh dear God! What a load of self-pitying, pompous rubbish! Freya wrote in big capitals ‘DO NOT TRY TO WRITE SOMETHING POSITIVE WHEN YOU FEEL NEGATIVE!’ Then, reaching for her felt-tip pen, she drew thick lines over everything she’d written. She tore out the piece of paper and put it in the folder which she returned at once to her drawer. What was wrong with her today?
Action was imperative. No to census records; no to anniversary speeches; and double no to Madame Bovary. She glanced at the window. The weather was lovely. She would go into the garden, which at this time of year had exploded into its usual overwhelming fecundity. She would arm herself with her trowel and her fork and she would decimate the weeds. On her return to the house, she would go back to her census records in the happy knowledge that the balloon debate would soon be forgotten. And as for Felix’s odd expression last night, it was ridiculous to dwell on something so silly. He was probably just tired and fed up. She couldn’t blame him for that.
CHAPTER TWO
‘We need 2 talk.’
When had Richard learnt to text?
Tess Cameron sat on the steps of the stone Mercat Cross, the hood of her anorak tied tightly under her chin, her hands already cold without their gloves. She stared intently at the small screen as if it would provide an answer. Richard was the only man she knew who didn’t have a smartphone or a tablet. She wasn’t even sure he knew about Facebook. The text was so incongruous, like Prince Charles wearing leather trousers.
‘We need 2 talk,’ he said, but no, they absolutely didn’t. They – he – had talked for England. He had been devastated, apologetic and awkward, and then defensive, angry and outraged. The words had kept coming and she’d tried to apologise – it was her fault, she’d been taken by surprise, she’d lashed out in panic when he lunged at her. He had lunged – she would always think of him now as Richard the Lunger – but she hadn’t meant to hit him; his chin had got in the way of her fist and she was sorry. He hadn’t tried to listen, his words kept crushing her like a steamroller: violent, disproportionate, extraordinary, psychotic, aberration.
And yes, she supposed, her reaction had been disproportionate. She was sufficiently aware of her oddness only ever to have confided in three people, two of whom she no longer saw. Rachel, the first, had been her flatmate and a close friend since university days in Durham. At first, Rachel had compared Tess’s problem to a fear of death. Her sister, she said, had been obsessed with her own mortality since early childhood but could now go for at least three days without dwelling on it. Rachel’s conclusion was that Tess would grow out of her fear of sex. In the months after that first conversation, Rachel would occasionally ask, ‘How’s the fear of sex coming along?’ and Tess would say, ‘It’s still there, thanks for asking.’
Rachel, ever the optimist, assured Tess that one day she’d meet a man who would be so right that Tess would want to have sex. This seemed highly unlikely. She was extremely fond of Richard, but when he lunged at her on Thursday evening, she’d felt nothing but terror. And now, as a result, she had lost a good friend.
Her long-planned trip to Scotland could not have come at a better time. Tess had cherished for some years a secret fantasy, a glorious scenario that, in her more positive moments, she really believed might come true. She would finish her PhD in London, turn it into a biography of Sir Walter Scott which, for reasons currently unclear, the whole world would wish to buy. Every university in the country would clamour for her services and she would graciously bestow them on Edinburgh. She would move up to Scotland, buy a small terraced cottage in Melrose and commute to Edinburgh in her new little car – a Mini or a convertible Golf, either would be more than acceptable.
The cottage was so real she could see it. It was on a short cobbled lane that led nowhere. It had one of those front doors that were horizontally partitioned across the middle, and the top part would be fully opened in order to let in the streaming sunlight. On dark winter days, she would sit by her fire, sipping cocoa – a dubious detail since she didn’t even like cocoa but it was a word that evoked warmth and safety and comfort. On the long summer evenings, she would roam across the hills, absorbing the peace and the beauty of the place, so at odds with its history of battles and massacres. London would soon be a memory and the Border country would be her home.
In the meantime, she had to make do with the occasional visit. It had taken her nine hours and ten minutes to travel up on the coach from Victoria Station to Melrose and as far as she was concerned it was worth every minute. At nine o’clock that morning she had left London with its chaotic traffic, its anxious commuters, its grimy buildings and its billboards promoting the increasingly unreachable rewards of financial success. And now here she was, in her black jeans, her polo-neck jumper and her red anorak, sitting on the steps of the ancient stone cross in the wide market square at Melrose. She dropped her phone in her bag, put on her gloves, and watched two elderly women chatting with great animation while their pets – identical white poodles – circled busily in impotent attempts to sniff each other’s rear end.
