Lizzy

Lizzy’s heard it all before. Busy Lizzy. Frizzy Lizzy. Dizzy Lizzy…and that’s just the nicknames. Having been born in the same year as Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, her name was an obvious choice, but she wishes that her parents had used a little more imagination when it came to christening their daughter. There had been two other Elizabeths in her class at primary school: Elizabeth, Lizzy and Bess. So that her teacher (Mrs. Beckwith) could distinguish between them, from age five she was Lizzy. “Ah, yes, you are just like Lizzy Bennet from Pride and Prejudice!” Mrs. B had clapped her hands at her sheer brilliance. “Oh! oh! And here is good Queen Bess!” Mrs. B had trilled, much to Bess’ chagrin. There was nothing to be done. Bess she had been named, and Bess she remained to her dying day. Lizzy is sure of this, since she has just received a note from the third member of the trio, Elizabeth, letting her know that Bess has died. 

This is not unexpected: Bess had been diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer just over a year ago, and the wicked disease has done its work swiftly and mercilessly.  Lizzy sits at her breakfast table trying to find an appropriate emotion. Perhaps she is still working her way through the stages of grief, but finds herself stuck on anger. Sixty-six is no age at all, and Lizzy is furious that Bess’ life has been cut short. Bess was a sweet woman, kind and thoughtful. She had never married, had no children. Her life had been devoted to the care of animals: not in the crazy-cat-woman way, but as an educator and ambassador for an animal charity. She spent her days teaching children about looking after their pets and taking care of animal habitats –– growing butterfly-friendly gardens and making bee houses. She had lived quietly and purposefully, using her expertise and gentle enthusiasm to make the world a better place. Perhaps only the good really do die young, Lizzy thinks, but it is no comfort. She is spitting-feathers angry. In fact, she could spit an entire chicken, but she doubts Bess would approve. She’s livid that such good, quiet, decent people die young, when stupid, vain, greedy people live to be ninety. It doesn’t seem right. Lizzy takes a long breath and considers what she needs to get done. She takes her “to do” list that is stuck to the fridge door and begins to write down a list errands to run:

1. Black coat in dry cleaners

2. Black court shoes menders to be re-healed

3. Black dress…uh-oh. 

Lizzy takes a look at her only black dress in the wardrobe. It hangs slightly askew; its plastic cover is starting to crack and crumble at the edges. She takes it out and holds it up to herself in the mirror. A quick glance tells Lizzy that her black dress will not do at all: it has seen better days and is far too shabby. She wants to do Bess proud. There’s no help for it: she will have to buy a new dress, so this shopping trip may well take longer than expected. Lizzy curses under her breath and slings the dress back in the wardrobe, slamming the door. Angry tears start to prick in her eyes, but she has no time for them. Taking a a couple of deep breaths, she composes herself as best she can, collects her bags from the hallway and sets off to get the bus. 

The bus is due in three minutes, and Lizzy sits slumped in the bus shelter, her hands jammed in the pockets of her raincoat. It’s an overcast grey and drizzly day. Lizzy reflects that the weather is matching her mood, but it occurs to her that this is not true. Grey implies sadness and heartache, but she is hopping mad. The anger is growling around her mind like a wronged lover, on the lookout for someone to blame, someone to lash out on. Lizzy knows that she must keep her thoughts under control and get down to business. She takes her list from her purse and plans her route through town to get everything done before the 4:30 bus home. The bus arrives, and Lizzy takes a seat, grateful that the driver has the heating on and the bus is warm and cosy. Just they are about to move off there is a loud, insistent rapping on the side of the bus. The source is quickly apparent: an elderly lady with an umbrella making her presence felt. The driver patiently opens the doors and the old woman climbs slowly up the step. She waves her card at the driver and accuses the him of trying to leave without her: “You were leaving two minutes early!” “No, madam,” he explains carefully, “I was exactly on time.” “Not by my watch!” She huffs and puffs her way to the nearest seat, satisfied to have got the last word in. She looks at Lizzy for support, but she has picked on the wrong woman this morning, and Lizzy looks quickly away: she is in no mood to give approval to silly old women.

