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

of Jamie, though I’d never boast or crow about his attributes. He’s everything a mother could want in a boy: clever and handsome, tall and sporty. He always wins everything, every spelling bee and times-table competition, all the athletics prizes plus the football and rugby tournaments – the latter not single-handed, obviously, but he takes a lot of the credit as he is usually captain as well as star player. This is what I try to focus on, when times are bad – how lucky I am to have my sons, that things can always be worse.

‘I’m Miriam, by the way,’ the hearty woman continues. ‘Miriam Whitehead. Nice to meet you.’ She proffers a large, unkempt hand, fingers unadorned by rings of any type, fingernails bitten and misshapen.

I take it and we shake, awkwardly. At least, I feel awkward. She seems oblivious. Her skin is rough and her palms slightly sweaty. It is more than warm in the kitchen now; in fact it’s decidedly hot, the Aga pumping out heat while the doors and windows are shut tight against the wind. I was frozen earlier, but now I wish I could take off my jumper, something that is not possible as all I have underneath is a faded and tatty old camisole that could not possibly be shown the light of day. I shift uneasily on the stool I’m perched on. Miriam hauls herself laboriously up onto the one next to me.

‘Lovely do, isn’t it?’

I nod. She’s a little odd, but I could forgive her anything because I’m so grateful not to be sitting here like Billy-no-mates anymore. And if I want to become a part of this community, I’ve got to start somewhere.

‘Charlotte’s children’s parties are always the most sought after!’ Miriam’s words explode forth in staccato bursts like anti-aircraft fire. ‘No expense spared. Party bags that cost more than I would spend on a present!’

‘Gosh,’ I reply. ‘That does sound extravagant. But lovely,’ I add hurriedly, in case Miriam should take what I have said the wrong way and think I’m being critical or judgemental.

‘Well, they can afford it. Dan is rich.’ Miriam purses her lips and nods, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial tone as she leans closer to me. ‘I mean, stinking rich. Absolutely loaded. All four of the boys down to attend Rugby – it’s where Dan himself went, of course. Oldest two, Jonny and Angus – they’re twins you know – are already there.’

‘Oh.’ I’m at risk of coming across as mentally incapacitated if I keep on answering in monosyllables. But Miriam doesn’t seem to have noticed and it certainly isn’t inhibiting her. There’s an air of adulation in the way she talks about Charlotte and Dan, mingled with a tinge of subservience. There are people who like looking up to others, glorifying them, who admire and lionise the rich and privileged. She appears to be one of them.

‘They have a beautiful home,’ I say. I know so little about the couple, the host and hostess, that I don’t have a lot to contribute to this conversation. I want to show willing but I’m acutely aware of the difference in our circumstances. I’m penniless, skint. It’s only the generosity – dished out with tight lips – of my parents (long since restored to full financial wellbeing, thanks to a new career for Dad and a couple of handy inheritances) that has kept the boys and me from dependence on the welfare state.

‘Oh, isn’t it just?’ shouts Miriam. And then she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper that would be clearly audible to anyone within a radius of about five feet, if they were inclined to listen in, ‘I think they’re going through a bit of a bad patch in their marriage at the moment though. Problem is, Dan does nothing to help Charlotte around the house or with the children! She’s positively downtrodden in that respect. Although on the other side of the coin, when he’s out earning millions, how much laundry can he really be expected to do?’

The rhetorical question hangs in the air. I look across the room. Charlotte’s handing a bin bag to a young woman, presumably a hired help whose job it currently is to collect rubbish. OK, I think, so she’s in charge of domestic arrangements, which she may or may not be happy about, but ‘downtrodden’ and ‘rich as Croesus’ are hardly concepts that fit seamlessly together. Miriam is possibly prone to a bit of exaggeration – not to mention the fact that she’s obviously an incorrigible gossip.

‘No kids myself, of course,’ she proceeds, well into her flow now, ‘but I am the scout leader and I run weekend sporting activities for the local young people. So important to keep them active, I always think.’

I’m glad she’s not telling tales about Charlotte’s marriage anymore. It’s really none of my business and tittle-tattle always makes me feel uncomfortable. I’ve been the subject of enough of it over the last year or so.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I respond, pleased the conversation is moving onto safer ground. ‘My experience of boys is that, like puppies, they need plenty of exercise to keep them out of trouble.’

Miriam laughs.

‘So, you’re new to the village?’ she asks and then, without a pause, continues straight on, answering her own question with another one before I have a chance to say anything.

‘Of course you are. And you will want to join the Food for Free club, won’t you? Membership is gratis, it gets you out and about, and the bonus is that you reduce your shopping bill.’

‘Well,’ I answer, hesitantly. ‘That sounds … interesting.’

I’ve got absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. Perhaps it’s a reference to a foodbank – in which case I must look even more impoverished and desperate than I think I do. Though this comfortable – some might say complacent – community hardly seems the spot for such a charitable enterprise. Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure that I