Elizabeth and Bryony are polar opposites, but they're the best of friends, and godmothers to each other's daughters – because they trust that the safety of their children is both of their top priority. Little do they know that they differ radically over one very important issue. And when Bryony, afraid of being judged, tells what is supposed to be a harmless white lie before a child's birthday party, the consequences are more catastrophic than either of them could ever have imagined. A topical and thought-provoking read that is both gripping and compulsive.
Farley County Court
December 2019
“They arrive in court separately. Bry first, early, perhaps to avoid the worst
of the demonstrations outside. She keeps her dark, hollow eyes fixed right
ahead of her, her head bowed as if in prayer, Ash’s arm around her, before
she crumples into her seat just in front of the judge’s bench.
The last time I saw Bry or Elizabeth was months ago at the now
infamous party. I remember watching them and feeling – as I always did
when it came to those two – a tug of envy, like a great hook in my abdomen,
pulling. It wasn’t what they said or did, quite the opposite in fact;
it was the absence of explanation. There was a calmness between them,
a knowing, because each was absolutely confident of the other. Their
friendship made them seem untouchable somehow. I’ve never had that
with anyone.
It’s a few minutes before the doors open again. The whole court shifts,
sits more upright, as Elizabeth walks into the large, serious room, Jack
a couple of paces behind. Her eyes cast about, scanning to see who is
there to support them. She nods at a couple of people. Her gaze lands
for just a beat on Bry and Ash. Her expression doesn’t even flicker
before she moves on. Her composure is impressive, silently letting us all
know she is blameless, unafraid. She takes her place on the other side of
the court to Bry. Her solicitor leans forward to whisper something and
Elizabeth nods in agreement, careful not to smile.
Next to me, a woman I recognise from the school gates says quietly,
‘It’s so sad, so sad, isn’t it?’
She sighs, then she finishes whatever she was doing on her phone
before dropping it into her coat pocket and turning back to me.
‘I always found their friendship a bit weird, to be honest. I mean,
they were so different, weren’t they?’
I nod and wonder whether she feels it too. This sense of something
Lacking – the hook, pulling – that behind all the gossip, all the bullshit
chat about school plays and football teams, we are starving for each
other, for connection. Is she, like me, desperate to see and truly be seen
by another woman?
‘I heard Elizabeth was almost assaulted by one of those anti-vax
demonstrators yesterday.’
Her voice is light, bouncy with glee. Her phone buzzes and she
snatches it out of her pocket. I turn back to face the court. And I think,
‘No, not her, she doesn’t feel it.’
Now, sitting here, I realise it was stupid of me, stupid to be jealous
of Bry and Elizabeth, because if this court case is the cost of true
friendship – families devastated, lives destroyed – then it can’t be worth
it. Maybe women like us are the lucky ones after all, maybe our distance
from each other keeps us safe, helps us to hide our wounds, our fears, so
we can’t be injured by others, lone wolves making our own way as best
we can.
“Bry has to admit it feels kind of leisurely being early, to be one of the first at the school gates, simply waiting, the afternoon sun warm on her face. It’s a relief not to feel a flood of panic rising in her; not to run.”
1 July 2019
For once, Bry isn’t late. She is waiting outside the Nettlestone
Primary School gates at exactly 3.30 p.m. She’d tiptoed out of
her vinyasa flow class a little early, been stern with herself
when she was tempted to nip into a shop on the short walk to
her goddaughter’s school, Elizabeth’s request in her ears:
Please don’t be too late, Clem panics if she thinks she’s been forgotten.
Bry has to admit it feels kind of leisurely being early, to be one
of the first at the school gates, simply waiting, the afternoon
sun warm on her face. It’s a relief not to feel a flood of panic
rising in her; not to run. So this is how it feels to be Elizabeth. More
parents start to gather, a few faces Bry recognises from around
town, parents she knows are friends with Elizabeth, but no
one Bry knows well enough to say hello to. They acknowledge
her vaguely and turn back to their conversations. Bry
can see why Elizabeth fits in perfectly here, leading the chats
about school trips and nit treatments.
Suddenly the school doors open and there’s a rush of
noise: small, high voices shrieking, laughing; a couple of
teachers’ voices lower, louder, warning, ‘Slow down!’ A fast-moving
cloud of children fills the little playground, all
clamouring towards the gates. Bry sees Clemmie immediately.
Her red hair, the same colour as Jack’s, makes her easy to spot.
Today it’s plaited, the plait moving side to side like a fox’s tail
as Clemmie runs. Her rucksack is too big and full for her
small six-year-old frame; it moves awkwardly on her back, out
of time with her run, but she’s laughing, her blue eyes and
freckled face creased in joy. Clemmie’s not laughing at anything
in particular; she’s laughing at the feeling of release, the
novelty of Auntie Bry collecting her from school, the chaotic
speed of her running. Bry bends, opens her arms, and laughs
too. Clemmie runs into her with a gentle thud. Her hair smells
of pencil shavings and strawberry lip balm.
‘Auntie Bry!’
