The Café in Fir Tree Park. Katey Lovell
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solve the problem either. There’s nothing for it but to slow down to a walk. The aches and pains are obviously my body’s way of telling me it’s had enough for today.
I’ve 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 who’d listen that I was doing a charity run, and because I have kind and generous (and borderline sadistic) friends and family they’d 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 he’d 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 didn’t think I’d be capable. Well, I’ll bloody show him. There’s another nine weeks until the half-marathon. That’s 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. “Don’t you go overdoing it, now.”
“Don’t 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.”
I’d 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 I’m picking up speed and covering more ground.
My uncle beams back, his wonky grin and twinkly eyes as sunny as the weather. “She’d 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.”
I’d 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.
“It’s funny how you and her are so different to Dad,” I muse. “He’s always been so serious and strait-laced. It’s 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 who’d listen about how wonderful he was. He was her favourite. Youngest child by a country mile, see. Spoilt rotten.”
“I’m the youngest too, but I’m not spoilt.”
I know I sound defensive, but my parents have always been more lenient when it comes to my sister, Dina, even though she’s wilder than I am. She was the one that school would be making calls home about because she’d pierced her ears with a needle (and that one time she pierced someone else’s 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. It’s probably because of those weekends together that we’re so close now.
He’d never had children of his own, which was a shame as he was a natural with kids. He’d 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 we’d stay up late playing board games and laughing at Carry On films, even though I didn’t 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 we’d get shipped back ‘home’ to wherever Mum and Dad were at the time.
“Your dad wouldn’t 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 don’t know why I’m 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 he’s going to regret missing out on your childhoods.”
“He thought he was doing the right thing, sending us to St. Eugenia’s. It’s 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 didn’t know was how miserable it was for some of the girls there, especially those like me and Dina. Our family weren’t poor by any stretch, but we didn’t 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 she’d bought especially for the occasion, they’d 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, I’d 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 I’ll always be grateful, Lacey-Lou.”
His eyes are misting up, and he examines the roses he’d been pruning particularly carefully.
“I’m going to see Uncle Lenny later, if you want to come?” I offer. “I’d be glad of the company.”
It’s still strange going back to Auntie Marilyn’s house and seeing all her nick-nacks on display when she’s no longer there. She collected all sorts of oddities; paperweights and ornaments and clocks that hadn’t 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, who’d been divorced twice by the time Auntie Marilyn took him in.
“I’ve 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 doesn’t 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 don’t 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 can’t bear that programme. The questions are too easy. I think that’s 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.