The Remarkable Life

A REMARKABLE ENGLISH LIFE

At Emilys wedding, we celebrated in true British style for two whole days jolly, well-fed, and perhaps a little tipsy. The groom, William, was as dashing as Hugh Grant in his prime and astoundingly modest for someone with such annoyingly perfect bone structure. The entire guest list was sneakily eyeing up Will: eyes as blue as Cornish skies, lashes so absurdly luscious and long youd think hed borrowed them from a Disney princess (honestly, why does nature bestow this on men?!), a strong chin, classic nose, and skin so smooth and tanned he looked half-Mediterranean. And the final flourish: nearly two metres tall with the sort of broad shoulders that filled a suit. Were we not loyal to our dearest Em, thered have been an unseemly scuffle for the specimen right there at the wedding breakfast.

Oi, Em, whered you find this Adonis of yours? we chorused, all putting on our most tragic, single-lady faces just in case Will had some equally gorgeous, unattached relatives.

Oh girls, sighed Emily, it was his simplicity that got me. Will grew up in a little Suffolk village, raised by his nan, keeps chickens, fixes everything with two bits of wire all very handy. We met when my parents bought a cottage down his way. Hes thoughtful, kind, and absolutely dependable. The man runs a household like Mary Berry at Christmas! A real gent, girls, I swear. Took me forever to convince him to move to London nights and nights of negotiations, Im telling you, ha!

Turned out, Will was as much of a star at work and with the in-laws as he was at home. In a couple of years, hed developed an expert palate for good gin, mastered the London Underground, started dropping names about Parliament, started appreciating Monet, could discuss Premier League stats with the best of them, and his Suffolk burr was only spotted after a near-lethal number of pints.

He slid behind the wheel of the Ford Focus that Emilys dad had so graciously lent them, and nabbed a solid position at Emilys fathers firm conveniently close to home. As for who sorted them out with a swanky two-bed in Chelsea well, take a wild guess.

It was in their second year of marriage that Wills passion for white socks emerged. Only blinding, brilliant-white socks would do at home, for visits, in the local pub, and even inside wellies. The man would boldly pad round sock-footed on unhoovered floors and still beam with pride.

Emily never understood this white-sock obsession, but she became an expert at scrubbing floors twice daily and stockpiled bleach like she was prepping for the apocalypse. And so, with affectionate amusement, Will became Sock.

Emily found out Will was having an affair when she was eight months pregnant. Turns out, the other woman was just as pregnant. Sock was kicked out, sacked, cursed, and mourned for precisely one day. After that, grey, sticky, monotonous days of a typically British autumn set in. Emily took to lying on what now felt like an enormous, endless bed, staring at the ceiling with dry eyes:

Ill cry later. Cant be good for the baby

Much like an English monarch in exile, Em brooded in silence on her ridiculous bed, and we took turns to sit with her, offering mute, but steadfast, support.

We all wanted to howl, tear up destinys book, and rip out those traitorous chapters. But instead, we sat and waited. And drank tea. Buckets of it.

On the day Emily was discharged from hospital, we turned out in our best, chattered like magpies, waved novelty balloons, begged the nurses for sneaky shots of Earl Grey, and wished everyone, loudly, good health and happiness. The newly-minted granddad was the most enthusiastic, having chalked a vast, wobbly TA FOR THE GRANDSON! under Emilys window the night before, promising the nurses to clear it off and trying (unsuccessfully) to start up a chorus of Shell Be Coming Round the Mountain. Security kindly offered to listen to his repertoire in their cubby, with a discreet nip of whisky, no harm done.

On the big day, granddad was bright-eyed, practically shining, and wept with pride and joy. We all wept, to be honest. We laughed, we kissed Emily, we sneaked glances at the baby, privately pondering his tiny, Greek-god nose just like his dads. But not Emily: even with joy, she didnt cry.

Ill save the tears dont want it to curdle the milk.

Emily stayed silent for two more months. Then one day she put on her most battle-ready face and set out to visit Will. No drama no matches, no bleach. Just a serious desire to shout, break things, and have a good cry. She needed to accuse, tut, thwack the walls with her skinny fists, shame him, slander him, and just maybe heave all her accumulated misery onto the back of the one whod ruined her hope, her world with their tiny son, in whom shed once pictured herself, knitting socks for her favourite men on cosy evenings, little Jamie giggling as they strolled through Hyde Park, holding hands, and Will so needed, so theirs.