Melrose was as different from London as Heaven was from Hell. Melrose was a small town with no traffic jams and no taxi drivers hooting angrily at wayward cyclists and lumbering buses. Melrose had no tower blocks or huge, anonymous offices with sad, anonymous employees. Melrose had slow, sedate cars that stopped unquestioningly to let the women with their poodles cross the road. It had the soft sandstone ruins of Melrose Abbey with its seemingly random foundation stones scattered on the lawn around it. It had a friendly high street that opened into the generous square where Tess now waited. It had rugby fields and trees and quiet streets with terraced houses, and bungalows with fenced gardens. It had, on every horizon, undulating green hills dappled with purple heather and darker green copses and, best of all, it had pure Scottish air. Tess could almost feel it purging her pores of the last vestiges of London.
Her phone went and, pulling off her gloves again, she took it out of her bag.
‘Hi, Tess.’ Her sister’s voice sounded breathless. ‘Is it today you’re in Scotland?’
Anna’s voice always sounded breathless on the phone. She was not the sort of person who liked long, chatty calls – at least, she didn’t like them with Tess – and therefore tended to ring while on the move: going into or out of her hospital, in which case her words competed with
the sound of ambulance sirens; or walking from one part of the building to another, in which case there would be constant interruptions while she exchanged information with other members of staff.
‘I arrived a few minutes ago,’ Tess told her. ‘It’s very cold. I’m sitting in the square waiting for Grandma.’
‘That’s why I rang. I forgot her birthday was on Wednesday. Will you tell her I’m sorry?’
‘Can’t you tell her yourself?’
‘Have you called the Commune lately? I’ve tried three times this week and it just rings and rings. Give her my love and tell her as soon as I can get hold of a car, I’ll come up and see her.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be impressed.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Tess, it doesn’t suit you. You know coaches make me sick and train fares are exorbitant. It’s Grandma’s fault for living somewhere that’s insanely inaccessible. I must go. Have a good holiday.’
‘I’m not here for a holiday. I’m here to do research.’
‘Yeah, right. Have a good time and kiss Sir Walter for me.’
Tess put her phone back in her bag. She could imagine Anna scurrying after a patient or hailing colleagues and engaging them in earnest conversation about some diagnosis. Anna had phenomenal energy. Tess supposed it must be an essential requirement for a doctor.
The fact that she and Anna were twins was a never-ending mystery to Tess. She knew the science. They were the result of two different eggs and two different sperm. It was therefore no surprise that Anna should have big breasts, blue eyes and straight blonde hair while she had what might be politely described as an androgynous figure with green eyes and auburn curls. To be honest, Tess thought, they had little in common apart from once sharing a womb.
At school, Tess excelled in English and History and Art while Anna came top in Science. They were extraordinarily different, no more so than in their attitude to the Borders. For Anna, the place was cold and dull and, ‘It doesn’t even have a proper cinema!’ Tess must ask her sometime what an improper one might look like.
She saw Grandma approaching the square in her antique Ford Escort, sitting bolt upright with her face a little too close to the windscreen. Tess stood up and waved.
Grandma was out of her car in a moment. No one would think she was now eighty-three.
‘Darling girl, I’m so sorry I’m late, there was a stupid sheep in the middle of the road and I hooted and hooted and it just stared at me! I had to get out and virtually push it back into the field. You must have thought I’d forgotten you…’
‘I wasn’t worried for a moment…’
‘That’s sweet of you to say so, you must be freezing. I can’t believe we’re in June next week. Let’s get you home. Katherine’s made one of her casseroles in your honour.’
Tess put her case in the boot and climbed into the car. As always, Grandma had to turn the key in the ignition twice before the engine started, and, as always, she swore under her breath as she did so. Her short wiry hair still had the rogue lock at the back that refused to lie flat. She wore her corduroy trousers, her puffa jacket and one of her Guernsey jumpers. They were almost a uniform.
Tess stretched her arms in front of her. ‘Oh Grandma,’ she said, ‘it is so good to be here again! I wish I could get here more often!’
‘Felix rang me on my birthday. He and Freya are definitely coming in October. You should cadge a lift up with them.’
‘I will, if it’s during my autumn break. I’ll talk to Dad. What about this week? Am I all right to borrow your car?’
‘Of course. Will you have to go to Edinburgh every day?’
‘I might be able to take Friday off. How are all the Communards?’
‘They’re fine. Sheila had another story published two weeks ago.’
‘That’s great. What’s it about?’
‘Two lonely people are brought together by their love of a homeless kitten.’ Grandma spoke without expression
‘Oh.’ Tess thought for a moment. ‘I read that one at Easter.’
‘No,’ Grandma said. ‘In that one, two lonely people are united by their love for a bird with a broken wing. Sheila is a great believer in recycling.’ She braked as they reached the crossroads and then turned left out of the town centre. ‘You might notice a change in Linda. She has problems with her memory. It’s not easy for her or for Derek.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Tess said.
‘Well.’ Grandma shrugged. ‘It’s one of the perils of getting older.’
