Kelly? Its me, Fern. Luke asked me to call you
Lacey
Theres a nagging burning sensation nipping at my waist, the familiar gripe of a stitch building in my muscle. Ive tried pinching it between my fingers and blowing out, something my old PE teacher used to insist was an instacure, but its not helping. I tried massaging it with my fingertips too, but that didnt solve the problem either. Theres nothing for it but to slow down to a walk. The aches and pains are obviously my bodys way of telling me its had enough for today.
Ive been running for a month now, which is approximately three weeks longer than I expected to stick at it. I made the rookie mistake of telling anyone whod listen that I was doing a charity run, and because I have kind and generous (and borderline sadistic) friends and family theyd all been thrusting fivers at me and congratulating me on doing something so impressive. Admittedly, there were a few people who laughed in my face namely my boss, who told me hed offer sponsorship of a hundred pounds on behalf of Fine Time Events so long as I ran the whole half-marathon, obviously insinuating that he didnt think Id be capable. Well, Ill bloody show him. Theres another nine weeks until the half-marathon. Thats plenty of time to up the mileage and my fitness, so long as I can find a way to get rid of this stitch.
Lacey! The cheery voice lifts my spirits and brings a smile to my face. The familiar tone wraps me up, warming and reassuring. Dont you go overdoing it, now.
Dont worry, Uncle Carrick, I say with a grin. I know my limits. I managed forty minutes running today before I had to stop though, so I must be getting fitter.
Id been delighted with the improvement. My first running session had been almost entirely walking, and whilst I still jog with a lolloping, ungainly gait, at least Im picking up speed and covering more ground.
My uncle beams back, his wonky grin and twinkly eyes as sunny as the weather. Shed be so proud of you for getting out there and doing something proactive. She was all about fighting for change, was Marilyn.
I think of her all the time, I confess. She inspires me to keep going when my legs are telling me to give up.
Id loved my aunt so much. Now, when my feet were aching and my thighs burning with pain, I close my eyes and imagine her face. Somehow it makes everything seem just that bit more manageable.
Its funny how you and her are so different to Dad, I muse. Hes always been so serious and strait-laced. Its hard to believe you all have the same parents.
Uncle Carrick snorts. Well, Terrence always had ideas above his station. He was never going to be the type to settle for staying around these parts. Me and Marilyn, we were home birds, but your dad was forever talking about getting away. It was no surprise when he joined the army. Your Grandma Braithwaite told anyone whod listen about how wonderful he was. He was her favourite. Youngest child by a country mile, see. Spoilt rotten.
Im the youngest too, but Im not spoilt.
I know I sound defensive, but my parents have always been more lenient when it comes to my sister, Dina, even though shes wilder than I am. She was the one that school would be making calls home about because shed pierced her ears with a needle (and that one time she pierced someone elses ears with a needle it looked like someone had committed murder in their dorm, there was that much blood), or dyed her hair turquoise. The boarding school Dad had chosen for us was strict, and the headmistress a stickler for the rules. I lived for the weekends when I could escape the prison-like confines and stay with Uncle Carrick. Its probably because of those weekends together that were so close now.
Hed never had children of his own, which was a shame as he was a natural with kids. Hed listened to me and Dina, valuing our opinions and not just humouring them like Dad did when he made his weekly phone calls from wherever he was stationed at that time. Uncle Carrick had encouraged thought and debate and offered a safe place for us to form our own opinions. Those weekends had been my highlight, when Auntie Marilyn and Uncle Lenny would pop over too with a hearty vegetable pie and wed stay up late playing board games and laughing at Carry On films, even though I didnt understand half the bawdy jokes. Those joy-filled Saturdays and Sundays had almost made boarding school worth it, and were far more fun than the holidays where wed get shipped back home to wherever Mum and Dad were at the time.
Your dad wouldnt know how to spoil anyone, Uncle Carrick replies pointedly, pulling out a packet of mints and offering me one, before thinking better of it, taking one for himself then folding the half-empty packet into my hand. He only ever looks out for number one.
And Mum, I say defensively, although I dont know why Im standing up for Dad. He looks out for her too.
