My Imaginary Friend
For the past three days, a crowd of kids had been hanging around Beatrice. Word had spread throughout the school that she was a bit of an oraclea real psychologist in the making. Everybody wanted a slice of her wisdom. Theyd catch her by the loos, squeeze beside her in the canteen, bring her chocolate bars, homework, and other little gifts, all of which she oddly turned down.
I really like Jack from Year 6B. Do you think wed make a good couple? asked my classmate Sophie, her eyes dreamy.
I wouldnt, Beatrice replied, sipping her tea and crunching on a digestive, He seems nice, but he picks his nose and eats it. Youll never go hungry with that one, but its not much of a future. Hell probably just pick his way through life.
Sophie gagged a bit, Yuck! What about Charlie, then? Hes clever, learning guitar and all.
But Beatrice just shook her head, Charlie teases cats. He ties empty baked bean tins to their tails and chases them round the gardens. Hell turn out cruel, and probably end up on the bottle.
Why dyou think that?
Well, have you ever seen a sober guitarist? And really, you neednt worry about this stuff yet. Boys arent going anywhere. Better to sort out your maths and stop biting your nails, or you’ll end up with worms.
I havent any friends, moaned Peter from Year 5V, shoving Sophie so hard she slid across the bench.
Well, sign-ups for wrestling start Wednesday. You can sign up in the PE office. You might not lose any weight but at least theyll stop teasing you. Also, dont toss your future wife around like that.
Having said her bit, Beatrice picked up her tray and headed for the sinks.
Bea, do you think I should try for my licence this year, or wait until next? asked Mrs. Green, our geography teacher, as if in passing.
Mrs. Green, to get your licence you need a car, but all youve got is your dads old Ford Fiesta. See the difference?
I suppose so, yes
Beatrice rolled her eyes, finished washing up, then went on, Sell the poor thing, use the money for a new bicycle and some shorts. Youll be getting lifts to work soon enough anyway. Actually, you should take out a mortgage. The interest rates are a dream right now, and its not really on living with your parents at thirty-five. Just saying, as someone who knows.
Mrs. Green looked dazed as Beatrice walked off to her textiles class.
For the next forty minutes, while the rest of us were fumbling with the sewing machine, Beatrice darned her trousers, took in a skirt, and even crocheted a pair of socks, which she handed to our pregnant textiles teacher, saying, You need to keep your feet warm. The teacher left class for the pharmacy, and the next day, thanked Bea with a big chocolate cake for the whole class.
Beatrice was odd at home, too. She scolded her mum for buying frozen mince and made proper beef pies herself. That evening, instead of binging YouTube, she sat reading ‘The Three Musketeers, whispering and nodding now and then, as if talking to someone out of sight. Her dad kept glancing over the computer, until Bea told him off for slouching and said hed be better off shaking the dust out of the rug than browsing dodgy websites.
Soon the school was abuzz with rumours, and the teachers called in the counsellor. The entire school board gathered during lessons, even the headteacher.
Beatrice, has anyone at school hurt or upset you? the school psychologist asked, stroking his trendy beard.
It upsets me that the school got a grant for millions, and all we got for the gym was an old pommel horse and two yards of rope, Bea replied.
Everyone looked at the headteacher, who suddenly found an excuse to leave the roomthrough an open window.
Dont you have any friends?
Friendship is an abstract notion, Bea droned, twirling her plaits. Today its tag at break, and tomorrow your best mates washing up in your kitchen while you sort out your tax rebates.
Sorry, what tax rebates? Who told you all this?
My friend.
Theres the root of the matter! Can you bring her here for us?
Shes here already, Bea answered calmly, completely unruffled.
We dont see her. Whats her name?
Florence May.
How old is she?
Seventy.
What else does she tell you?
She says brush your teeth from the gums. She says the dog out front isnt mean, just scared and hungry. And never forget your relatives. She also says youve had your property tax calculated wrong for the last five years. You should go to the Land Registry and have them recalculate it based on the current value, not the old valuation.
The psychologist scribbled it all down, underlining the last part twice.
Then they rang my parents on the loudspeaker.
Hold on! my dad shouted into the phone. Thats my mums name! She died ten years ago.
Gasps and a hush swept the room.
Exactly, Beatrice said softly, Ten years and nobody visits. Its all overgrown, and the fence is falling down.
Well, I meant to, but never seem to have the time my dad mumbled, sounding small.
That was the end of the session.
The following day, all of us set off for the cemetery. Beatrice had never known her grandma but had heard bits about her from Dad. It took a while to find the grave, now lost among headstones in an old field that used to be oak woodlands. She brought a bunch of daffodils and put them in a cut plastic bottle. Dad fixed the fence, and Mum pulled weeds.
Dad, Grandma says youre a good man, but youre so caught up in work and the internet that youve no time lefteven for me.
Dad turned a deep red and nodded silently.
She says well do better, he replied, ruffling Beatrices hair, then running his hand over the faded photograph on the gravestone.
Shes calm now and wont visit me again, though Ill miss her very much. She was ever so kind, funny, and wise.
She was all that, and saw right through people. Did she say anything else?
She did. She said your cucumber diet’s a load of rubbish; go to the gym if you want to lose weight. And that opening that foreign currency account was sillyyou should crunch the numbers properly first. Oh, and about that cheap cement you ordered for the foundation under the shedDad laughed, a full and honest sound that echoed through the tangled grass, shaking loose what sadness clung to the air. Thats her all right. Straight to the point.
The rest of us joined in, the laughter warm and gentle, chasing chill from the bones of a dreary afternoon. Afterward, we stood quietly together, letting the birdsong fill the silence. I glanced at Beatrice. She looked differentlighter, as if a secret weight had slipped away. Her eyes twinkled, and for the first time in weeks, I realized she was just Bea again. My peculiar, sharp-tongued sister; equal parts mystery and mischief.
On the walk home, Bea skipped ahead, arms flapping like a windmill. Next time you need advice, Mum, try Aunt Jo. Shes not as spooky, but her casseroles are haunted.
Mum grinned, shaking her head. Thank goodness for normal family quirks.
We left footprints in the dewy grass, the late sun painting golden stripes over our backs. As the cemetery gate creaked shut behind us, I glanced over my shoulder. For a moment, just beyond the fence, a wild daffodil nodded in the breeze. It almost looked like it was waving goodbye.
At supper, Bea caught me staring. Dont worry, she whispered, Everyone needs a friend to talk to sometimes. Real, imaginary, or somewhere in between.
And she was right. Because that night, long after everyone had gone to bed, the house felt a little more crowded. And a little more loved.
