After a phone call with Mandy to let her know all is well, we stroll to Hamleys and spend an hour amidst the chaos of a toy shop I loved as a little girl. I buy Oscar a present – a little remote-control car, my pre-Christmas treat – before we stop off for a pizza.
‘I’m glad we did this,’ I say, as we head to the Tube to start our return journey. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d have liked to come to London with more.’
‘Shall we come again tomorrow?’ he asks.
I glance down at him. ‘Probably not.’
On the Tube home, I let Oscar take the last remaining seat and find myself pressed up against a throng of people with only a hamper basket between us. But once we’re on the final stretch of the Metropolitan line, the crowd thins and three seats next to Oscar are clear, so I take one.
‘Ellie?’
The woman opposite me has a face that is instantly familiar, yet it takes a beat of recognition for me to catch up.
‘It’s Jo,’ she says. ‘Do you remember me? My God… it must’ve been what – thirteen, fourteen years?’
The girl who used to share lifts with me to cross country as a child is fleshier around the face. Her hair has been highlighted and now, instead of the long mousy curtain that would hang around her ears at university, she is full-on blonde, with a choppy, stylish bob. Despite the years – and I think it’s actually fifteen – there are certain features which are instantly and uniquely her: the sweet asymmetry of her mouth, the quirk of her eyebrows.
‘My God, Jo. I can’t believe it!’ I laugh because any ability to be articulate has left me.
‘Is this little chap yours?’ she asks, smiling widely at Oscar.
‘Oh! No. This is Oscar.’
‘I’m just here because of the assembly,’ he tells her.
‘Right,’ she grins, deciding not to worry about what this means.
‘You look amazing, Jo.’ It’s obligatory but true.
‘That’s the heartbreak diet for you,’ she shrugs.
‘I did hear you’d got divorced. I hope you’re okay?’
‘Oh, I’m all right. As all right as you can be. Never thought I’d end up back here with two kids, but when something like this happens you need to be close to your parents. Sounds pathetic from a grown woman, doesn’t it?’
‘Er… no, actually.’
‘You know… I thought I’d have bumped into you before now. I’m amazed I haven’t when we live so close.’
‘Yeah,’ I shrug apologetically. ‘I don’t get out much.’
I can tell from the wavering of her smile that she realises that there could be more to this than a glib expression. ‘Well, listen, I’ve joined the running club that meets in the village – you should come along. We start in the car park of the GP practice every Monday and Wednesday, then on Saturday mornings there’s a long run. It’s great. Lovely bunch of women. Very supportive.’
I lower my eyes and pick at the edge of my nail. ‘I’m sorry we lost touch, Jo. That was my fault.’
‘No, not at all,’ she insists. ‘All those things I said… I was too immature to understand what you were going through. I did try to ring you afterwards though. Just so you know.’
I nod. ‘I know. It’s hard to explain why—’
‘You don’t need to explain,’ she smiles. ‘It’s just great to see you.’ She turns to Oscar. ‘Have you been Christmas shopping?’
‘Yes, I got a remote-control car.’
‘Gosh, aren’t you lucky? My kids have been told they’re getting nothing before Christmas Day. They did start writing their lists in July, mind you.’
‘Well, I owed this little guy one for coming with me today,’ I smile. ‘He helped me out a lot. He was my plus one at a book launch. Remember Jamie Dawson from primary school?’
She frowns, trying to place the name. ‘Yeah, I think I do. He was a nice kid. What – he’s written a book?’
‘Illustrated one. He’s very big in Sweden,’ I tell her.
Her expression seems to shift. ‘Are you and he… an item?’
‘Oh no.’ I shake my head decisively. ‘He’s just a friend.’
I think about saying something more because this feels like too flippant a description, but we’re suddenly at our stop. We gather our bags and head outside, tramping up the steps until we’re in the car park.
‘Well, lovely to meet you, Oscar.’ She looks up at me and smiles tentatively. ‘It’s been so great to see you, Ellie.’
‘And you.’
Just as I’m feeling slightly light-headed at the idea of fifteen more years passing, she pulls a business card from her purse. ‘Don’t be a stranger though, will you? I’d love it if we could go for a coffee some time.’
Chapter 67
Six months later…
‘Oh, Gertie. You’ll be all right on your own for a bit. I’ll be back soon, I promise.’
The dog looks perplexed as I tug on my running shoes. She’s not entirely pleased about recent developments, in particular the idea of being left alone for the odd hour instead of having my round-the-clock attention. Still, when Jo picks me up at 6.45pm, my friend greets Gertie with all the right cooing noises and leaves her sufficiently satisfied to eventually slink away to her basket.
‘They gave us four days’ notice for parents’ evening, can you believe that?’ Jo is telling me, as we drive to the clinic car park where the running group meets. ‘It takes place at three o’clock in the afternoon, slap bang in the working day.’
‘Surely you haven’t got anything better to do… like a job?’ She laughs.
‘I don’t think our school approves of parents having jobs. They get in the way of all the sports days and cake bakes.’
