Ginny (May)

Ginny

Ginny is trotting down to the beach to have a swim. It’s a warmish July day; a few clouds in the sky and a distinct possibly of rain later, so she is making a dash for it before the drizzle begins. It’s been a bewildering few days and she needs to clear her head. Swimming will be just the thing: a few laps back and forth while the sea is not too choppy. Her ancient, but still serviceable sandals give her a bit of purchase against the cobbles of the beach as she makes her way to the stretch of gritty sand that appears at low tide. Shrugging off her well-worn shorts and t-shirt, she adjusts the straps of her swimming goggles, tightens her pony tail and wades into the not-so-balmy water of the English Channel.

  Ginny is what you might call an ageing hippy. She doesn’t mind that moniker, since the “ageing” part is inevitable and the “hippy” part is something that she takes pride in. She was born at just the right moment: times were changing fast and she was able to take advantage of the new opportunities being offered. 

She is the youngest of four siblings, and, according to her Auntie May, mostly brought herself up since her mother had her hands full with the twins and the oldest boy, Geoffrey, who were all under five when she was born. “Like shelling peas,” Auntie May had remarked, her most benevolent version of Ginny’s mother’s ability to reproduce. “Didn’t know whether she was coming or going, been or gone by the time you arrived, Virginia.” Ginny always hated the full version of her name until she encountered the Mrs. Woolf variety at university. By that time it was too late, and “Ginny” had stuck. 

University had been a wonder for Ginny after the drab days of her technical high school. She’d failed her eleven-plus, and therefore missed out on the prestigious grammar school, but by age sixteen she had finally hit her stride and was able to move up to do her A-levels. Her parents came from respectable middle-class stock; the usual fare: solid three-bedroomed house in the suburbs, Church of England, two weeks at the seaside in August, true blue Conservatives. Ginny had gone against the grain from a young age, and it was clear (at least to Auntie May) that she was not going to follow in her parents’ footsteps. Or, indeed, in those of her siblings’ size 13 shoes. Geoffrey was the text-book first child: serious, studious, good at Maths and rugby. He sailed through grammar school and was well on the way to earning himself a first class degree in Engineering by the time Ginny was struggling through her O-levels. The twins (Simon and Stephen) were so alike that they were viewed as one person with two solid British-bulldog bodies. Like their older brother, they were good at rugby, and the three of them played happily in the family’s large back garden. 

Ginny was always the misfit; as a child she often wondered whether she had been left by the fairies: a changeling planted in exchange for a stolen baby. Apart from being the only girl, she was a completely different shape to her brothers: rail thin, gangly, awkward. Added to this, she was hopeless at sport, and prone to day-dreaming in Miss Robertson’s Maths lessons. Her parents had despaired of her forgetfulness and lack of attention. School was exhausting, every day she tried her best, tried not to get sidetracked when she was supposed to be focussed. 

Mrs Cunningham’s English classroom was her sanctuary. There she could sit for hours, elbow-deep in a story with no-one to scold her. Her parents had heaved a sigh of relief when she was awarded half-decent O-Level grades that were good enough to get into the grammar school - wincing at the ‘C’ in Maths but pleased with the ‘A’s in English Literature and Language. A-Levels were a stretch, but the sojourns through Chaucer and Dickens, Austen and Hardy had both delighted and inspired her to go for a place at University. Her parents were ambivalent about the idea, wondering if she shouldn’t go for Secretarial College instead, since that would at least offer her guaranteed employment. They warned her, frightened her, that a degree in English would be a waste of time, but Auntie May advised her to have a go: “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Virginia.” Ginny had listened to her aunt (and her own instincts) and prevailed. Although her chosen university wasn’t exactly top notch, she loved every moment. And her parents had been wrong: her degree allowed her to be gainfully employed for decades.