He does, Uncle Carrick concedes with a nod. I just wish he was able to show you and Dina how much he loves you both. One of these days hes going to regret missing out on your childhoods.
He thought he was doing the right thing, sending us to St. Eugenias. Its an outstanding school.
Everyone knew of my alma mater. There was a reason it was regarded as one of the top all-girls schools in England. The extortionate fees were offset by the fact they were top of the national results tables that were printed in the broadsheets each summer.
What people didnt know was how miserable it was for some of the girls there, especially those like me and Dina. Our family werent poor by any stretch, but we didnt have the country mansion and the London flat that the wealthiest girls had, or stables full of ponies, or Daddy picking us up in one of the cars from the collection of vintage autos in the family garage. Fellow pupils had teased us for having Uncle Carrick turn up in his sea-green Ford Fiesta, and when Auntie Marilyn showed up for prize giving wearing a gaudy paisley-print sundress and a wide-brimmed sunhat that shed bought especially for the occasion, theyd made snide remarks about her bohemian appearance. Their words had hurt at the time, but now I realise I was far richer than those girls would ever be, because whilst they might have possessions, Id been brought up with love and laughter by my extended family. Love was something some of them obviously lacked, if their ability to show compassion and empathy was anything to go by; not to mention their pompous, judgmental asses.
At least going there meant I got to spend more time with you, I grin, peeling a mint out of the silvery wrapper.
And for that Ill always be grateful, Lacey-Lou.
His eyes are misting up, and he examines the roses hed been pruning particularly carefully.
Im going to see Uncle Lenny later, if you want to come? I offer. Id be glad of the company.
Its still strange going back to Auntie Marilyns house and seeing all her nick-nacks on display when shes no longer there. She collected all sorts of oddities; paperweights and ornaments and clocks that hadnt worked in years. Jumble, most people would call it. Or tat. Anything she thought was beautiful would be displayed for all to see, even if it had been unloved by its previous owner. Much like Uncle Lenny actually, whod been divorced twice by the time Auntie Marilyn took him in.
Ive got a bottle of that whisky you like too? I add, hoping the bribe might swing it.
Go on then, he says with a roll of his eyes. You know the way to win me over.
Too right I do.
I lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. He brushes it off with the back of his gardening glove, never one for public displays of affection, but he doesnt need my hugs and kisses to know how much I love and appreciate him. I tell him all the time, even though the bond between us is so strong we dont need words. Somehow we intuitively get each other.
Meet you there at eight? I say. We can watch that quiz show he likes then.
Uncle Carrick groans. I cant bear that programme. The questions are too easy. I think thats the only reason he likes it, makes him feel clever when he gets the answers right.
Think of the whisky! I shout over my shoulder with a laugh.
I might need a whole bottle to myself to put up with Lenny! he calls jovially.
I smile as I head towards home, the thought of a fun evening with two of my favourite people bringing a spring back into my step. Its almost enough to make me break into a run.
Almost.
Fern
Yes, Jasper, yes! Thats much better!
The door to the café has been propped open to let in some much-needed air. It gets stifling in here during the peak hours otherwise. Thats why the rich tone of the Italians voice is drifting in, clearly audible from across the park as he cheers on his enthusiastic young pupils.
Maggies had a dopey grin painted on to her face all morning. Its obvious shes got a crush on him. She even left her usual spot in the kitchen earlier to peer out of the main window and watch the youngsters dribbling grubby mini footballs around a line of orange plastic cones. When I innocently asked what was keeping her attention shed given a noncommittal response about how nice it was to see children enjoying the first truly warm day of the year. I didnt believe a word of it, of course, but hadnt questioned Maggies reply, instead getting on with taking the plateful of fluffy scrambled eggs on toast over to the young man sat in the window, the sunniest seat in the whole café. Hes waiting on a pot of coffee too, which Maggies preparing.
After the eventful night at the hospital Im glad to be busy. It stops me worrying about Luke and waiting for Kelly to turn up. Nerves are churning in my stomach. I dont know how Im going to say what I need to say to her.