Lizzy watches the world go by as the bus works its way to the town centre. Again, she finds herself on the edge of tears but wipes them away impatiently. She gets off at the library, makes a point to thank the driver, and heads towards the dry cleaners. The dry cleaners is quiet, with only one older man in front of her. She is reminded (not for the first time) that retirement has its downsides, since she now has to negotiate the world of pensioners who have a different worldview and a different timetable to those in work. The transaction at the dry cleaners should only take a few minutes, but the older man seems to be taking his time to explain (loudly) exactly how he would like his jacket dry-cleaned. He then goes slowly through each pocket, rummaging around to make sure he has left nothing behind. The owner of the dry cleaners takes down the man’s name and phone number, and hands him a pink ticket. The old man takes the ticket and places it carefully in his wallet. Meanwhile, Lizzy is having an internal conversation with herself. She knows the old man needs time and patience, but she is not in the mood to give it. She chides herself for her lack of compassion, reminding her lesser angels that the man is simply a bit slower, that he has done nothing wrong. She makes an effort to smile at him and hold the door as he leaves. 

Fortunately, dropping off her shoes at the menders goes without incident, and she considers her options for finding a suitable dress for Bess’ funeral. She wonders if she should play it safe and go for a sensible Marks and Spencer’s outfit, or whether she should try one of the smaller boutiques that might have something a bit more avant garde. She decides to give Rebecca’s a go: she has often admired the outfits in the window, but never had the confidence to go and try them on. She is greeted with a smile and a friendly “Morning” by a tall middle-aged woman who is busy unpacking a box of winter tights. Lizzy is grateful that she is left alone to browse through the racks. Since she is looking for a black dress, the task is made somewhat easier, and she finds a couple that might do the trick. “May I try these on?” she asks the assistant, who replies with, “Of course –– let me know if you need any help or another size.” The first dress does not suit Lizzy at all: the sleeves are too long, and the neck too high. “Oh, good Lord –– I’m Mrs Beckwith!” Lizzy grimaces at her reflection. The second dress is not bad at all: fits on the shoulders, appropriate length just below the knee, three-quarter length sleeves. Lizzy steps outside to look in the larger three-way mirror. The assistant comes over: “That fits you really well,” she compliments, “a classic wool dress that will last you for years.” Lizzy bites her bottom lip. “It is pricey, though. Can I have a think about it and come back later?” The shop assistant is happy to oblige, and puts the dress behind the counter with Lizzy’s details. Lizzy thanks her and changes back into her own clothes. She decides to go for a cup of coffee and have a think. 

The “Mr. Kite” cafe has been in town for years. It doesn’t quite go back to Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, but the decor is certainly sixties-themed with orange and green floral wallpaper and formica table tops. Lizzy knows the manager, Debbie, well and they chat for a bit as Debbie makes Lizzy’s cappuccino. Lizzy tells her about Bess’s death, and Debbie (as always) listens carefully and sympathises. The next customers come in, so Lizzy takes a seat by the window, and checks her “to-do” list yet again whilst sipping her coffee. She wonders about the dress, and draws up pros and cons columns in her head. Pros: good quality, classic, would last forever, probably will be buried in it. Cons: expensive, expensive, expensive. She takes another sip of her coffee and wonders what Bess would think. Smiling at the corner of her mouth, she realises that Bess would likely have no opinion other than to tell Lizzy to do what she thinks is best. 

