MAXIM REMEMBERED by S. Nadja ZajdmanHock and Seltzer

 

 MAXIM REMEMBERED

 

For reasons I feel the need to explore, I’ve been remembering Maxim Mazumdar.  I was fifteen when I first saw him on the stage of Loyola’s F.C. Smith Auditorium.  According to the theatre program, he was eighteen and with his widowed mother and older brother, had just settled in vibrant post-Expo Montreal, a recent immigrant from what was then Bombay and is now Mumbai.

To have seen Maxim once is to remember him always.  He was electric.  He was mesmerizing.  In my mind’s eye I can still see the little brown man in a white shift and enormous dark eyes, seated on the floor of the stage and delivering a soliloquy from Richard II.  I was gobsmacked.  I was smitten.  No one could’ve imagined, nor foreseen, that at the age of eighteen, Maxim’s life was already half over.

On the weekday evening I first saw Maxim onstage, there were a handful of people in the audience.  I returned home and raved about him, gushing to my mother.  From then on I went to every production he was in.  Within a year, the East Indian immigrant became the darling of the local theatre scene.  I orbited him like a satellite orbiting the sun.  I never met him personally.  I never approached.  I was a shy secret admirer.  I saw him at theatre lectures and in theatre lobbies.  Often I saw him with one of his teachers. I never saw Maxim with a girl.  I heard that he held court with a coterie of male sycophants.  I said so, to Mum.  Which is when one of my teachers broke the news to my mother.  “We’d better tell her.”  How my teacher knew, I don’t know.  But she knew.

I can’t recall whether I heard it from my teacher, or from Mum.  Likely from Mum, who was assigned to deliver the message.

Maxim Mazumdar was gay.

That’s when Mum and my brother started teasing me.  “Imagine if you brought him home; he’d start up with Michael!”

            “Why would he start up with Michael?”

            I’d walked into it.

            “Because!”  My generally laconic younger brother swished through the kitchen.  “I’m a man’s man!”  (In fairness to my brother, who matured into a pediatrician, he now wears rainbow socks in solidarity with his gay patients.)

Within the next five years Maxim would found Montreal’s now defunct Phoenix Theatre (where I was engaged for my first acting job), and invited to Stratford by its renowned leading man, William Hutt (another member of The Sisterhood.  In the 1960s and 1970s, the festival at Stratford, Ontario WAS a sisterhood) to perform the one-man show he wrote, self-directed and starred in, called Oscar Remembered.  (The story of Oscar Wilde seen through the eyes of his lover, Lord Alfred Douglas.)

Because of Quebec’s political climate, within the first decade of his arrival Maxim moved to Toronto and then on to Newfoundland, where he founded and became artistic director of a theatre.  Amidst this activity, he performed in New York and married a New York actress.  It was a lavender marriage contracted in order to acquire a Green Card.  Maxim’s male lover served as best man at his wedding.   The trio entered into a menage a trois.  In his will, Maxim left all his worldly goods to his male lover.  It seemed he left his legal wife nothing.

Professionally, the Indo-Canadian actor and director sprinted from strength to strength.  He couldn’t seem to fail.  He seemed unstoppable until, in 1988, my mother spied a brief article in a Montreal newspaper, announcing that this human dynamo had died of a heart attack.

At the time, my brother was a newly minted physician.  Upon hearing the news, he scoffed, “A thirty-five-year-old homosexual (precisely, at the time of his death, Maxim was thirty six), doesn’t die of a heart attack.”
           

My brother was right.  Of course, Maxim was killed by AIDS.

About the Author

 Nadja Zajdman is a Canadian author. She has published the story collections Bent Branches and The Memory Keeper, the memoirs I Want You To Be Free and Daddy's Remains, and the essay collection Between Worlds. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Following the StarPaula R C ReadmanSidecaCognac, Cointreau, lemon,

 

 

At the crossroads, without slowing, the sporty MG Midget’s headlights carved through the winter fog. Lucy Laylock was on a mission. She leaned forward over the steering wheel and squinted. Suddenly, out of the darkness, the turning she needed appeared. Lucy swung the steering wheel hard right, causing the car’s wheels to lose traction. Grit and dirt flew, rattling off the car’s body. Now wasn’t the time to lose control and put the car into a ditch. The chase was on. Unfamiliar country lanes flashed by as the fog thinned, allowing the moonlight to shine through arching branches and gaps in the high hedgerow.