In the fifteen years that have passed since Jo and I last spent time together, our lives have diverged so completely that on the surface you’d think we would have little in common. She’s been married and is a mother. I’ve never come close to either. Yet nothing that’s happened to us in the intervening period has fundamentally changed the people we were. From the first coffee we had together, everything slotted back in to place. We talked in the shorthand of shared memories and it felt like we’d been apart for weeks, not more than a decade.
‘How did you feel after the big run on Saturday?’ she asks.
‘I needed a very long soak in the bath.’
‘Ha! The next day is always the worst. I had a gait like John Wayne on Sunday.’
When I first joined the running club, I was the slowest in the group. But it didn’t matter because the fastest members simply looped around us during breaks and if I was annoying everyone they were too generous to say. Tonight, as we set off with the others in the all-female group, it is clear yet again that this endeavour is not about the speed we reach or the miles we clock up, at least not only that.
We set off towards the Fox and Hounds pub, passing a Labrador lolloping out of the vets with its owner before we reach the end of the path that runs along the river. It’s a bright, sunny evening, with a honeyed light that shimmers on the water, but there is enough of a chill in the air to be perfect for running. Soon, my body is warm and my pumping blood has reached the tips of my fingers and toes.
As we run, we talk. Occasionally it’s about big things such as climate change or cancer scares, but mainly it’s about a broad range of smaller topics that keep us ticking along and laughing most of the way. Philip Pullman’s best novel. Carol Vorderman’s teeth. Teenagers’ bedrooms. The hunky Pest Control man from the council.
‘I joined this group four months into my maternity leave,’ says Dianne, a fellow runner, as we stop for breath. ‘There was one point in my life when these women were the only adult company I’d had all week. I’d have gone mad without it. Sometimes, all you need is a good natter to lift your spirits, isn’t it?’
Yes, I think. Sometimes, that is all you need.
* * *
I sit in Colette’s office the following afternoon and can’t take my eyes off her spider p
lant. She has it on a bookshelf now, and it’s so big that its slender leaves tumble down onto the wall below, cascading in little offshoots.
‘You were right about the water and sunlight,’ she says. I nod obligingly. ‘So in the last session we started talking about your Instagram message, the one you posted before Christmas.’
‘Feels like a long time ago now.’
‘I think it was very brave to write what you did. With the benefit of hindsight, do you think you did the right thing?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Did you read it?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact. How did it feel to be so open with everyone?’
This isn’t an easy question to answer. ‘On the one hand it felt good to say: here I am, Unfiltered Me, take it or leave it.’
‘And on the other hand?’
‘Well, there were trolls. There always would be for something like that. But that’s okay because I dealt with it. I deleted the app.’
‘You didn’t remove the post?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d said all that stuff for a reason. I wanted it to stay, even if I myself was leaving. I must admit though… I miss being on it. Instagram I mean.’
‘Having lots of followers made you feel good about yourself,’ she says.
‘I suppose so. I don’t think my motives were purely that shallow though. I liked being creative. I liked the people I met on there, most of them anyway. Plus, it was my career. I only had a few sponsors, and they were all understanding when I wrote to them to explain I was having a break, but it effectively cut off a significant source of income, until I can pin down a full-time job.’
‘How is the job hunting going?’ Colette asks.
‘To be honest, I’ve enjoyed working for Green Fingers so much that I’ve not devoted as much time as I ought to it.’
The garden centre firm took me on in February to cover maternity leave for the marketing manager for their nine branches. It’s fantastic in many ways – based in the office of their largest site, which is less than five miles from home. But it’s only two days a week and will come to an abrupt end at the start of next year.
‘You wouldn’t consider starting up your Instagram account again?’
I take a long breath. ‘I don’t know.’
I’m aware that in the context of mental health, no one has a good word about social media. It’s not just the tinpot psychologists on daytime television who cite it as damaging to self-esteem – there have been plenty of studies from more illustrious sources that show a correlation between usage and levels of anxiety and depression.
Colette writes something down in her notepad, then looks up abruptly. ‘You know what? I think you should consider it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You had an overwhelmingly good experience when you were on it. It’s been an outlet for your creativity and you said yourself it was your saviour at one point.’
‘But what about my last post? I’m sure there will be more abuse.’
‘Perhaps. So why do you think I would suggest it?’
I consider the question. ‘Oh. Okay. You think that not going on there is an “avoidance technique”. That I’m running away from the problem rather than confronting it.’
‘Maybe you should become a therapist.’
‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ I say and she snorts.
‘All those keyboard warriors, Ellie, all the nasty things they write… they’re just words. You can survive words. You’ve already survived far worse and all when you were just a little girl. And yes, you bear your scars but you must realise that you’ve turned out well, all things considered. Your family and friends certainly think so.’
I lower my eyes.
‘That silly man giving you trouble on the internet can’t hurt you. He can only insult you and all that does is make him look rather pathetic.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply. ‘Maybe we can talk about it next time we get together.’
