To Be A Friend

Getting to know other people was harder than I thought . . .

YOU’LL enjoy it once you get there. You won’t make new friends curled up on the sofa with ‘Myths And Legends Of Ancient Rome’, will you?”

Since my best friend, Jan, moved 300 miles away to the retirement cottage of her dreams, I’ve had to give myself pep talks on a regular basis.

Looking sternly at my reflection in the mirror, I apply some lipstick, which is the only make-up I ever bother with, and do my best to muster some enthusiasm for what lies ahead.

When I almost literally bumped into my former colleague, Trudi, mooching round Marks & Spencer on a miserable Monday morning, it seemed like a lifeline.

Jan had just left and I was at my lowest ebb.

“You should join our lunch club,” Trudi suggested. “It’s a great chance to get together for a good natter. We call ourselves the ‘Biscuit Girls’.”

She mentioned the name of three people we had worked with in the accounts department of a moderately well-known biscuit manufacturer back in the 1990s.

“They’d all be delighted to see you again,” she assured me.

I found myself accepting the invitation, despite never having been a joiner of clubs or groups.

Jan and I have been friends for over half a century, since we met at primary school, and I’d been used to meeting up with her at least twice a week.

Now my social life had ground to a halt.

It was time to make new friends, or at least to re-acquaint myself with old ones.

The first meeting was awkward, but that was probably down to me and my tendency to clam up when I don’t feel completely at ease.

The other Biscuit Girls all have children and grandchildren and, understandably, wanted to boast about them.

Apart from admiring the photos on their phones, I didn’t have much to contribute.

“And what have you been up to, Clare, since you retired?” someone asked when they finally noticed I was there.

“Oh, you know, this and that,” was the best I could come up with.

Feeling like a fish out of water, I kept nodding and smiling, and I was relieved when the waiter brought the bill.

“You need to make more of an effort,” Jan told me when I complained to her about it during our weekly Zoom call. “You’re one of the most fascinating people I know.

“Just talk about what interests you.”

I couldn’t imagine the Biscuit Girls being captivated by my ramblings about ancient history, which is my passion, but I promised to try, because I could tell my friend was worried about me.

“I don’t like to think about you becoming a hermit, with just your books for company,” she said, before we ended the call.

So here I am, about to go to lunch at the best Italian restaurant in town, feeling as though I’m about to have a tooth extracted or take my driving test.

I decide to catch the bus, rather than driving, so that I can treat myself to a glass of wine.

When it’s late, I seriously consider returning home to a nice bowl of chicken soup and my book.

Only the thought of having to confess to Jan when she asks how it went prevents me from doing exactly that.

I am the last to arrive, and through the restaurant window I can see everyone happily chatting.

As I approach the table they burst out laughing and, for one awful moment, I think the laughter is directed at me.

I look down to check that my blouse is buttoned correctly and my shoes match.

Trudi smiles at me. “We were just saying we should all have names,” she tells me, “like the Spice Girls did.

“Dot could be Sparkly Biscuit, because she loves her sequinned tops.

“Caroline could be Grumpy Biscuit, because she’s always moaning about something or other.

“Ann could be Ditsy, because . . . well, she’s a bit ditsy.

“I’ll probably be known as Chatty Biscuit, because I never know when to shut up.”

I sit down.

“We’ll have to think of a name for you,” she says, but the others have already lost interest and moved on to discussing their grandchildren’s predicted exam grades.

It looks as though I’m in for another session of nodding and smiling.

I console myself with the thought that at least the food will make up for it.

I have polished off a starter of goats’ cheese crostini followed by an excellent spaghetti puttanesca before I remember my promise to Jan to talk about what interests me.

This proves to be easier said than done.

Eventually I decide to just go for it.

“Did you know the carrot was a very popular vegetable in Roman times?”

I blurt out, apropos of absolutely nothing.

The table falls silent as, it seems, does the rest of the restaurant.

But I have started, so I might as well finish.

“They came in lots of different colours, but they weren’t keen on the orange ones.”

I can feel my cheeks burning.

“How interesting,” Caroline says in a voice that suggests she finds it anything but.

I eat my tiramisu in silence and make my escape as soon as I can.

But it seems to be a bad day for public transport.

I have been sitting at the bus station for half an hour when my phone pings with a text message.

It’s from Trudi.

Sorry about Boring Biscuit. I’d forgotten what she was like. I should never have invited her to join us.

For a minute I stare at my phone, bemused.

Then I realise what must have happened.

Normally, I’m the kind of person who behaves as though embarrassing incidents like this haven’t happened.