The chase had started eight hours ago when Lucy witnessed the theft of a diamond-encrusted star from the jeweller’s shop next to her mother’s milliner shop on the high street. She had been busy helping her mother out with the Christmas rush of orders.

“Christmas 1932 will be our best ever,” Lucy’s mother, Penelope, called from the back of the shop, before appearing in the doorway, carrying a pile of hatboxes. “Can you change a couple of hats in the window? These will brighten it and hopefully bring in some last-minute shoppers.”

As Lucy leaned into the window to remove the hats from their stand, her attention was caught by an unfamiliar car parked outside the jeweller’s, with its engine running.

“What’s wrong, Lucy?” Penelope asked, waiting for her daughter to pass her the hats.

“I’m not sure. Pass me a pen and notebook.”

Penelope passed them straightaway, knowing that her daughter's instinct for trouble had saved them and others from heartache in the past. As Lucy made notes, a shout went up, followed by a loud bang, as one of the two men coming out of the shop turned and fired a gun.

“Oh, my goodness was that gunfire?”

“Call the police, Mother. Tell them the car is an Austin ten-four, and here are the number plate details.” She handed the notebook to her mother. “Tell them there are two men. I’m going to follow them.”

“Oh, Lucy you cannot. What if they shoot at you, too?”

“Don’t panic, Mother. We don’t know if anyone was hurt, and my army undercover training will come in handy.

“I know love, but still be careful.”

“It might have been just a warning shot. Please call the police. I’ll keep a safe distance, I promise.”

With her heart pounding, Lucy sprinted to her car and sped after the thieves as they disappeared beyond the town limits.

Lucy kept her distance, trailing the thieves through winding country roads. Where could they be going? When they finally stopped at a petrol station, Lucy seized the chance to call her mother from a nearby phone box.

“I don’t have much time. How is Mr. Juggins?”

“He’s fine. The police have no leads. You were right about them only firing the gun to keep him back as they snatched the silver diamond-encrusted star. It is all very odd. Mr. Juggins said he had only just bought it. With it being so near to Christmas, he decided to use it in his Christmas display.”

“Was it valuable?” Lucy asked, moving the telephone receiver to her other ear, to watch through the window as the thieves paid for their fuel.

“Yes, Lucy, over a thousand pounds, and Mr. Juggins wants it back. He said, it’s called, the Andromeda Star and has quite a history to it. It originally came from the Middle East.”

“So it might be a stolen artefact. Sorry, I have to go. They are on the move again.”

“Be careful. I’ll let the police know where you are.”

“Okay.” Lucy slammed the receiver down and dashed to her car. After they left the forecourt of the petrol station, she counted to ten before following them.  

As Lucy drove on, she thought she knew where they were heading, but they suddenly turned off the main road onto a country lane. She followed on; surprised they weren’t heading for London. After crossing an old stone bridge, a mist appeared. Lucy found it difficult to focus on the taillights snaking off into the distance. Her mother had said the thieves had disregarded everything else, only taking the star. Lucy wondered why that was; after all, Mr Juggins had many other expensive items in the shop. Surely, the star would be easy to trace, or were they planning to break it up?

The car ahead of her turned onto a farm track. Lucy followed, keeping her distance. The red taillights flashed from view for a second as the mist encircled them. Lucy squinted, struggling to keep the car in sight. The road dropped steeply as they descended into a valley. After crossing a bridge, the mist cleared, allowing Lucy to see the other car clearly in the distance. They drove on for half an hour. Relief washed through Lucy, and she relaxed as the car ahead began to slow as though the driver was searching for a turning. Its headlights picked out trees and shrubs in the darkness. Then a fingerpost came into view. Lucy slowed and watched as the car turned off the road into a copse.

On reaching the turning, Lucy stopped to read the sign as it swung in the wind. The faded gold lettering shone in the headlights read: 'The Silver Star Inn; a perfect place to rest your head.'