Lizzy’s attention is taken by a kerfuffle that is taking place at the counter. A well-heeled middle-aged woman with a fluffy honey-coloured dog is arguing with Debbie. She insists her dog should be allowed in the cafe, but Debbie is telling her, calmly and politely, that unless it is a service dog it must wait outside. Frankly, the dog (a Maltipoo! Lizzy realises with horror) looks embarrassed, as if it would rather be anywhere but in the middle of this quarrel. “But it is a service dog,” the woman insists snootily, “I need Coco with me at all times for emotional support.” Debbie replies firmly, but kindly, that the dog must stay outside. “If I say she is a service dog, she is a service dog!” spits the woman, pushing her well-powdered face across the counter. Lizzy snaps. She can’t have her friend demeaned in this way.  She strides up to the woman: “For Heaven’s sake, shut up! You silly woman! Take your ridiculous pooch and your dreadful attitude and leave!” With this Lizzy marches to the door and holds it open. Clearly, the woman is used to getting her own way, and does not know quite what to do. She opens and closes her mouth as if to say something in reply, but comes up with absolutely nothing. With a loud sniff, and a haughty lift of her chin, the woman flounces out. Lizzy returns to her seat, her anger subsiding. Debbie is standing with her mouth open: she has never seen Lizzy this livid and does not know whether to thank her or scold her. She carries on serving the next customer, who is also standing with his mouth open. Lizzy, meanwhile, is making up her mind. She drinks the last mouthful of cappuccino and takes her mug back to the counter. “Thanks, Debbie,” she winks as she leaves. 

Back in Rebecca’s Lizzy tries on the black dress again. She realises it is not the expense that is troubling her. It is something else, nagging at her like a scratchy label at the back of her neck. She looks at her reflection again –– tilting her head sideways to get a better impression. “Oh, my goodness,” she says out loud, “I can’t wear black for Bess, I just can’t.” Poking her head around the curtain of the dressing room, she asks the assistant if the dress comes in any other colours. “Absolutely” she replies, and goes to the rack to pick out two more dresses: one is bright pillar-box red, and the other, sage green. She holds them up for inspection. “The red one,” says Lizzy, “definitely the red one.”

Elizabeth

Elizabeth sits in the kitchen of her modest ground-floor flat. She sips her coffee and tries to read the morning paper, but the print wobbles and wavers. She can’t focus. She wonders why she still has The Guardian delivered, since it’s all online these days. Habit, she supposes. There is something satisfying about going to the newsagent each week and paying her newspaper bill. She has had the same Saturday routine for as long as she can remember: brisk walk around the green, back via the newsagent and bakery for a weekend treat. Two plain croissants this week, but soon it will be time for hot-cross buns. She’s looking forward to that. Let’s face it, she needs something to look forward to, however small. 

Bess's death has thrown her for a loop. Elizabeth knew that Bess was in her final days, but her passing has upset her more than she cares to admit –– to herself or anyone else. True to form, Bess had slipped away quietly, without fuss or bother when Elizabeth had left the room for a few minutes to grab a coffee and a sandwich. She was told by the nurse that this happens often: the dying wait for a moment alone and quickly take their leave. She doesn’t begrudge Bess her last, private breaths, and –– God knows –– she did not want her poor dear friend struggling any longer. Elizabeth smiles, thinking how Bess had died with a tiny upturn in the corners of her mouth, as if enjoying the joke. 

Time is getting on. Elizabeth pushes her chair back, rinses out her coffee cup, and heads for the hallway. She checks herself in the mirror, fluffs her hair, and applies a little lipstick. She takes her cherry-red jacket from the hook, scoops up her car keys and handbag and heads out. 

The drive to the church is not long –– twenty minutes or so –– allowing Elizabeth to take her time and compose her thoughts. She’d known Bess since their first day at school. To her dismay, she had found out there were three Elizabeths in Mrs. Beckwith’s class, but they were soon differentiated by their formidable teacher: Bess, Lizzy and Elizabeth. The three had remained in touch over the years; it was Elizabeth who had sent a note to Lizzy letting her know that Bess had died. She’d thought about phoning her, but in the end, could not face repeating the same awful information to one more person listed in Bess's pretty address book. Lizzy was too good a friend to telephone with such dreadful news, she reasoned, and a hand-written note seemed more appropriate. Bess's family (an older brother and an elderly aunt) had asked for her to be buried in the family plot by the sea in a private ceremony, so there will be no wake after the church service. Elizabeth is somewhat relieved: such occasions are always fraught with emotion and sadness, people clutching a plate of curled up sandwiches and a cup of lukewarm, over-milky tea, trying to make polite conversation. No. She hopes that she and Lizzy will spend a quiet afternoon reminiscing, remembering their beautiful friend and celebrating her life with a gin and tonic or two. On that thought, Elizabeth turns into the church car park. There are only a few spaces left: clearly there will be quite a send off for Bess. Elizabeth checks her face in her rear-view mirror, and takes a deep breath before locking the car door and making her way into the church. 

