Best of Friends

A brief flash of memory reminded Lizzie of her own hastily arranged wedding where the bride wore a dress a size too large in order to hide her burgeoning belly and the bride and groom’s parents wore stunned smiles. Times were different then, Lizzie reminded herself. Nobody had the money for big days out with three bridesmaids, a five-tier cake and an Abba tribute band at the reception. Mind you, nobody had the money for that now either. But Debra’s heart was set on a big day in mid-July and neither Lizzie nor her ex-husband had the heart to say anything.

Just then, an idea hit her.

‘Remember those lovely bridesmaid’s dresses in the wedding shop off Patrick Street? We could go and have a look at them again,’ she coaxed.

‘But I thought we couldn’t afford to buy the ones I liked.’ Debra was suspicious, thinking of the compromise that had been reached when the cost of the reception had begun to spiral beyond the agreed sum. Something had to give and Debra felt that it wasn’t any great risk to herself to have the bridesmaids wearing outfits from the dressmaker. Who would be looking at them? She was the star of the day. Her own expensive gown was worth the money but spending too much on bridesmaids was wilful waste. ‘The dressmaker’s doing a good job, really. It’s just Sandra who’s got a problem.’

‘Well, maybe we could let Sandra get a dress from the wedding shop. All three bridesmaids are going to be wearing different colours anyhow –’ began Lizzie.

‘I don’t know,’ said Debra, struck again by the unfairness of her future sister-in-law’s behaviour. ‘I hate weddings, honestly. It’s all a total pain. I’ve a good mind to tell Barry it’s off.’

Lizzie sighed. Debra was so highly strung that she sometimes failed to see others’ points of view. Unlike her mother, who saw everyone’s point of view. They may have looked alike – the same big eyes and round, open faces – but in character they were very different. Lizzie used to wish that Debra wasn’t so uncompromising but, in retrospect, she’d changed her mind. Being gentle and yielding got you nowhere in life.

Wednesday was manic in the surgery. First in the door on the dot of nine were Mrs Donaldson, a large, prune-faced pillar of the community, and her daughter, Anita, a shy, heavily pregnant woman in her late twenties, who would have been enjoying a perfectly normal pregnancy had it not been for her interfering mother. Mrs Donaldson, with five pregnancies behind her and a superiority complex, insisted on always seeing Dr Morgan because she thought male doctors knew nothing about female plumbing, but obviously felt that she herself was the expert on all things gynaecological.

She herself was ‘delicate’, she’d told a disbelieving Lizzie early on in Anita’s pregnancy. ‘My side of the family were all small-boned and pregnancy was such a strain,’ sighed Mrs Donaldson, folding big strong arms over a considerable bosom emphasised by a silky blouse with an inappropriate pussy-cat bow. ‘Dr Morgan won’t see that poor Anita’s the same. Poor lamb needs more ante-natal care and more visits. I can see it so why can’t her stupid obstetrician?’

Through all of this, Anita smiled sweetly at everyone and followed her mother meekly into the surgery for each unnecessary visit.

Clare Morgan, normally the soul of discretion regarding her patients, confessed that she loathed the sight of Mrs Donaldson.

‘Anita’s perfectly fine and I’m convinced her mother’s constant agitating is creating more stress for her than the pregnancy,’ she said.

Today Mrs Donaldson was on high alert because next door’s cat had been seen lurking in the vicinity of Anita’s clothesline.

‘Toxoplasmosis,’ said Mrs Donaldson darkly to Lizzie. ‘All cats should be put down.’

Lizzie’s eyes instantly swivelled to the windowsill, where Clare Morgan’s ginger cat, Tiger, liked to sit and mew miserably to be let in, even though he knew he wasn’t allowed into the surgery. Luckily, there was no rotund marmalade shape there. Mrs Donaldson was quite capable of running out and hitting him with her handbag.

‘The doctor is very busy this morning but I’m sure she’ll fit you in,’ Lizzie said, knowing that there was no point in saying anything else. Mrs Donaldson did not grasp the concept of people saying no to her.

By half-past twelve, after a hectic morning where the surgery had been packed with sneezing and wheezing patients, including one white-faced man who’d had to keep rushing into the loo to be sick, Lizzie felt as if she had only one unjangled nerve left. Every appointment had run late and there were always a few impatient patients who felt this was Lizzie’s fault for overbooking and glared at her furiously as they waited. But somehow, the throng had cleared and the last person had just gone in to see the doctor. Lizzie got a glass of cranberry juice from the tiny fridge in the kitchenette and dosed it liberally with echinacea. She didn’t know if it was the immunity-boosting medicine or the fact that she was daily exposed to every bug going, but she rarely got sick.

Luxuriating in the silence, she leaned back in her chair and stretched her aching back.

‘Clang’ went the bell over the surgery door. Lizzie straightened up to attention.

‘Hi, Sally,’ she said cheerfully, and relaxed again. Sally Richardson was a friend as well as a patient. She, Steve and their two boys had lived in the road behind Lizzie’s for the past four years and Lizzie had come to know them both from the surgery and from bumping into each other in the tiny corner shop where they bought newspapers and emergency cartons of milk. She’d been to several of their parties, although she’d had to miss Steve’s now legendary birthday party six months ago. And when Lizzie’s funds ran to it, she’d enjoyed a facial in Sally’s gorgeous beauty salon, The Beauty Spot.

