The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(58)

‘What are your plans?’ I ask her, laying out my own letters. I use the ‘r’ of ‘brother’ to make ‘reads’. ‘Longer-term, I mean, after your A levels.’

‘University,’ she says.

What might my life have been like, if going to university had been as normal when I was her age as it is now? What would I have studied, and what would I have done with the qualification? At school, I was always good at history. Could remember dates and facts, and enjoyed seeing how different parts of the past slotted together, what impacted what, like a line of dominos. I try to imagine myself in a classroom, or a library or museum, or leading tourists around a place of interest. I might have been good at one or other of those things, but I’ll never know. Erin has everything open to her, doors flung wide. I’m a little envious, but I try to push that to one side.

‘Art is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.’

‘Seems to me that you’re pretty good at Scrabble,’ I say, as she lays down the word ‘ankle’ with the ‘k’ on a triple letter tile.

She giggles. ‘I want to work at a gallery, curating. I mean, eventually.’

‘Not making your own art?’

‘It just seems like too big a dream. It’s so hard to make it.’

I sit back, take a sip of my hot chocolate, watching her all the while. She’s looking at her letters, concentrating, a little hunched. I wish she could see what I can see. A young woman who could take on anything, and win. Who could do whatever she chooses. She’s right at the start, and nothing is closed off.

‘I’d advise against limiting your dreams at this early stage,’ I say. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later on. Now, you should be aiming for the biggest thing you can think of.’

She looks up at me and for a minute neither of us says anything.

‘Love,’ she says, a hairline crack in her voice. ‘That’s the biggest dream. Then art.’

I nod, because I understand. I do. All those career paths I didn’t and couldn’t have taken, none of them would have led me anywhere as wonderful as love.

‘Go for both,’ I say. ‘Always both. Then later, if you have to, you can start making compromises or choosing between them. But right now, reach for everything.’

She’s really looking at me, and I don’t know but I hope it’s a conversation that will stay with her, that she’ll think of long after I’ve gone, when she’s built herself a life and it’s more or less what she wanted. I hope she won’t settle for less than she deserves.





28





We’ve finished Scrabble, with Erin having beaten me by over one hundred points, and I’m starting to feel a little hungry when I see Kirsty walking down the street with Olly. I knock on the window and wave, and she waves back. A few seconds later, there’s a knock on the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ Erin offers.

I hear them making their introductions in the hallway.

‘I had to get out of the house,’ Kirsty says, coming into the front room. ‘Hello Mabel, happy Christmas, I hope you got my gift?’

The energy in the room has changed with her arrival, and I look beyond her for Olly, waiting to see if he’ll greet me. He doesn’t. Just sniffs around a bit, as if he’s trying to remember why he knows this house.

‘I did, thank you. I don’t know how you found a dog that looks so much like Olly.’

Kirsty laughs, doubles over, her perfect hair falling forward.

‘Mabel, that is Olly! We had a little photoshoot, didn’t we, Oliver? And then I had his photos put on all sorts – mugs, calendars, a tea towel. Ben was delighted.’ She stoops, picks up Olly’s front paws and gives him a sort of awkward cuddle. He’s made her happy, I think. And her him. His fur looks almost shiny with health.

I reach for the diary and calendar she bought me, flick through. And sure enough, there are photos of Olly against different backgrounds and wearing silly outfits. For October, there’s a ghost Olly. For June, a sunflower.

‘This is one of the nicest presents I’ve ever had,’ I say.

And Kirsty laughs again, puts a hand over mine.

‘So what happened at home?’ I ask.

Kirsty rolls her eyes. ‘Ben’s family,’ she says, then turns to Erin to clarify. ‘That’s my other half. They’re all there, both his brothers and their tedious girlfriends. One’s a vegan and the other one doesn’t like roast potatoes, so it was all “Would you mind doing some mash, Kirsty?” and “Have you got any kind of milk substitute, Kirsty?” Ben and his dad were busy getting drunk and his mum was overstimulating Dotty, refusing to let me put her down for a nap, while I was in the kitchen running around like a headless chicken – or turkey, maybe – and then Ben’s brother came in and said what did we have for dessert that didn’t involve cream and I’d just had enough.’

‘What did you do?’ Erin asks.

‘I just left. If I’d stayed, I would have put cream in all of their shoes or cut the arms off their coats or something. The turkey was done and I just told Ben to serve it, said I was taking Olly out and I wasn’t hungry and not to expect me back any time soon.’

There’s silence for a minute, and then she starts laughing, and I look up and see Erin’s laughing too, and I let go of something inside me and join in. It feels good, feels freeing.