The scrambled egg on toast guy must be new to these parts: if Id seen him before Id have definitely remembered him. Hes got this sort of edgy look thats slightly out of place in the park. Most of the people here are decidedly mainstream not that theres anything wrong with that, Im hardly Lady Gaga myself but this lad stands out from the crowd. His blonde hairs a fraction too white to be natural, as though its aided by a touch of bleach, and he has a small silver hoop pierced through his bottom lip. It keeps quivering as though hes moving his tongue against it in the hollow of his mouth, which is kind of distracting.
Hes so far removed from the kind of boy I usually go for that I cant decide whether hes good looking or not. I never fancy anyone, except the same person Ive had a painful crush on since the first day at secondary school. Id fallen so hard and so deep that Id never wavered. My heart had one not-so-careful owner who couldnt care less that he held it captive.
I cast my eyes around the café for the edgy boys skateboard, assuming hes one of the hip kids that hangs out at the purpose-built skate park on the other side of the boating lake. The stuff they do is frightening: dangerous flips and tricks that look like they belong in a music video. Just watching them makes my stomach turn with fear. I cant see a board though, not even tucked under the table.
Can you serve this to the gentleman in the window, please? Maggie asks, snapping me out of my daydream. I carefully carry the gleaming silver coffee pot over to the man.
Ah, theres a flash of navy blue polo shirt peeping out beneath the red and black flannel of his shirt, a giveaway that he works in the park. All the sports coaches, maintenance staff and gardeners wear the same style. Theyre standard-issue, regulation and dull.
Memories of the uniform I wore at secondary school flood back to me. Id hated it. The other girls had dressed in miniskirts that barely covered their tiny, shapely bottoms, with socks pulled up to their knees in a bid to look sexy. I hadnt. Id worn a knee-length skirt with an elasticated waist, the only grey skirt on the High Street that fit my large frame. It was hideous and unflattering and saddled me with the cruel nickname Fernephant for all five miserable years I was there.
Thankfully Maggies stance on workwear is fairly laid back. As far as shes concerned staff at the café can wear whatever we like, so long as its white on top, black on the bottom, and clean and pressed. Im still fat, but black trousers are easy enough to come by. School uniforms are difficult to buy for those of us who carry extra weight, unless you accidentally click on those dodgy fetish websites that pop up when your laptop protection expires. At least black trousers are a wardrobe staple.
I place the coffee pot down on the table in front of the guy, cringing at the dull clunk it makes as it lands on the shiny surface of the tablecloth. It goes right through me, setting my teeth on edge.
Thanks, he says, not looking up from his phone. Hes engrossed in whatever hes reading, silently mouthing words Im unable to decipher. Lip-readings not a skill Ive mastered.
I stand awkwardly for a moment, shifting on the spot as I wait for eye contact that doesnt come. Most customers offer at least a cursory smile, but not this one. He doesnt even look up.
Eventually I give up waiting, but still smile politely even though I know he wont see. I wish I could be a bit less well-mannered, replying with a clipped Enjoy, or something, because its downright rude not to acknowledge the wait staff, but its too ingrained. Ive been brought up to be civil regardless of how Im treated, which is probably why I was such an easy target for the bullies at school. They knew they could say whatever they damn well pleased because Id never have the guts to fight back.
As I walk back to the counter I wonder about his role. Most of the staff at the park have been here for years, the same familiar faces as much a part of the landscape as the imposing bandstand and the large boating lake. I remember Carrick Braithwaite, the friendly gentleman who tends the walled garden near the main entrance, from when I was young. Hed share interesting snippets of information about the roses he carefully pruned, such as how there were over a hundred species of roses and that it was Englands national flower. Maggie said hed done the same for her when she was young too, and some mornings on my way to the café I see him passing on his wealth of knowledge to the next generation of curious children. The familiarity in the scene cheers me and although over the years Mr Braithwaites hair has changed from mousey brown to silvery grey to the brilliant white it now is, hes still as friendly and upbeat as ever. Hes part of the park. I selfishly hope hell never stop clipping those plants with those secateurs of his, even though he must be closing in on retirement age.