‘That’s fine. And it’s your decision. Have a think while you’re away, perhaps,’ she says. ‘When do you leave?’
‘We fly out on Monday.’
‘How are you feeling about it?’
I inhale deeply. ‘Conflicted.’
‘Well, that’s not a surprise. Not only have you overcome a significant relapse in the last year, but you’re returning to a place with very difficult memories for you. Not to mention going to Tabitha’s home and meeting her family…’
I can feel my face start to colour, my jaw loosen. ‘I’m sure this was your idea,’ I point out. ‘Do you remember telling me it would be the best way to say goodbye?’
‘I still think it is a good idea. The point I’m making, Ellie, is that if you feel anxious, you must remember that anyone would in these circumstances,’ she continued. ‘Feeling overcome by emotion isn’t the same as having a relapse. It’s normal. Try not to fight these feelings and don’t be afraid of them. Just go along with them and remember everything you’ve learnt.’
But this pep talk isn’t necessary. I am feeling mentally stronger than I have for years. That doesn’t mean I am sure that my agoraphobia won’t ever come back, or that I’ll never experience that terrifying rush of cortisol at the peak of a panic attack again. What I am now certain of is that I’m better equipped to deal with either scenario should it arise again. I know the drill. I have the capacity to beat it. No matter how bad things are, I know from rock-solid experience they will get better.
Of course, there is still a sliver of doubt. My running, my rekindled friendships and my new lease of life is one thing. Getting on a plane and travelling to Romania is quite another. But the fact is I have to. If not for me, then for Tabitha and the memory of everything we went through together.
* * *
On the drive home, Dad listens intently to a feature on Woman’s Hour about activists in Saudi Arabia that has just neatly segued into another about pelvic floor exercises. The discussion with Colette about my Instagram account leaves my phone burning a hole in my pocket.
As we head into the village, I take it out of my bag and flick through the app store, hesitating over the Instagram logo before clicking the button to reinstall it. I hold my breath and type in my login details, then watch as we take the road towards our house and months and months’ worth of activity loads onto my screen. It constitutes not so much a series of notifications as an explosion. I’ve never seen anything like it. A lot has happened on here while I’ve been away, it seems.
The first is that I’ve lost a huge number of followers, which is only to be expected from an account that’s been dormant for so long. I feel less bothered by it than I thought I would. What’s really astonishing though is the number of likes on the post I wrote back in October. There are more than three thousand. Moreover, as I flick through the comments – from regulars such as @DaisyFallowes and @Rachelgreenfingers, from @hopesandhouseplants as well as dozens I’ve never seen before – they are overwhelmingly supportive.
@Muddybootsandmarigolds
Ellie, you are incredibly brave posting this. My brother had agoraphobia and he went through hell. You have nothing to apologise for. I hope you keep up the posts as we would all miss you so much on here, but right now, do what you need to do to get better. Love to you and Gertie xxx
@ontariogardener
I’m still haunted by the images of the Romanian orphanages back in the nineties. I’ve always wondered what happened to the poor children who suffered through that. I understand what you’re going through and why you feel you need to go, but please know that to me you have never been more of an inspiration.
Another leaps out, from an account in Romania.
@Andreea_filipescu
I was also raised in an orphanage – the Hospital for Irrecoverable Children – which I’d been placed in as a baby because I’d had polio. I was two when I was adopted by my parents and came to live in Cluj-Napoca. I don’t remember anything ab
out my time there but I have heard such horrors, that can only be a good thing. God bless you, Ellie. Like all the children there, you deserved better than the hand fate dealt you.
There are more. Hundreds more. All well-wishes and messages of support. Some are from those I know, others from strangers, sharing their own experiences and thanking me for my honesty. I keep scrolling and read every one, knowing that it will take me a day to reply to them all, though I definitely will. Among this, I search for the comments from @RamseyLad, the last ones I read before I removed Instagram from all my devices.
I’m sure I remember his username correctly, and certainly I remember how quickly he posted so his comments should be right at the bottom. But when I scroll down, all I can find is a barrage of objections by other users, apparently directed at him. They’re telling him to shut up, calling him out for trolling. Several write that they have reported him to Instagram and requested the suspension of his account. I type in his username and keep on scrolling. But my supporters were apparently successful. @RamseyLad is gone.
Chapter 68
ELLIE HEATHCOTE
You might find it hard to believe, but this thriving Japanese maple was looking rather pathetic not so long ago. It had come under attack from frost at the end of last year and, though the trauma to its delicate young growth wasn’t immediately apparent, scorching and brown patterns soon began to appear under the leaf veins. It was so bad at one point that I nearly gave up on it altogether. Instead, I trimmed away the nasty bits and left as much living stem as possible, before applying a top dressing of fertiliser. I created a shelterbelt of small-leaved lime to protect it from the threat of further harsh conditions. I fed, watered and generally looked after it, and look at the reward: glossy, mustard-yellow leaves that are a picture of good health.
The World at My Feet Page 31