Bess was a regular at St. Michael and All Angels, and it seems the entire congregation has turned out to bid her farewell. The church is (surprisingly!) warm and she is welcomed by a polite and courteous girl in school uniform who hands her an Order of Service and another who directs her to a space in one of the pews. Elizabeth takes it all in. The music is not from the organ, but some gentle classical music is playing softly. She recognises it, but can’t name it. Close to the front, there seems to be a whole class of school children (seven or eight-year-olds, Elizabeth reckons), and behind them what must be the best part of a troop (pack? what’s the right word? she wonders) of Girl Guides. The floral arrangements are modest, in line with Bess's wishes: small bunches of daffodils and tulips tied with ribbon and attached to each pew, with larger bunches laying on the altar and across the pulpit. They look home-made, as if friends and family have taken flowers from their gardens and tied each one with care. Elizabeth finds it all painfully touching, and mops up her tears with a cotton hanky. She shrugs off her coat, and places her handbag by her feet, having retrieved her reading glasses so that she can distract herself with the Order of Service. There’s a lovely photo of a younger Bess on the front: she sits, bent forward, a tiny bird house in her hands. She’s talking to a group of small children who sit around her in a semi-circle; all eyes are on Bess. One little boy has his hand in the air, bursting to ask a question. Elizabeth smiles, and wonders if that little boy has carried on his enthusiasm for nature. She thinks he probably has. As she works through these thoughts someone touches her arm - Lizzy! They hug, briefly and somewhat awkwardly in the confines of the pew. Lizzy removes her coat to reveal an elegant bright-red dress. She looks at Elizabeth: “What do you think? I just couldn’t wear black.” “Me either. You look wonderful - just perfect.” Lizzy smiles and smooths the skirt of her dress as the congregation rises for the funeral procession. The words of the vicar are clear above the shuffling of Bess's aunt, who makes her way up the aisle on her nephew’s arm, her shoes scuffing on the flagstones: “Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord: and let light perpetual shine upon them…” 

The funeral is both fitting and uplifting: a thoughtful and strikingly honest eulogy from Bess's brother, a reasonably tuneful version of “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and a heart-felt song from the school choir, that leaves most of the congregation reaching for their tissues. The service concludes with a final prayer: “O Father of all, we pray to thee for those whom we love, but see no longer…” More tears drip from Elizabeth’s chin; she dabs at them hopelessly with her hanky - now a damp, scrunched-up ball. At this moment, the thought of seeing Bess no longer seems too awful to contemplate. She glances at Lizzy, who has fixed her gaze firmly on the vicars face, but is biting her lower lip as tears dribble down her cheeks. Bess's coffin is slowly, tenderly, taken out to the waiting hearse, which will take her on her last trip to the seaside. Elizabeth and Lizzy gather their belongings and leave the church arm-in-arm in grateful comfort, neither wanting to speak. One of the Girl Guides hands them each a bunch of daffodils and a small card - a thank you for coming, where no thanks are needed.

Elizabeth parks her car on the road outside her flat. She is weary and sad, but pleased that she and Lizzy had a chance to catch up, if only for a brief cup of coffee at the station cafe before Lizzy had to catch her train home. She opens the front door, hangs up her coat and car keys, and shakes off her shoes. “I think I’ll have that gin-and-tonic now,” she says out loud, though her flat is empty. In the kitchen she pours herself a generous measure of her best gin, and adds a couple of splashes of tonic. She raises her glass and gives a silent toast to her beautiful friend. Outside the window, perched on a coconut shell filled with seed, a house sparrow enjoys its supper.