The Best of Friends Alex Day (best short novels .TXT) 📖

over to them, my precious boys, eight-year-old Luke and eleven-year-old Jamie, who are waiting with a bunch of other kids for the paper chase to start, a cacophony of over-excited shouts and cheers emanating from the group. My heart leaps with love and hope at the sight of them, so intent on being part of it all, wanting desperately to join in, to belong. Poor lambs, they’ve been through the mill over the past year, what with their dad’s business collapsing, the money drying up, their family home being sold from over their heads, and all of this culminating in a messy and protracted divorce and a house move which has meant new schools and new everything.

I’ve tried not to let them see me cry but of course it’s been impossible to completely hide my distress. Despite this, they’ve been stoic throughout and I’m so proud of the way they’ve coped. Through it all, they’ve never complained, not once.

They’re not complaining now, not about the bitter weather, nor the fact that, unlike most of the other kids they’re with, they don’t have a father here to cheer them on, to wave their flag. Nor any long-standing friends, either. Along with all the material things we lost when Justin went bankrupt, our social circle deserted us en masse, as if we’d become toxic, liable to infect anyone who came too close with the malaise of failure. Without the status that coupledom conveys, and the outward indicators that everything is perfectly fine – a nice house, good clothes, food from farmers’ markets, foreign holidays – I became a nobody overnight. Being persona non grata myself was one thing, and hard enough to take. But to see my boys similarly ostracised, through no fault of their own, was much, much tougher.

At least right here, right now, that is not the case. The boys, judging by the excitable chatter that surrounds them, seem to have been accepted without question into this new milieu.

For me, things are somewhat different. All around me are gaggles of parents, all of whom seem to know each other, all of whom are already invested in this community in some way or other. I hear snatches of conversations, enquiries as to levels of school satisfaction, decisions on holiday destinations, proclamations about the weather or the political situation. Nobody else is alone, and none of them look like they are currently freezing their balls off as I am. They are all perfectly attuned to their environment, apparently evolutionarily adapted to the countryside in a way that I am not, and sporting the kind of practical, sensible outerwear that would not be found in the department store under the ‘coats’ sign but in ‘outdoor pursuits’, categorised by function and purpose.

Loud laughs waft towards me from one of the jolly groups. Despite how much I stand out in my inappropriate attire – a totally unsuitable lightweight trench coat in a particularly brilliant shade of pillar box red – none of them has so much as spared me a glance. The carapaces of belonging protect them, making their togetherness impenetrable. Even if this weren’t the case it probably wouldn’t change anything because I am utterly lacking in networking skills and too shy to make friends easily. The longest conversation I’ve had with anyone over the age of twelve in the last three months was with the removal men, and that was only to give them instructions – put this box there, that bed in that room, and so on.

A whistle blows and Jamie looks over at me, waves, then takes off his coat and drops it to the ground. He steps into place amidst a long row of boys and girls of similar height. Luke likewise casts aside his anorak without a care. He will be with the second younger group of runners. Smiling despite the bitter wind, I walk over to them and pick up the discarded garments.

‘Good luck, boys,’ I call, receiving a nod of acknowledgement from Jamie and nothing at all from Luke.

Cool and calm as ever, Jamie then turns his attention to quietly scrutinising the competition, sizing them up, whereas Luke, always effervescent, is jumping around wasting energy for the run on by playing the clown. I laugh despite myself. They are cute and funny and infuriating in equal measure but above all, they are mine and they seem to be doing OK, and that’s the only thing that really matters.

The whistle goes again, a different tone this time, signalling that the race has begun. The runners stream past, clouds of vapour hanging in their wake, thrumming footsteps shaking the ground beneath.

As I follow their progress, I catch the eye of a woman standing nearby. She smiles at me. Relief, combined with a profound gratitude, floods through my veins. Someone has noticed me, is ready to welcome me into the fold. I beam back over-enthusiastically, ridiculously and embarrassingly pleased by the attention. I grasp the mettle, determined to overcome my natural timidity, and walk towards the friendly woman, my lips parted ready to introduce myself, my mind working hard on what kind of greeting would be appropriate.

‘Hi, my name’s Susannah, what’s yours?’ or, ‘Hello, I’m Susannah, I’m new in the village. Have you lived here long?’ Unlike the children in the paper chase, I’ve had little chance to limber up for this challenge but, nevertheless, I’m going to go for it.

I open my mouth to speak.

But there’s someone else in front of me, almost, but not quite, elbowing me to one side, and shrieking, ‘Hattie! So lovely to see you,’ and throwing her arms around my erstwhile friend and I realise, with a searing stab of disappointment, that she had not been acknowledging me at all but this other person, the person she already knows and who is already part of her social circle.

Stumbling awkwardly, I march on, having to suddenly veer to my right to avoid careering straight into this Hattie person who is still being vociferously embraced,