She crossed Princes Street, which was furiously busy at this time in the morning, and she resisted visiting any of the shops. She passed the galleries—the National with its sphinxes lying sentinel on every corner and dossers propped against pillars, petting their scrawny dogs. Up the several dozen steps of the Mound, and into the Old Town. She was getting to know her way about.
What would be the worst thing they could do to her at Job Party? Ask what she intended to do with her life? She could make something up. She wasn’t daft. She could tell them a downright lie—or pretend to be her sisters or Timon. Borrow someone else’s intentions for a while. Or they could make her take a rubbish job for a while. They had that power.
She went to the museum. In the vast and airy entrance hall they had a proper totem pole, several storeys high. Vases and teapots and earrings. She imagined how expensive everything must be. In the stuffed animal department she sat down to stare at a glass case the size of their old kitchen. It was crammed with specimens of almost every kind of bear on the planet. Some standing, some rearing, some curled supine. All of them were growling out of the corner of their mouths.
“A scene like this,” she said, gazing at them, “would never happen in nature.”
So she looked at this display for an hour or more.
It was the way they looked so companionable she liked.
All snarling.
TEN
Aunty Anne decided that we were going out shopping together. We were going to do Princes Street: all of the department stores I hadn’t seen yet. Princes Street reminded me of the Golden Mile, only with no sea and no illuminations.
I couldn’t go until I’d read that morning’s post.
You haven’t told us anything yet about what’s going on. You know you’ve still got a home here. With us. We’ve got a spare bedroom. Daniel has booked us up to go to Tunisia, which is the desert. Two weeks in July we could do with the rest. We’ll have to remember and take lots of sun block and all the right stuff for our pale skins. I’ll look silly on my counter if my skin burns, won’t I? Anyway you take care of yourself Wendy. We have a lawn now, Daniel laid it last Sunday.
Lots of love,
Linda.
Dear Wendy,
We’ve buggered it all up. Wasn’t it me who was supposed to be going off to the big city? You were the little’un. You were sitting put, while I found adventure. Yet there you are.
I want to know all about it.
Are they treating you nicely? Are you settling in? I don’t remember much about Uncle Pat. We never saw much of them, really. All I remember is me being tiny and Uncle Pat telling me—it was at somebody’s christening—that chickens are so stupid that they commit suicide every time it rains. The rain taps them on the head, they look up and it falls down the holes in their beaks and then they drown. Rubbish. So I think of him as a daft old man telling bairns rubbish. Is Aunty Anne behaving herself? Is she spending all his money? Are you living in the lap of luxury?
Look at my new address. I know—it’s not a Manchester address. I’ve moved. You’re going to say I’m stupid, I know. And you’ve no right to! You’re still four years younger than me. Just because you’re swanning about in Edinburgh doesn’t mean you can—oh, anyway, sod it, yes—I’ve left Manchester-city-of-my-dreams behind already and come to a small dingy town instead and all for some fella.
Reader—I married him.
No, not quite. But I chucked in my university place for him, even before term began. Am I mad or what? I’d even bought my set texts. I’d read them and everything.
We’re in Lancaster. A bit more north. Well, you know where it is. And if you don’t, you can look on a map. The smallest place I’ve ever been. A little castle with prisoners still inside, a canal with red and green chuggy boats going up and down and lots of mill workers’ houses. There’s a university on a campus out of town. It looks like a whole load of cereal packets and washing up liquid bottles. Looks like they made it on Blue Peter. Maybe I’ll transfer my course to there. We’re still talking it over and seeing what we can afford, and living in a rented house by the canal. From the kitchen window I can watch the swans go by.
Nigel had to come here, that’s the reason for all of this. He’s started a PhD. He’s going to be a doctor. He’s found this old out-of-print woman (I mean, a novelist) who nobody knows about and whose books he loves. I haven’t read any. This was the only place they’d have him to research her books.
Write and tell me I’m daft. Or write and bully me into getting back to my degree. Write and tell me to get something done. What am I doing? I’m tending houseplants. Putting up curtains. I’m fixing up the little house by the canal—lovely!—and having a fine old time. Nigel has a car and we run about the place. Lake District. Last weekend we went to see our Linda and that posh bloke of hers. A happy foursome. How we made me puke. Maybe I’ll get fed up with all this soon and do something mad like run away. I could hitch up to Scotland in an afternoon and come to see you. Land on your doorstep, Wendy. What would you think of that?
Tell me about it all, anyway.
Nigel’s up in the bedroom, reading. Doing his research. He thinks his old, out-of-print woman might still be alive. Wouldn’t that be something, he said—taking his head out of one of her musty old books—to find her alive and well after all these years! He
