Page 44 of Mad Mabel

THEN

It was a hot, blue-skied day. Daphne and I were lazing by the bay window of my bedroom, the soles of our bare feet pressed up against the glass.Platter Paradewas on and Daphne was singing along, very badly, to the Everly Brothers.

“Dream dream dream,” Daphne droned, in her God-awful voice. It was so bad that I was more than a little grateful when I heard a rap on my bedroom door.

“Knock knock.”

It wasn’t like Cess to knock. Then again, it wasn’t like me to have the door closed. So much about my having a friend was unfamiliar. So much so that when Cess opened the door, I felt shy.

“Hello,” she said with an odd brightness. Ness was by her side. “We just heard you talking and thought Daphne might be here. You’ve been talking about her so much and we’d love to meet her.”

“Sure.” I glanced at Daphne. Daphne didn’t seem shy at all. She leapt to her feet.

“Hullo, Cess, hullo, Ness,” Daphne exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

The pause that followed confused and embarrassed me. I understood, of course, that Daphne’s family was working class. I saw it in her clothes, heard it in her accent. I knew that her parents were the type of people my Mum and Dad would have called “salt of the earth” but not the type of people who would attend one of their infamous parties.

My school, being Catholic, was open to all the families in our parish, but the only people we socialized with were the ones whom my father deemed to be of good standing. The people who came in our doors wore polished shoes, combed hair. If I’d had more friends, I may have had a better understanding of this. Cess wasn’t as judgmental as my father had been—or even my mother, for that matter—but she lived in their world. She wasn’t immune.

If Daphne noticed the pause, she didn’t show it. She widened her eyes. “Wow,” she said to Cess. “You look like Marilyn Monroe.”

Cess did look particularly glamorous that day. Her trousers, a soft pastel pink, had a sharp crease down the front, showing off the smooth lines of her slender legs. Her matching blouse, tucked neatly into her waistband, was a light floral print with tiny roses scattered across the fabric.

“And you,” she said to Ness, “are a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Daphne,” Ness said. She made meaningful eye contact with Cess to tell her to snap out of it. “A real pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Daphne said, with mock formality. “I’ve heard lots about you.”

“Can Daphne join us for dinner tonight?” I asked.

“Sure,” Ness said. “Cess has made chicken and vegetable pie with mash.”

Daph gave a little fist pump. I laughed. “Cess’s pies are the best.”

Cess was still staring at Daphne. I willed her to stop.

“Right then,” she said finally. “I’ll go set an extra place, shall I?”

We nodded, and they disappeared from the room, closing the door behind them.

Daphne beamed. “They’re so nice!”

“They’ve been best friends all their life,” I told her.

“Like we will be,” Daphne said.

“You think?”

“Heavens, yes,” Daphne cried. “Two little old ladies, wreaking havoc in the nursing home, you mark my words.”

Oddly I could see it.

“Sorry about the way they were looking at you,” I said.

Daphne scoffed. “That? That was nothing. Besides, for chicken and vegetable pie they can look at me any old way they want.”

To her credit, Daphne seemed unbothered. I hoped it was true. Besides, she made a good point. A lot of people would accept worse for a slice of Cess’s chicken and vegetable pie.