Between the trees, Lucy saw flickering lights of the car and the outlines of a building. She killed the engine, allowing the silence to calm her racing heart. The mist drifted between the trees and beaded on the windscreen. For a moment, Lucy feared losing visibility as she tried to peer through the misty window. She eased her foot off the brake, which allowed the car to roll forward, giving her a clearer view. The thieves’ car stopped by an outbuilding, and two shapes slipped across the yard, briefly highlighted by the lights from the main building.

After parking in among the trees, Lucy stepped out of the car and breathed in the scent of damp soil, pine, and a hint of something else… smoke or musky clothes, boxed up and forgotten. She hesitated, wondering whether she should let her mother know that she had traced the star to an old Inn and leave it to the police.

“What if the police arrived too late, to stop the star from being broken up? No, I must find out why they took it. The sign had said a perfect place to rest your head, and I’m a weary traveller in need of rest,” Lucy said to her car, patting its bonnet. As in answer, it faintly clicked as it began to cool in the damp night air, glad to rest after the chase. “I’ll need this if I’m to play the part of a weary traveller.” Lucy pulled out a small overnight bag she kept in her car, closing the door with a soft click, and began walking towards the inn.

The building emerged from the mist like a ghost from the past. It was a low-squat building; it must have been a coach inn, Lucy thought, but she couldn’t recall seeing it before. Maybe the summertime foliage hid it too well, though the sign would’ve been clear enough to see. She shook her head and focused on gaining entry to the building. The stone walls were mottled with age and streaked with damp to the point that moss and lichen covered the surfaces. A lantern hung above the main door, throwing restless shadows across the yard in an orange glow. In the moonlight, Lucy saw the roof sagged in places. The windows, lit from within, seemed reluctant to let any of the light out.

As Lucy walked slowly toward the entrance, a feeling of uncertainty washed over her, a sense that time had stilled. She tried to take everything in; the glass looked old, slightly warped, while ivy clung rope-like and unchecked across the porch. The faded sign swung gently on a rusted bracket while uneven cobbles made her catch her balance as she reached for the door handle.

Lucy drew in a slow breath and steadied herself. For whatever reason, the thieves had taken the star, and the answer lay behind the solid oak door that stood ajar. She pulled the thick metal handle towards her, and the door creaked open. Then, from nowhere, a gust of wind forced her into the darkness of the hallway that smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax. As her eyes adjusted to the flickering candlelight, the door swung shut behind her with a thud that made her jump.

A warm glow shimmered ahead, inviting her forward. As though drawn by the comfort of a blazing fire after a winter walk, Lucy stepped towards it. From nowhere, an elegant woman, wearing a long, old-fashioned dress, materialised before her. With her hair piled high, soft curls caressed her cheeks, and a light smile resting on her gentle face, she said, in a whisper, sadness reflected in her eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear, but we have no vacancies.”

“I only need a room for tonight,” Lucy said, trying to see what was causing the bright glow over the woman’s shoulder.

“There are no rooms — you must go quickly.” The tension in the woman’s voice concerned Lucy. Was it fear, fear of what— her being there? The woman glanced over her shoulder and stepped back; her long gown made no sound. She seemed to float across the highly polished wooden floor as she turned toward the dancing light and shadows beyond the hallway. Along the corridor, the mechanism of a grandfather clock clicked a warning. Christmas Day was seconds away.

“Please, you must leave,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried away. Lucy followed her, unwilling to leave without the star.

Beyond the hallway lay a spacious room with a high ceiling and a wide fireplace at the far end. Tables and chairs lined the walls, leaving the centre empty. Christmas decorations of paper chains, holly, and ivy hung from beam to beam, their berries glowing in the candlelight. In the far corner, next to the fireplace, stood a Christmas tree covered in multi-coloured paper chains and its branches heavy with silver stars and glass baubles. A man poised to crown the tree with a large silver, diamond-encrusted star. As the first strike of the clock echoed around the room, he settled the star into place. As the star touched the tree, a silvery light erupted from it, washing over Lucy and filling the room with iridescent colours. As her eyes adjusted to the luminous glow—brighter than any lamp—unearthly shapes drifted toward the tree, melting out of the walls as if summoned. Ghosts, Lucy wondered, but how could that be?