From her very first lecture, Ginny was enthralled. A whole semester to learn about the art of poetry; a whole lecture series on Jane Austen and the Regency period; a whole department of professors and students who seemed to talk her language. Her tribe. Her people. Added to this was a chance to think differently about the world, about all the preconceptions, all the notions, the beliefs and assumptions: the middle-class soup that she had been floating about in since she could string three words together. Now, everything was up for inspection, for evaluation. Ginny flourished, and the ungainly teenager learned that her love for literature had merit, something to be valued, not squashed down so far that she choked on it. Her namesake, she with a room of her own and pockets full of stones, was like a long-lost relative waiting to be discovered. Auntie May had recommended Virginia Woolf, and sent her a copy of “Mrs Dalloway” when she learned it was on Ginny’s reading list. Ginny still has the book, now dog-eared and scruffy, inscribed with Auntie May’s spidery scrawl: “To Virginia: get to know Clarissa; I think you will like her.” Leaving university with a respectable 2.1 had opened doors into teaching and writing that have sustained Ginny over the years. 

Moving through the water, Ginny is suddenly very weary. Recent events are weighing down her heart like a house brick duct-taped to her chest. She stops for a moment and treads water, thinking. What to do? She sighs, and then carries on, counting her strokes until she reaches her allotted number of laps. As she makes her way slowly back to her neat pile of clothes, she tries to sort out her feelings, turning them over, inspecting her motives and perspectives as she attempts to unravel the spaghetti of thoughts in her mind.

The wedding was an eye-opener. More than that. A revelation - and not a good one at that. Ginny has kept in touch with her nieces and nephews over the years, and was happy for Geoffrey’s daughter when she got engaged. Ginny has to admit (even now!) a pang of envy, since her own engagement (many moons ago) had ended in tears. 

Geoffrey married later than most, to a woman twelve years his junior, but settled down to a solid suburban life, much like their parents, and his wife gave birth to a pigeon pair in quick succession. Their daughter just married a “project manager” (Ginny has no clue what that means, but something in finance). The bride - her niece - was a picture in a princess ballgown that seemed to float up the aisle all by itself, and the church was beautifully decorated with sumptuous floral displays. A bit ostentatious, Ginny had thought, but each to their own. She had hoped Auntie May would have been able to attend and keep her company, but she had declined as her, “sciatica was playing up.”  As Ginny took her seat, she noticed that the groom was somewhat loud and boorish, but she put that down to pre-wedding nerves. The pair managed to get through their vows, and were waiting at the steps of the country manor house to greet their guests for the reception. Ginny noticed the groom’s breath when he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. She had been irritated by this presumption, but at the same time realised he’d been three sheets to the wind before he’d ever said, “I will.” The high spirits had been just that. Whisky, probably. 

Ginny was quite taken aback, and unsure how to respond. Now, she wishes she had done something. A quiet word with Geoffrey, perhaps? The reception unfolded in the traditional way: mediocre food, supermarket wine, inconsequential chit-chat. Ginny was placed next to one of the groom’s aunts; she (Ginny found out far too quickly) had recently divorced, and proceeded to complain about her ex-husband to Ginny in increasingly coarse language. Ginny tried to nod and smile, but found herself wincing at some of the personal details that Ginny would not have shared with her best friend, let alone a complete stranger. Finally, she was saved by the best man, who stood to announce the start of the speeches. Geoffrey made a decent stab at a tribute to his daughter; he clearly found the task several miles out of his comfort zone, but his words were genuine, and his love and admiration for his daughter sincere. The groom’s speech, however, was toe-curlingly awful. Aside from the slurred speech, there were various “nudge-nudge, wink-wink” comments that had the unfortunate bride blushing for all the wrong reasons, and most of the guests shifting uncomfortably in their seats - including Geoffrey, who looked pointedly at his watch and patted his daughter’s hand. When it finally ended (with a borderline sexist quip), Ginny grabbed her handbag, excused herself from the table and headed for the Ladies, thus avoiding whatever damn fool nonsense the best man’s speech might involve. Having composed herself, Ginny had wandered into the gardens to catch a breath of air. She stayed longer than she had planned, but long enough to see the bride bolting out of the reception room, tears streaming down her face, followed by her newly-minted husband, apologising and pleading with her to come back. Ginny watched, crouching behind a handy ornamental urn, hoping that she would not be noticed as a full-blown row ensued. The groom’s pleading turned to remonstration: his wife had no sense of humour, she was exaggerating everything as usual, she was embarrassing him in front of his friends. And then he slapped her. The bride froze for a few moments, her eyes widening. Then slowly, painfully she made her way back into the reception, her head bowed and her spirit broken. Ginny stood up; the groom briefly caught her eye, shook his head, and walked back in after his wife. Ginny was shaken to the core and decided to leave at once. She found her car and drove home, stifling tears of anger and sorrow as she focused grimly on the road.