Bry holds her and closes her eyes briefly. Clemmie wiggles
away before Bry is ready. She wipes a few strands of
hair from her face with her palm and says, ‘My class did the
song today in assembly, we did.’ Her rucksack starts falling
off her shoulders. Bry lifts it on to her own back and reaches
for her goddaughter’s hand. Clemmie starts singing a song,
presumably the one she sang in assembly, about baking a
cake for her friend. She looks up at Bry, dimples showing as
she beams. Bry swings their held hands so Clemmie knows
she loves her song as they start the short walk through the
narrow, hilly old streets of Farley, towards Saint’s Road,
where both their families – the Chamberlains and the
Kohlis – live. She gives Clemmie a two-pound coin, which
she drops into the cap of a man busking on the cobbled
bridge.
‘Cheers, girls,’ he says with a wink, and they both wave to
a friend who works in the health food shop.
‘Bry! Yoo-hoo! Bry, Clemmie, wait for us!’ Bry turns, slow
and reluctant, as her friend Row, still in her yoga leggings,
steams up the tree-lined pavement behind them, her daughter
Lily tinkling along by her side.
‘Told you you didn’t have to leave yoga early,’ Row says as
she catches up with them. Clemmie peels away from Bry and
greets Lily enthusiastically, before the two girls run ahead a
couple of paces.
‘But I guess Elizabeth would have killed you if you’d been
late,’ Row adds, her bangles jingling as she loops her arm
through Bry’s. ‘Where is she anyway?’
‘She has a meeting with the council about that petition she
got everyone to sign, about reducing the speed limit on
Saint’s Road to twenty.’
“She feels that she is justified in highlighting Elizabeth’s failings – how uptight and controlling she can be – but she can’t abide anyone else doing so.”
‘Oh yeah, right. I was wondering what was going on with
that,’ Row says, her tone slightly tinted with disdain, as
though Elizabeth has been sloppy letting the issue slide
when Elizabeth does more for the whole community than
anyone else, a fact that people seem to admire yet also
pisses them off in equal measure. Bry is used to Elizabeth
being divisive. She understands it – sometimes Elizabeth
pisses her off too – but she still bristles slightly at Row’s
tone. Like a sibling, she feels that she is justified in highlighting
Elizabeth’s failings – how uptight and controlling she can be
– but she can’t abide anyone else doing so, even
her own husband, Ash.
‘Lil, shoelace!’ Row calls to her daughter, and the four of
them stop so Lily can retie her lace before Row continues,
‘So, does it feel weird doing school pick-up? Alba will be here
in September, won’t she?’
Bry tries to picture her four-year-old daughter not in
her usual choice of outfit – yellow wellies and pink tutu,
perhaps – but wearing the same blue gingham dress and
black shoes as Lily and Clemmie. She imagines Alba shaking
her little brown head and saying, ‘Not wearing it, Mumma.’
It makes her heart flood and break simultaneously.
‘God, don’t. It’s such a weird thought.’
‘I know, I know. But everyone feels like that, trust me. I
cried and cried after I dropped Lil off the first time. But then,
you know, suddenly you have all this time and it’s amazing,
so . . .’
Bry nods; she does this a lot when she’s with Row.
Loves giving advice, whether you ask for it or not, doesn’t she?
Elizabeth said about her once.
‘Clemmie, what do you think about Alba coming to Nettlestone
after the summer holidays?’ Bry asks.
Clemmie’s head shoots up from her hushed conversation
with Lily and she says, ‘Baby Alba’s coming to my school?’
Bry nods, smiles, and Clemmie jumps up and down a couple
of times. From her kneeling position on the pavement, Lily
watches Clemmie, confused.
‘Why do you like her so much?’ she asks.
‘Baby Alba is like my little sister,’ Clemmie explains
patiently, still celebrating. ‘Isn’t she, Auntie Bry?’
Bry leans forward, kisses Clemmie on the top of her head,
and says, ‘Oh, that’s a lovely thing to say, Clem, so nice for
Alba to have a big sister . . . Just make sure she doesn’t hear
you call her Baby Alba,’ she adds with a wink, as though it’s
their secret how cross Alba gets when people do that.
Clemmie turns to Lily and says seriously, ‘Alba hates being
called a baby.’
The girls start to skip on and Row’s about to take Bry’s
arm again when Bry notices the corner shop on the other
side of the road is open.
‘Actually, Row, I think we’ll leave you here. I’ve got to pick
up a few bits.’
‘Oh, OK,’ Row says, pulling her arm away. ‘See you on
Saturday then?’
‘Saturday?’
Row laughs at Bry, her eyes widening in genuine surprise
as Bry adds quickly, trying to cover up her forgetfulness, ‘Oh
yeah, yeah, Elizabeth’s barbecue.’ She lifts her eyebrows, to
show that she exasperates herself sometimes, before calling
to Clemmie, holding her small hand in her own as they cross
the quiet road.
‘Bye, Lily, bye, Row!’ Clemmie waves; Lily waves back and
Row blows them a kiss before taking her phone out of her
pocket as she shoos Lily on.
In the shop, Bry heads straight to the ice cream fridge.
‘Choose whatever you like.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything.’
They spend the next five minutes agonising over whether
Clemmie would like chocolate with sprinkles or strawberry
ice cream more, before she decides to have the same multicoloured
ice lolly as Bry.
Bry pays, forgetting the bread and milk Ash said they
needed at home, and the two of them leave hand in hand,
their ice lollies already melting in the afternoon sun, a medley
of red, orange and yellow creeping down their wrists.”
Extracted from The Herd by Emily Edwards, out now.
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