A low hum filled the room. Then, to Lucy's surprise, she realised it was voices—dozens of them, soft- and otherworldly. The drifting shapes took on form: translucent people, shimmering at the edges, greeting each other like long-lost lovers with smiles, hugs, and kisses.  

Laughter rose, music swelled, and the couples began to dance, and Lucy felt herself drawn into the bizarre revelry. Through the chorus of unfamiliar ghostly voices, Lucy heard one she knew. A voice she last heard on a rain-washed railway platform when he had held her tightly, both of them knowing it might be their final embrace. His destination had been unknown to her; in their line of work, there would always be secrets between them. They had married in haste, hoping they had a month together, but it wasn’t to be. A letter arrived the following morning to order Tom abroad the next day.

“Lucy, my darling, please don’t cry. We will meet again, I promise you. This isn’t goodbye.”

“Dearest Tom… this war has torn too many lovers apart.”

He pressed her close, whispering, “You are my world, Lucy. I love you.” Then he boarded the train and was gone. Days later came the telegram that told her three words that froze her heart forever— missing in action. No survivors— plane crashed into the sea.

“Lucy— dearest is that you.”

She turned to find the man of her dreams, tall and handsome as ever, with those laughing blue eyes— standing before her in the Star Inn on Christmas Eve, looking as he did on the day he left.

“Tom? Oh, Tom, but how, why are you here?”

Her husband pulled her into his arms, and they began to sway in time with the music. Just breathing in his scent and feeling the warmth of his lips on hers, made her heart race pushing the questions that crowded her mind aside— all she wanted in this moment as the music wrapped itself around them, was to dance with Tom for eternity  

 “I followed the light of the star,” he murmured into her hair. “It brought me to you. But we only have a short time together, and then I must return.”

“Return? To where?”

“Hush.” His arms tightened around her waist. “I came to tell you I love you— and always will. But you still have a lifetime ahead of you.” She rested her head on his chest as he kissed her hair.

Tom drew back; his blue eyes sparkled with happiness. “You must let me go, Lucy. This is goodbye. Follow your own bright star. Find someone to love you for the rest of your days. I’ll be watching over you.”

“Tom… I want to come with you.” Her heart ached with the longing she carried since his plane went down.

“No, my love. Not yet. Enjoy your time on earth.” He stepped back, smiling gently, “It’s time for me to go.”

As the last chime heralded in Christmas Day, the fire went out, the lights dimmed, and coldness encircled Lucy. The music and laughter faded, and Tom with them. Panic rose in Lucy’s chest. The tree and star began to fluctuate, flickering like a dancing flame. Acting on impulse, Lucy snatched the star from the tree and ran— just as the tree vanished in a puff of black smoke.

Lucy slowly opened her eyes and shivered. Sunlight poured through the windscreen, making her blink. The last wisps of mist would soon disappear. She sat up with a start, realising she was in her car. “Was it real,” Tears ran down her cheeks as she recalled Tom’s touch and her lips still burned with husband’s final, lingering kiss.

Lucy opened the car door, stepped out and looked around. The clearing where the inn had once stood was just a ruin, covered in ivy. The walls had crumbled, the roof was gone, and at its centre, a tall pine tree stood, shedding brown needles across the rubble. Lucy stepped over what had once been the doorway and carefully picked her way towards the tree. The old fireplace lay cracked and broken, roots from the pine tree and young holly trees forced their way through the cracks in the flagstones.

“Had it all been just a dream?” Lucy voiced her thoughts aloud, causing a blackbird to take flight and squawked his complaint of being disturbed. After catching her breath, she took in her surroundings. “Was the car chase…Tom… just my imagination?”

As she turned to leave, something flashed, caught by the sunlight. She bent to pick it up. It must have been true. A silver diamond-encrusted star lay nestled in her hand, the same one she had seen on the tree. She pressed it tightly to her chest, the five points digging into her hand.

“If it wasn’t real, how did the star get here?” Lucy muttered as she made her way back to the car.

On the way home, Lucy kept thinking about the star— had the thieves just discarded it? But, what about the laughter, music and dancing — and the woman, who had spoken to her, seemed so real. Tom’s words echoed in her mind; their final goodbye.