Now, Ginny ambles back to her house from the beach enjoying the sea air and letting the breeze dry her swimsuit. Since the wedding she has not been in contact with her family, other than to send a rushed “Thank You” card to Geoffrey for the invitation and explaining her sudden departure due to the onset of a migraine. Ginny has never had a migraine in her life, but it seemed a plausible excuse for a woman of her age. Ginny knows that she cannot let this one slide. She cannot bear to think of her niece setting up home with a man who is prone to such anger and violence. 

What to do? Ginny cannot think of a course of action that will not cause upheaval and upset for years to come. She wonders if anyone else saw the slap, or was she the only witness? Does Geoffrey know? Probably, she reasons. She can hear her brother’s voice making light of the incident, brushing it under the carpet, putting it down to an excess of alcohol. Should she call her niece directly? But they are not exactly close, and her niece might interpret Ginny’s concern as meddling by an interfering old busy-body. None of the options before her seem right. 

Except the one to speak to Auntie May.

May

May is watering her geraniums. She’s fully aware that red geraniums in clay flowerpots are both unimaginative and humdrum, but she doesn’t care. Red geraniums will forever remind her of holidays spent on the Mediterranean: of olives and warm bread, rosy suntans and rough red wine drunk on the beach until the wee small hours. May loves her little garden at this time of year: the mint and basil are thriving in the sunshine and the Albertine rose is in full bloom. Absent-mindedly she picks a couple of heads from the lavender bush and crushes the flowers in her fingers. The fragrance reminds her of little old ladies: when she was young that’s what every granny smelled of. Now, of course, she’s a little old biddy herself, picking lavender. She smiles at the thought. Perhaps she’ll make some lavender shortbread later to have with a cup of tea. “How old granny,” she thinks. “Damn the tea, I’ll have a Pimm’s”. Yes, she likes that idea. She puts down the watering can and returns to the kitchen. As she’s rummaging in the fridge for the cucumber (what’s Pimm’s without cucumber?) her mobile phone rings. She frowns, wondering who might be calling her on this lovely sunny afternoon. She can’t locate her reading glasses, so the caller ID is a bit of a blur. “Hello?” she asks. “Oh, Virginia, how lovely to hear from you.” 

May sits in the faded deckchair, watching a couple of sparrows make use of her tiny bird bath, mulling over what she has just heard. She swirls the Pimm’s around her glass, ice-cubes clunking together as she moves from one thought to another. She’s horrified. Appalled. Virginia is on her way over, and the two of them will try and work this out. Two heads are better than one and all that. Still, this is a tricky one that might even be beyond Auntie May’s considerable powers. On one thing, however, Virginia is absolutely correct: she cannot let this slide, she must speak up. 

May has always had a soft spot for Virginia, her oldest sister’s only daughter. There was quite the gap between May and the rest of her siblings, so she’d always thought of herself as an only child (born in the month of May, of course). Her mother had suffered through a series of miscarriages before finally giving birth to May at the age of 41. Since Virginia is also a youngest sibling, there are only twelve years between them. In many ways they are more like sisters than aunt and niece. Virginia was a unique child, so different from her sturdy, solid brothers and her thoroughly decent but terribly staid parents. It was like - what was that old television programme? The Munsters? Yes - that’s it, the one with the perfectly normal girl (a niece?) who was pitied by the rest of the family for being so odd. That was Virginia. Off to university, much to her mother’s chagrin, where she’d studied English and discovered all manner of authors and music and culture that made her parents’ heads spin. Virginia would often call her Auntie May and regale her with her adventures into everything her parents either disapproved of, had never heard of or were frightened of. May was delighted: Virginia was a girl after her own heart. 

