by Jess Moriarty
We head out to the edge of the South Downs, a combination of dry weather and cold air making the ground hard but we can see the sun tipping behind the houses and feel the hope of spring. In lockdown, her hair has become a mane of gold and with legs almost as long as mine, she can easily keep up and talk non-stop at the same time. I am happy just to listen, especially on the hills. After some gentle cajoling, she has started to enjoy our post-home-school walks. Eye rolling and sighing soon moves into revelling in a space that is just for her.
She is known and also not known to me, in many ways we are alike but already, she has evolved far beyond me. At age ten, she has accepted that some people will like her and, ‘some really, won’t and that’s ok, that’s up to them.’ I was not this ten-year-old. I’m not even this 42-year-old, I have spent my whole life trying to please people, to fit in and keep the peace. It doesn’t come naturally to me but I have done it for so long it has become who I am and I still lack the self-awareness (or maybe the will?) to adjust. I shake this thought off, the evening and her voice in the cooling air after a day of work is a happy place. When she links arms with me I resist the Mirror, Mirror moment and wonder how something so glorious came from me. In dark sunglasses, luminous beanie hat, wedge silver trainers and long winter coat, she looks older than ten and glides along the flint path, sure of foot, while I often stumble in my faded Nikes with the soles coming off. She gleams in the orange sunset and I wonder for how much longer she will indulge me with these evening rambles. The night is coming but I am still basking as she chatters brightly about her friends and her hopes for after lockdown. I’ve already agreed to football camp, a massive garden party and a new cat, my default setting to sate and pedestal people is often misplaced but here, after a year of Covid and a forced hibernation, it feels good to promise her the world and mean it.
The birdsong and her voice are splintered by the noise of a small motor and over the brow of the hill comes a quad bike, driving vaguely in our direction at relative speed but veering all over the field. We stop our walk to see what they will do and as they get closer, we see two boys in their late teens or early twenties riding in tandem. They start whooping and waving until they are right beside us, ‘Hello beautiful!’ one yells directly at her, blowing a kiss without stopping and leaving us in their dust. She watches them go and I try to laugh it off. ‘Was that at me or you?’ she ponders, ‘You, which is creepy as hell.’ Arla looks at me, ‘Should we do something? Go after them or something?’ she is annoyed and uncomfortable. ‘It’s probably best just to ignore it. You don’t want to wind them up?’. We are walking back now, a little slower and she let’s go of my arm, ‘So we just take it?’ I keep walking and the words come out, ‘Well it just makes things easier doesn’t it?’