As she parked outside the cottage, she reached for the star. For a heartbeat, it pulsated in her hand, sending a warmth racing up her arm that burst behind her eyes. She was back in the Inn, dancing with Tom; his breath warm on her neck as he whispered, “Follow your own star, my darling.”

“Lucy, thank goodness, I’ve been so worried,” Penelope called from the open door as Lucy stepped out of the car. “Oh, you found it. What about the thieves?”

“No sign of them,” Lucy said with a sigh.

“Oh, so how did you find the star? Never mind telling me now. Come in, and I’ll phone Mr. Juggins. It’l 22ndl really make his Christmas. You put the kettle on, and you can tell me all about it over a cuppa. ”

Lucy followed her mother inside, her mind still puzzling over why the thieves had left the star. As she went through to the kitchen, she heard Penelope on the phone.

“But Mr Juggins I reported the robbery—I witnessed with my daughter. A loud bang… Oh, a car backfiring. And the star? Yes, the one, from your window. Oh…I see. Sorry to bother you. Yes, Happy Christmas to you too.”  

Penelope wandered back into the kitchen with a frown.

“Everything okay, Mother,” Lucy asked as she dropped a couple of teabags into a brown teapot and added hot water.

“How strange, Mr Juggins said there wasn’t a robbery. No theft of the star. No gunfire, just a car back firing. I don’t know what to believe now. We both saw it.” Penelope took two cups and saucers from the cupboard and set them down on the table.

“Never mind, we know what we saw. I have the star.”

“Yes, you do.” Penelope added milk to a cup and passed it to her daughter.”

After taking a sip of her tea, Lucy asked, “Do you know anything about the Star Inn up on the old High Road?”

“Now let me see. Star Inn, oh yes. It was once a popular coaching inn in your great-grandmother’s day. When they straightened the road, which isolated the Inn, but by then it didn’t really matter. One Christmas Eve, just as the clock struck the hour, a spark from a fire ignited the paper decorations on the Christmas tree. Several young couples, who were staying at the inn, lost their lives that Christmas. Legend says every Christmas Eve, their ghosts return for one last dance.      

Lucy looked down at the star in her hand. It felt warm as it glowed slightly. Whatever the world chose to believe, she knew the truth: love is so much stronger when we all follow our own star. Tom had found a way to come back to set her free.

About the author

 

 

ula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer who has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives with her husband, Russell, in a Garden Village in Essex. Just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

 

Mary and Me by Bonnie Meekums, camp coffee made with frothy milk boiled in a pan.

 

Mary and me

We found each other in the cloakroom on the first day at high school, like water finding its level. The cloakroom was full of too-long fresh gabardines mixed with the smells of new leather emanating from briefcases carried by the posh girls. When the deafening bell rang for break, Mary and me wordlessly attached ourselves to each other, walking round arm in arm as if we’d invented a new glue. People called us bosom buddies. You never hear that these days. These days, it’s all BFF, except the last F is often a lie, to be changed with your underwear. On weekends, we scraped our hands and knees on the tall oak trees in the park. And in the autumn, we collected conkers, hardening them with vinegar so they would win. We didn’t think, then, there could only be one winner.

Our mums knew each other. Like us, they were born a few days apart and went to the same school. I liked Mary’s mum. She always smelled nice. Not tarty. Nice. Like a summer’s day. I would look at them, sucking my thumb and wondering what Mary did right to get all those cuddles. She didn’t get told she was a bad girl. Ever.

I called for Mary on my way to school. She lived one street away, so it was on my route. She was always making us late, finding something else to do when it was time to leave the house, like ‘Hang on, Jeannie! I’ve just got to back-comb me hair,’ even though she’d already done it twice. Or, she’d be there pulling her socks up, making sure they were level on her calves, then pulling her skirt down from the waistband so she didn’t get into trouble because it was too short and she knew it. I would hop foot to foot, envisioning an earful for being late, then pull her out the door. Part of me wanted to leave her to it. But you don’t abandon your best friend, no matter how much your tummy tightens. There’s many a time I’ve done detention for that girl.