May takes another sip of her Pimm’s (which is somewhat stronger than she had intended, but what the heck). She wonders what the best course of action might be. Someone will have to speak to Geoffrey. But Geoffrey, God love him, a) hates confrontation and b) can be an absolute dolt when it comes to dealing with his daughter. He still thinks of her (in May’s opinion, at any rate) as six years old, and that everything will be alright after a nice glass of milk and a bed-time story. May sighs. Poor girl. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, as they say. But then, the “that” was a hot-headed Spanish boyfriend who had dared to lay his hands on her –– and got straight back as good as he gave. In fact, in May’s recollection, she slapped him twice as hard. She had promised herself that it would be the first and the last time she would allow herself to be treated like that by any man, and she had never gone back on that promise. The poor, sad bride. No other option than to leave him, but how in the world can either May or Virginia persuade her of the certainty that if has hit her once he will do it again. And again. And again. And afterwards it will be the excuses, the cover-ups, the guilt and the shame until he…well, May doesn’t want to even contemplate where this could end. She sighs.

“Hello?” Ginny calls over the back gate. “In the garden, Virginia, come through,” May answers. 

Ginny

Ginny can feel some of the tension ease off her chest as she sits next to her aunt, having poured herself a generous Pimm’s. Got to love Auntie May: not only is she wise and clever, but she also makes a fine Pimm’s. Although her deckchairs have seen better days, May is as sharp as a tack and a gifted listener. Over the decades, Auntie May has always been the one she would confide in knowing that she would never be judged –– although she had sometimes been scolded for being completely witless. The disastrous fiancé, to take a case in point. Auntie May had warned that he might not be as committed to the relationship as she thought, and that the boy was, “all mouth and no trousers, Virginia.” She had counselled her niece to not rush into getting married. Ginny was (and is) so grateful that she took her aunt’s advice, since not many weeks later she had found her errant husband-to-be cuddled up with her flatmate. “Cuddled up” is putting it politely, thinks Ginny.  She had almost laughed as they sprang apart like a couple of scalded cats when she walked in, but, in truth, she was devastated. She had turned on her heels, and left without saying a word. All she could think of was getting to Auntie May. Thankfully, May took one look at her, ushered her into her home, gave her a huge brandy and allowed her to weep and wail at the kitchen table until she had no tears left. In fact, it was Auntie May who had called her fiancé and told him in words of one syllable to take his two-timing hook and sling it. Well, something like that. Perhaps the language had been a bit more colourful, but the intent was clear. Ginny had received a remorseful note attached to a huge bunch of roses a couple of days later. Both went straight in the bin. The engagement ring, however, did not–– she got three hundred quid for it at a pawnbrokers and went on holiday to Naples with the proceeds. The fiancé may have been a cheating cad, but he was no cheapskate when it came to jewellery. 

Now, however, the predicament they have to wrestle with is much darker and its consequences far more serious. On the one hand, Ginny reckons, it’s quite simple: her niece must leave her violent husband. The girl must get out, and soon, no question. On the other hand, such a move will cause huge upheaval within the family that will continue for years to come. Sides will be taken, accusations thrown, angry phone calls made. Ginny shudders to think.

May  

May decides there is no time to pussy-foot around the issue: “So, Virginia, how do we fix this?” May is not in the habit of backing away from a problem that needs to be met head-on. Over the years she has found that there are precious few people in this world who are prepared to voice uncomfortable truths and even less who are prepared to take the flack for it when they do so. Most people would rather ignore the elephant in the room, even when it is peeing all over the Persian rug. Her nephew, Geoffrey, is unfortunately one of those people. As a child he would retreat to his bedroom and listen to his transistor radio if his twin brothers got into a fight. He would back away, blushing and stammering when the playground bully stole his brothers’ homework or pulled his sister’s hair. May suspects that Geoffrey knows his son-in-law has a cruel and vicious streak: it’s not that he is insensitive to what is going on in his family, it’s just that he prefers a quiet life with as little drama as possible. A cold beer and the test match on telly, rather than a serious conversation with his wife. Shelling out for an expensive wedding rather than sitting his daughter down and asking about her fiancé’s anger issues. Now Geoffrey’s sister has to step up. As Virginia talks through the various options before them, May finds herself getting increasingly irritated and frustrated. Why should Virginia have to deal with this? Why doesn’t Geoffrey grow a pair and confront this young man rather than turning a blind eye and allowing his daughter to be put in danger?

May and Virginia talk until the sun starts to set. Their conversation has run in circles, but in the end, there is still only one solution. They sit in silence for a while, both contemplating what the repercussions of their intervention might be. Their thoughts are interrupted by a grating sound behind them. Coming through the back gate is a desolate young woman, wheeling her suitcase over the gravel path.