‘Hello, Lizzie,’ said Sally, wearily pulling one reluctant small boy after her by the sleeve of his anorak. His younger brother was clinging miserably to his mother’s neck and looking balefully at Lizzie. ‘Tonsillitis again. They were both a little off form this morning, but now Daniel’s started vomiting.’

From his vantage point in Sally’s arms, Daniel stuck out his tongue to prove how sick he was, obviously used to doing it so people could look at his tonsils.

‘Poor Daniel,’ soothed Lizzie. ‘Have you got a sore throat?’

He nodded tearfully, big brown eyes looking like a doleful puppy’s.

‘And are you sick too, Jack?’ Lizzie asked his brother.

‘Yes,’ said Jack croakily, looking just as miserable.

They were both big children, too big for the petite Sally to carry any more, Lizzie thought. She looked exhausted.

From behind the reception desk, Lizzie produced the box of kids’ toys she’d tidied up earlier. Jack wasn’t too ill to fall happily onto the colourful jungle train, and was soon banging each animal, making it wail, roar or chatter. Daniel, however, clung to his mother and refused to be put down.

‘The wait won’t be long, Sally,’ Lizzie reassured her.

‘I feel terrible. I should have brought them first thing.’ Sally’s face was creased with guilt. ‘I thought I’d stay home from work and see how they got on, and then Daniel began to be sick and every time I changed him, he’d be sick again, so it’s taken us an hour and a half to leave the house. And Steve’s in bits because work is a nightmare since his boss left last month, and he’s got to do everything.’ She looked so wretched, with her normally glossy dark hair tied back into a limp knot, and her grey fleece stained with dried sick on one shoulder. Lizzie decided emergency measures were called for.

‘You need a cup of tea,’ she said, hurrying to boil the kettle.

Then she produced the ultimate bribe of chocolate buttons, and Daniel grudgingly got onto the floor with Jack to play jungle train.

‘They’re soft, so they won’t hurt your throats,’ she said, dividing the chocolate between the two boys. Then she gave Sally a big mug of tea and an oatmeal biscuit.

‘It’s my medicine.’ She smiled, sitting down beside Sally.

‘You’re so kind, Lizzie. I suspect that’s why people tell you things,’ Sally said, gratefully drinking the tea.

‘They tell you things too,’ Lizzie pointed out. ‘The salon’s like a confessional, with people revealing all sorts of stuff to you as they lie back being pampered.’

A faint grin touched Sally’s wan cheeks. ‘I think I’m too distracted this week to have anyone want to tell me their secrets,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about the boys and their tonsils, and I’m worried about poor Steve. He’s working himself into the ground. I ought to make an appointment for myself too,’ she added. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit run down lately. Nothing out of the ordinary,’ she went on, ‘just I’m a bit weary. Mind you, isn’t everyone?’

‘It’s good to hear you worrying a bit about yourself,’ Lizzie soothed, checking the appointment book. ‘You do too much, Sally. Running the salon, taking care of the boys and Steve…’

Sally laughed. ‘I don’t do too much,’ she said. ‘I don’t do half enough. You want to see the pile of ironing…’

‘You never stop,’ Lizzie said firmly.

‘Don’t bother getting me an appointment yet, Lizzie,’ Sally replied. ‘I’ll phone you for one when I’ve got time. Ruby’s away so the salon is madly busy, and Delia, Steve’s mother, is off on holiday soon, so she won’t be able to look after the boys, so I’ll be running round like a headless chicken for a few weeks. I’ll come and see the doctor after that.’

‘You have to look after your health,’ Lizzie said, waggling a finger in mock disapproval.

‘I promise I’ll phone you when everything calms down,’ Sally said.

The door to the doctor’s room opened and the last patient emerged with Dr Morgan close behind.

Lizzie got up to see the patient out, and Clare Morgan led an eager Jack into her office.

‘Thanks, Lizzie, you’re a star,’ whispered Sally as she got up to follow with Daniel.

On Thursday, Lizzie had a day off and Gwen arrived to take her shopping. They were not looking for clothes for Lizzie, who had already bought her wedding outfit – a lemon suit, which was the subject of much worry. She went to the spare-room wardrobe and looked at it every few weeks, hoping that the yellow colour wasn’t quite as sharp and hard as she remembered. It had looked fine in the shop during the heady days of the previous year’s August sales, when the thought of getting a bargain had outweighed all other considerations. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

‘Could I sell it in the small ads?’ she asked Gwen idly. ‘“Mother-of-the-bride outfit. Never worn. Makes MOTB look like before picture in makeover article.”’

‘You wouldn’t get the proper value of it,’ advised Gwen. ‘Sure, just plaster more make-up on for the wedding and you’ll be fine.’ Today’s trip was to buy clothes for Gwen and Shay’s cruise. Ten days on the Star of the Mediterranean in April would require lots of outfits, and Gwen, who wasn’t usually even vaguely interested in what she wore, had entered into the whole cruising notion with great vim and vigour. She’d been scouring the local boutiques for nautical outfits, and had gone so far as to make a list of suitable evening clothes from her own wardrobe so that she could be sure of not doubling up on anything.

Lizzie thought this was unlikely. Gwen’s life had not lent itself to cocktail gowns. A passionate knitter, she was far more likely to be remembered for her selection of oatmeal-coloured sweaters that could keep out even an Arctic chill. Unlike Lizzie, who could never resist colourful tops and flowing, gypsy skirts, Gwen preferred sensible outfits. Even her hair was sensible: cut short without any artifice covering the grey.