   Later, the back-combing paid off. All the youth club boys were after her. I bought the Rolling Stones’ ‘Get offa my cloud,’ even though I had nothing to play it on at home. It cost me two weeks’ pocket money, but it was worth it to play it at the club and dance like we were on Top of the Pops. Me and Mary always danced together, unless some boy got between us.

   There was a lad called Terry, like in the song. We used to sing it about him, us girls, but never to his face. He had beautiful Irish looks: pale skin, dark hair, bright blue eyes the colour I imagined a sapphire might be, not that I’d seen one. He used to loiter outside the club, smoking, waiting for Mary to come out so he could murmur something as she walked past. She always kept on walking, but she let him see her smile as she did. We were twelve; he was fourteen. I half hoped he’d notice me, but I could enjoy the attention he paid her; I didn’t have to face not knowing how to behave around him, even though in my dreams he and I were married and he loved me and cuddled and kissed me, showering me with affection.

   We started dating boys at thirteen. We’d go as a crowd to the bowling alley, or maybe the cinema. I never liked going to the pictures, though. I wanted to see the film, whereas the boys always made for the back row. They’d lean over and make you close your eyes so they could kiss you, slobbering so much it made the skin around your mouth sore. You missed most of the film, but if the boy had paid, it seemed only fair. One day, a boy called Derek grabbed my hand while he was kissing me and placed it on his thing, pressing down hard. I felt it go hot and wet. I froze, willing it to be over, his long tongue still poking where it had no business to, making me gag. When I looked at Mary, she wasn’t batting an eyelid as her boy’s hand groped her thigh, creeping under the hem of her miniskirt. She had her hand round his neck, kissing him back. I wondered what she was doing right, and I was doing wrong. I’ve never liked the name Derek to this day.

After that, I didn’t keep a boyfriend more than two weeks. If they did what that boy did in the cinema, they got the boot straight after walking me back to mine. If they were nice, I allowed things to go on a bit longer. My dad must have sensed something. He had a habit of calling each boy by the name of the last one, meaning they were on the back foot from the off. But Mary, she stuck with them at least three months. I got through six boys to her one.

‘Shall we go to the flicks Saturday, Mary?’ I asked one day on our way to school. We were nearly fifteen. ‘It’s that new James Bond film.’ I knew she loved James Bond, though she usually went with her mum. Still, I was hopeful.

‘Oh, no, sorry,’ she said in a sing-song voice, her ear pointing towards her shoulder as she inspected her nails, her lips forming a tight smile. ‘Me and Roland are meant to be staying in. We’re saving up, see.’

I could tell she wanted me to ask what she was saving up for, and to be fair, I was burning to know, but I wasn’t giving her the satisfaction.

‘Suit yourself,’ I said, shoving my hands in my blazer pockets. ‘I’ll ask Wendy.’

We both knew Wendy wouldn’t come, but at least Mary had the grace not to say.

Roland stuck. He used to buy her flowers and chocolates every Saturday from the market on his way to her. Her mum liked him because he was polite and called her Mrs Fletcher. As he became more familiar, his broad smile would come with an ‘Alright, Mrs Fletch?’ She would touch her lacquered hair with her fingertips and smile back at him, laughing and throwing her head back.

Shortly after our sixteenth birthdays, I saw Mary at school. We’d given up walking to school together, and she spent her birthdays with Roland. I asked her what she’d got for hers. She didn’t answer. Just took her left hand out from underneath the desk and laid it on top. Mrs Stewart glared in my direction. I squared my eyes on her so’s not to get into trouble. I looked down as soon as her back turned to write on the blackboard. There, on Mary’s ring finger, was a silver band with a colourless stone.

‘It’s only cubic zirconia. We couldn’t afford a real diamond yet, but once Roland’s flush, he’ll get me the real thing.’

Mary placed her hand back under the desk and began writing in her exercise book, looking up at the teacher now and then. I followed suit, my face and neck burning.

After we’d done our exams, Mary left school and got a job at the Co-op. It was only a stop-gap, she said, until she could get a filing job. I got a holiday job in the local library. I saw Mary once or twice, but words got stuck in our heads, never making it to our mouths. Then one day, we went for a walk in the park, just like old times. It was late summer, and the horse chestnut leaves were turning archangel-gold.

‘Oooh, can’t wait for the conkers!’ I said. But she kept looking at her sandals.