Her tone and her body language indicated that the subject was closed. Forthright in so many ways, she had never been a woman to welcome sympathy over matters that truly upset her. Grandpa Philip’s great idea had never fully addressed this problem, Tess thought. It was all very well for a group of old friends and relatives to set up house together, but what was to happen when members began to grow frail and die?
Grandpa Philip had been so confident. Retirement had made him restless, he was bored with Surrey and he began to pine for his homeland. On a visit to his brother and sister-in-law in Scotland, he introduced the idea of a commune.
Four years later, the plan came to fruition and nine Communards moved into a house outside Melrose. Grandpa Philip and Grandma brought with them Grandma’s oldest friend, Sheila, and their neighbours from Surrey, Linda and Derek. Great-uncle Andrew and Great-aunt Katherine arrived with their friends, the Knoxes. On their first evening in their new home, Grandpa Philip, apparently hale and hearty, celebrated his seventy-fourth birthday.
Three years later, Grandpa Philip was buried in the nearby churchyard. Two years after that, Great-uncle Andrew and Mrs Knox died within four months of each other. For a time, it looked as if the Commune would fall apart. Great-aunt Katherine accepted an invitation to move in with her daughter and son-in-law. Doctor Knox toyed with the idea of renting a small bungalow in Melrose. After a bracing discussion with Grandma, Doctor Knox decided to stay put. Great-aunt Katherine spent two months with her daughter and came to the conclusion that she preferred the company of her peers to that of her son-in-law. No one was told what the son-in-law thought.
And so, like a dignified old ship, battered and buffeted by storms, the Commune slowly righted itself. These days, the six remaining pensioners employed a gardener and a cleaner, and at least three of them continued to drive regularly. But every day they grew older. Tess couldn’t bear to think that Linda, who was always so sensible and kind, could be brought down by dementia
Grandma, clearly determined to change the subject, said, ‘I hope you remembered to bring a dress with you.’
‘Of course I did. You didn’t tell me why I needed to bring one.’
‘Our friend, Flora, is having an eighty-fifth birthday party next Friday. Her late husband was a great pal of your grandpa’s. I told her it was your last night with us and she said she’d be delighted if you came along too.’
‘That’s very kind but quite unnecessary. I’m more than happy to stay behind.’
‘That’s what your great-aunt said.’ Grandma paused in order to let the full significance of that statement sink in. ‘Of course if you don’t want to go, there is no pressure on you to accompany us. Katherine has assured me you’d find the event very dull.’
‘I see.’ Tess knew what was expected of her. ‘Well, I’ll be delighted to prove Great-aunt Katherine wrong.’
Grandma released a small, satisfied smile. ‘Good girl! Now tell me: how’s the PhD coming along?’
This was one of many reasons why Tess loved her grandmother. There were never any coy enquiries about possible boyfriends. Grandma, in her time a probation officer and then a JP, had always believed that it was work that defined a life. The Communard women had all had careers. Great-aunt Katherine had been a teacher; Sheila had been the indispensable secretary to a brilliant but highly strung businessman. Linda had been a highly regarded crossword compiler. Grandma always said she was the cleverest person she knew.
In many ways, Tess thought, their gen
eration had been truer to feminist principles than her own. They’d lived through tough times and valued their independence. Certainly, they never viewed romantic love as an excuse to sidestep careers.
Tess was fond of all of them. She had a number of good friends in London, most of whom discussed their love lives with her. She did sometimes feel like the sole vegetarian in a burger restaurant. The Communards might be vegetarians due to age and circumstance rather than by choice, but at least they proved it was possible to get by without meat.
CHAPTER THREE
Anna’s consultant was small and slight with smooth brown hair neatly tied in a chignon. There were many stories about Miss Diamond, the latest only two months old. She had looked into the labour ward before going out to a dinner party. In a matter of seconds, she took in the distinctive aroma of panic, pulled off her diamond bracelet, calmly called a crash team and performed a Caesarean section before the husband returned from the vending machine. She was a genuine star. Her cool rational tones could often be heard on the Today programme and Woman’s Hour. Her book, How to Love Your Labour, was invariably recommended to mothers and midwives.
Miss Diamond was easily the most terrifying person Anna had ever encountered. Her smile could freeze a desert. The first time it was directed at Anna was after Anna’s suggestions concerning a pregnant patient’s diabetes. Miss Diamond had exposed her pearly white teeth and gazed at Anna with apparent amusement before falling on the diagnosis like a lion feasting on an antelope. After months of continuous put-downs, Anna was beginning to wonder if she was deliberately singled out for regular doses of vitriol.
Today, Miss Diamond, surrounded by her disciples, stood beside the bed of a grossly obese patient whose layers of fat made a palpation of the foetus almost impossible. She gave a little sigh and requested Anna’s opinion. Anna took a deep breath and ran through the systematic procedure, to no avail. The baby’s cushion was, unsurprisingly, of the extra-large variety.