And Emily definitely wanted to look the hussy in the eye the shameless cow who went with another womans husband. And spit in those beautiful (no doubt), brazen eyes. Yes, a proper English gob. Or, if needs must, gouge them out with a particularly judgmental glare.

She accidentally found out exactly where to go for this confrontation, courtesy of the local curtain-twitchers clustered round the prams at playgroup. The old ladies stopped Emily, tut-tutted about Will (Hes an arse, dear), explained exactly how to reach the den of sin, and offered creative advice on appropriate revenge. Emily nearly walked away, but, English to her bones, stayed the course.

So shes here, standing before the dismal council flat block, just a flight of stairs away from a proper scene or a good old shout.

First floor: shes convinced no one will be in and shes wasting her time. Second floor: not so bad if no ones home, really. Third floor: some desperate wailing, very baby-shaped, from the fifth floor.

A skinny, blotchy-faced girl opened the door nothing like the alluring seductress Emily had pictured.

As Em awkwardly peered at her sobbing, sniffling, nearly transparent competition, a child could be heard howling with righteous hunger inside the flat.

Hello, Emily. Wills not here, left us two weeks ago, and I havent got a clue where he is, muttered the girl, slumping to the floor and clutching her knees.

Emilys urge for a big English row, frankly, vanished. She just wanted to go inside and rock this poor waifs baby, make a cutting remark (If you want to play with sledges, youd better bring the snow, you daft cow!), and deliver it with a withering, deserving look, as only an Englishwoman scorned can.

The baby was dry, eyelids puffy, a blue vein standing out on his forehead, and he had cried himself hoarse. Quite clearly, the poor mite was starving, while his hopeless, sleep-starved mother was lying sprawled on the hallway linoleum, howling.

How Emily rummaged through empty kitchen cupboards, or checked the bare fridge, she struggled to remember later. She found a scrap of paper on the table: Please forgive me, Im so s and a chill ran down her spine.

The girl sobbed away, telling Emily, as if they were lifelong friends, that shed nowhere to go once her lease was up in a few days. That her milk was gone, Will had vanished, and shed never exactly been rolling in money. She apologised, said she was sorry and ashamed didnt know itd end up like this. She wouldnt mind, no, positively invited, a quick slap. And by the way, her babys name was Harry, just so Emily would know, in case. Harry was exactly nine days older than Jamie.

Emily had to dash Jamie would need feeding in twenty minutes. Dashing was hardly straightforward: she dragged two enormous Oxfam bags, panted her way through the stairwell with the newly scrubbed, sleepy Harry in tow, skinny girl beside her. And in her head: where on earth would she fit two more beds, and would Jamie ever settle for sharing his cot?

Three years later, we were all celebrating the girls wedding. Four years later, it was Emilys turn. Emilys new husband loathes white socks (Life needs more colour!), adores Emily, cherishes Jamie, and dotes on their two little girls. The other girl (her name was Alice) now has four lively boys, and her new husband still hasnt lost hope for a daughterAt both weddings, the weather was defiantly British: a mischievous sun sneaking between clouds, a gentle drizzle during the vows that left everyone blinking and radiant. There were jokes, more than a few sentimental toasts, and the gentle clatter of mismatched teacups. Emily and her odd, cobbled-together family spilled across both occasions; children played chase in sparkly shoes and superhero capes, granddad danced with the babies strapped to his chest, the brides side and the grooms side blurred together over cake and laughter and stories.

If you walked into Emilys kitchen now, youd find polaroids jammed into magnets and postcards from the worldreminders that, even after stormy years, life marches back in with muddy boots and cup after cup of strong tea. Jamie and Harry tumbled through the hallway like brothers, noisy and inseparable. Sometimes, on summer evenings, Emily and her friend-turned-sister would trade stories on the step, watching their children fling daisies into the dusk, glad for tired feet and clear skies.

Some loves dont last. Some kindness does. No one sends out invitations to their greatest daysthe days they find grace, or grit, or home in the most unlikely places. But, standing in a garden lit with string lights, years later, surrounded by friendssome new, some old, all loyalEmily knew that the heart stitches together what the world tears asunder. And as she watched her children shriek and tumble on the grass, and heard her husband singing off-key while flipping burgers, Emily laughed, and, finally, finally, she cried. But only a little. There was too much joy to waste it all on tears.