‘I know I’m a big kid,’ I said, trying to get her to agree so she’d come out of her shell.

‘I’ve got something to tell you, Jean,’ she said.

My heart started beating fast. I wondered if she was breaking up with me. Funny expression, I know, but we used to say that about friendships, not just boyfriends. I still saw her as my best friend, even if she seemed to have forgotten me since Roland came on the scene.

‘You know me and Roland are engaged,’ she began. My throat went tight, so I couldn’t get any sound out. ‘Well, we’re getting married next week.’

‘Next WEEK?’ My voice was like screeching tyres.

‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s when you’re back in school,’ she said.

‘Why? Why would you choose a day when I’m in school? Aren’t we best friends?’ I said, sounding pathetic. I could tell the tears weren’t far away and I willed them to stay put.

‘It’s cheaper. We need to save our money, with­—’

‘With?’

‘Withababyontheway,’ she blurted.

When the penny dropped, I wanted to give her a hug, tell her it would be alright, but what did I know? What would be alright? Never again being the girl for whom the biggest decision was whether to have ice cream or chocolate for your birthday meal? Who went out dancing, or giggled at nonsense? Being married to Roland? Having a baby? A life of scrubbing floors and making dinners? I felt like I was on a fast fairground ride, and I wanted to get off.

We kept walking, looking straight ahead until I stopped near the big oak tree we climbed when we were kids.

‘When’s it due?’ I said.

‘I dunno. Probably around March.’

‘Near our birthdays, then.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right.’

‘I can’t afford to have you as a bridesmaid, Jean, but I’d like you to come if you can bunk off school.’

‘Try stopping me,’ I said, tears stinging my eyes, relieved we’d found each other again. ‘I’ll always be your friend, you silly cow,’ I said, kicking the earth.

‘Ditto,’ she said.

We walked back arm in arm.

I went to the wedding, took a good luck horseshoe, and gave her a big hug afterwards. I even managed to hug Roland. He turned out to be a good bloke. He qualified as a car mechanic and then did his Knowledge as a London cabbie. Worked two jobs so they could pay a mortgage. And he got her that diamond. He was playing with his three kids in the park one day when he dropped dead. He was thirty-eight. The same park where Mary had told me her life was changing. The insurance paid off the mortgage, but Mary and the kids had a Roland-sized hole in their life that never quite healed.

And me? I got my A levels and ended up in a good job where I met Keith. He wasn’t like the boys I’d dated when I was young. He gave me time and attention. And he understood me almost as much as Mary. Keith didn’t seem to mind when I started going round to Mary’s more often after Roland died. I took to dusting Roland’s photograph for her and bringing flowers to cheer the place up.

Keith and me never had kids. I suppose it wasn’t meant to be. But I’ve never missed one of Mary’s kids’ birthdays. They call me Auntie Jean and kiss me on the cheek to this day.

Mary lives round the corner. We suffer with our joints, but we always get together on Wednesdays for a cuppa. It breaks up the week, especially since Keith died. Sometimes, we walk arm in arm to a café, but mostly we sit in her house by the park, listening to kids having the time of their lives. 

Lately, Mary’s been getting things wrong. Yesterday she thought Roland was due back for his tea.

So I’ve discussed it with her three. I’m moving in on Monday. Then she won’t leave the gas on, forget to bring her purse back from the post office, swear at the milkman, or go for a walk in the park in her nightie at half past ten like she did last week.

I mean, you don’t abandon your best friend, do you?

On Tuesday, we’ll visit the park. We will walk arm in arm, chuckling about the tall trees we used to climb. Now the leaves are falling, maybe we’ll find some shiny brown conkers. When we get back, we’ll take off our muddy shoes, put on our slippers, and she can make us a nice cuppa. Then she can put her feet up while I make fish and chips.

Between us, we’ll be alright.

about the author

 

onnie’s words appear in MsLexia, Tiny Molecules, Briefly Zine, and elsewhere. She shares a home with a rotating cast of family members, including little people who think they’re in charge. To relax, she walks, reads, and dances, occasionally travelling alarming distances to visit loved ones in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Website: https://bonniemeekums.weebly.com/ 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.