Not today, though. I text back.

I don’t think this message is meant for me.

Ten minutes later, when the bus finally turns up, there has been no reply.

I find a window seat and position my bag at my side in the hope of deterring anyone from sitting next to me, but people continue to pile on to the bus.

I stare miserably out of the window, mentally chastising myself for thinking I could ever be a Biscuit Girl.

Memories of everyone falling silent as I walked into the office, their giggling barely suppressed, resurface.

I must always have been a figure of fun to them: a strange single, childless woman obsessed with the past, with whom they had nothing in common with.

Someone sighs as they sit down next to me, and I recognise one of my neighbours.

It’s a woman I have barely spoken to since she and her family moved into the house opposite mine several years ago.

My heart sinks as it occurs to me that not only will I need to make small talk for the duration of the journey, I will also have to walk home alongside her when we reach our stop.

“Don’t often see you on the bus,” my neighbour, whose name escapes me, says.

I smile politely and explain that I have been out for lunch, although I don’t feel inclined to elaborate on what a disaster it has been.

In fact, I don’t want to talk about myself at all. I’d only bore the poor woman.

“How’s your daughter getting on at school?” I ask, hoping she will spend the remainder of our enforced time together enthusiastically listing the girl’s achievements.

To my surprise, she doesn’t.

She sighs again and stares down at her hands.

When she looks up at me, I notice dark circles under her eyes that suggest she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep for some time.

There is a wobble in her voice when she replies.

“To be honest, I’m really worried about her.”

I’m not accustomed to being confided in by virtual strangers.

But as she talks about her daughter Ella, whose life is being made a misery by a group of girls at school, I find myself making sympathetic noises.

At one point, even though I still can’t remember my neighbour’s name, I reach over and squeeze her hand.

“The trouble is,” the woman continues, “the only thing she ever wants to talk about is maths, and the other girls are into fashion and make-up.

“They were all friends at primary school, but now they’ve started to leave her out.

“She was heartbroken last week when she found out she hadn’t been invited to a sleepover at one of their houses.”

We arrive at our stop and, on the five-minute walk to the close where we live, I have no difficulty in finding words to fill the time.

“Tell Ella from me never to hold back from talking about what she loves. Perhaps she’s just talking to the wrong people.

“She needs to find friends who appreciate her for who she is.”

It sounds so simple when I say it out loud.

“It has been lovely chatting to you,” my neighbour tells me when we reach my garden gate, sounding as though she really means it.

Her name suddenly pops into my head. It’s Marcia.

“I gave it a go, Jan, but the Biscuit Girls aren’t my cup of tea.”

Jan frowns at me from my laptop when I tell her.

“What are you going to do instead?” she asks, no doubt imagining me sequestered in my sittingroom surrounded by piles of musty books.

I have an answer already prepared.

“I’m going to get out and about doing things that interest me. I’ve already booked a couple of theatre trips and applied to be a volunteer guide at Loxton Court.

“And I’m going to join the book group at the library, too. I’m sure I’ll find people that are on the same wavelength as me eventually.”

I sound more confident than I feel, but I’m determined, and even cautiously optimistic.

“I’m busy that day,” I tell Trudi a little brusquely when she phones a few weeks later to invite me to the next meeting of the

Biscuit Girls.

There is a long pause. “It’s because of that text, isn’t it?” she replies. “I’m so sorry, Clare.”

She sounds so mortified that I end up feeling a bit sorry for her.

Not sorry enough, though, to completely brush it off.

“I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t hurt, Trudi,” I admit. “But in a way, you did me a favour.

“I’ve resolved not to waste time on things that don’t bring me joy.”

I’m not sure she understands, but we end the call on good terms, wishing each other well.

Not everyone would have had the courage to phone after what happened, and I have to respect her for that.

I am telling the truth about being busy that day.

My favourite TV historian is giving a talk at the local bookshop, followed by a book signing.

I’m ridiculously excited, like a teenager about to see her favourite band.

The last few weeks have been filled with new activities and plans for the future.

Sometimes, briefly, I have even forgotten how much I miss having a friend around whoisalwaysupfora spontaneous trip out for coffee, or to see an arty film nobody else has ever heard of.

I have never seen the bookshop so crowded.

I’m resigning myself to the prospect of having to sit in the front row when I hear a vaguely familiar voice.

“Clare! Fancy seeing you here. I thought it was just me that was crazy about the Romans.”

My neighbour, Marcia, grins at me and moves her handbag from the chair beside her.

I sink gratefully into it. It takes time to build a friendship, but a common interest seems like a pretty good start.