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I have many mixed feelings about May. I’m sure my mood reflects the uncertainty of the season. Have you ever tried to predict what the weather is going to be like in May? Always a disaster. That being said, I cannot recall such changeability as there has been this month. I’m back there, lying on my bed, looking up to the window, up high as it is, and I can see that the sun is shining. Great, I think, I’ll get my kit together and go out gardening. When I arrive, I’m greeted by a thunderstorm. And don’t get me started on the hail. Why is it falling in May, and why are the hailstones always bigger when it’s out of season? Ah, listen to me, asking you these unanswerable questions, that’s the wrong way round. I should be teaching you about these things. Either way, even though it seems fine now I hope you’ve put your thermals on, because now we’re here, I’m not going back inside until we’re done, and if you get cold that’s your problem, not mine.
If we take a proper look around, we can see how this unseasonable cold is holding everything back. Take this hawthorn hedge, for example, meandering past our patch before running across the fields and away, the hedge is full of light-green buds, nestling amongst its dark-green leaves. No colour yet. It is waiting. Everything is waiting, everything is holding back, hanging on. All the green has come, but none of the flowers have come out. That’s because green is nature’s response to the light, but the flowers wait for the warmth. I’m not sure if it’s proven as a fact or remains an old wives’ tale, but I’ve seen it many times over the course of my fifty-eight years, and I’m trusting my own interpretation of my experiences.
This is a May phenomenon, it’s all about the pollinators, you see. They won’t fly in the wind and the rain, and they certainly won’t venture out if it’s cold. They are sensitive to slight changes in their immediate environment, and they can be grumpy buggers when conditions aren’t perfect for them. Flowers don’t release their nectar unless it’s warm enough for the insects. Any flower that comes too soon won’t get the attention it needs, as they’re not giving anything in return. Then, the flower has failed, is doomed to droop, unwanted and unattended. It won’t thrive. Success is as much a matter of timing as it is one of luck. We’ll tend to the weeds in the meantime, clearing away the debris and then, one day, it will happen. It’ll be a bonanza, a mass orgy, all the flowers will open at once and compete for the pollinators, like debutantes at a spring ball. No loyalty will be shown, the bees will skip from flower to flower, plant to plant, swarming over those who are keenest to release their scent. You’ll be able to smell it in the air, like teenage pheromones. There is uncertainty in the timing but not in the event, so I don’t let it worry me. I wait and it will happen when it’s ready.
My reservations about May are represented by that conflict between the uncertain and the inevitable. May also has its traditions, as important to me as the harvest festival in October. The beginning and the end of summer. May is about the coming of good things in life, even if everything isn’t blooming at that exact moment. I’m going to tell you my May Day story now, even though it is one of my worst tales, the one I’m most embarrassed to recall. It’s the only time I failed as a mother, when I had encouraged my girls along a path which would lead to their inevitable collision. I learned some important lessons, and I wouldn’t be sharing this with you now if I didn’t think you needed to hear them. So, my dear, this is the story of my girls and their year to be crowned the May Queen.
*******
My girls were eight years old and, in our town, that was the age at which children were chosen for the May Day Parade. It was a big deal back then, the whole community came out to celebrate together. The main streets were strewn with garlands and bunting, to welcome the summer months. We would gather the afternoon before and paint with bright chalks on the pavement, hoping they would survive until the parade went past. I volunteered every year to be on our high school float. I was only the assistant librarian then, so I wasn’t always able to take part, but I’d help to decorate and I’d cheer them along. Someday, I hoped to be chosen to walk alongside the procession, throwing petals at the neighbours who came out to see the horses walk by, pulling carts laden with children or animals, sometimes both.
It was a joyous occasion and my girls were eager too. As non-identical twins, they weren’t supposed to be any more similar than any other siblings, but that wasn’t the case when they were young. They were the same age and the same size. They both had white-blonde hair when they were toddlers, before it darkened when they were teenagers and they started interfering with it. And they often wore the same clothes. We didn’t have lots of outfits, but some I made for them and it was easier to use the same fabric to make two sets from the pattern, rather than one. Occasionally, I bought the same item twice rather than have to choose which of them would have the nice new blouse. And of course, their school uniforms were the same, they looked so cute in the funny straw hats the school made them wear. So, while they weren’t identical, they were pretty similar to each other, and we were all happy that way, right up until the moment when we weren’t.
I had years to see this problem approaching, but I didn’t grasp its significance until the weeks before it became a central point of reference in our lives. They were the same age. There was only one year they could apply to be the May Queen. Only one of them could be successful. My other girl would fail. That one would be chosen was never in doubt, I was often stopped in the street so people could tell me how beautiful they looked, so angelic. But, truth be told, one was just that little bit more beautiful than the other. Lucy had a smaller nose, with a cute little button at its end, while Carol’s was slightly pointy. Lucy’s face had a more symmetrical look to it, and her eyebrows never needed taming. She was also a little more likely to preen herself. She’d ask for more elaborate braids in the morning, she’d care more which outfit she was going to wear that day. Carol took her cue from her. She was quick to copy, once Lucy chose, she wanted it too. They liked the attention they got from looking the same, and over time, they became more adapt at presenting themselves in that way. So they both looked pretty, but one of my girls looked just a little bit more beautiful than the other. Unfortunately, only one could be crowned the May Queen.
*******
I recognise how dreadful this tale sounds to modern ears. You have to remember, I wasn’t bringing my girls up in the late 1990s, surrounded by girl power and this having-it-all malarkey. I didn’t tell my girls they could do anything they wanted, because it simply wasn’t true. I’m not certain it is today, but it definitely wasn’t back then, in the late 1960s. Now, even the thought of a beauty pageant turns my stomach, I cannot believe this is what I wanted for my girls. Worse, how could I have not seen the car crash coming? Everything about this story makes me wince. I did try to intervene, I twisted and turned, hoping to convince one or both of them not to enter, but I was using words to upend years of behaviour, and I was too late. Lucy was convinced it was her destiny to be the May Queen and Carol was determined to follow her. I tried to dissuade them but, in the end, I let them go ahead, berating myself instead.
Of course, now, from the vantage point of being a grandparent, I can reflect on the inevitability of all this. Not necessarily of the specifics of the May Day Catastrophe, as we came to call it, but the need for some event, some critical moment in the girls’ development, where they stopped being a pair, and became individuals. I used to think that if I had treated them as separate children rather than as a couple then they wouldn’t have needed that moment, but it isn’t true. If they had been sisters with some form of age gap, their varying development stages would have provided some distance between them. If they were a boy and a girl, those differences would have done more to separate them from each other than anything I could have contributed. They could have paraded together, if that were the case. No, something was always going to be needed to create some space between my girls, no matter how insistent I’d been that they do the same things in the same way.
That is what I came to accept, in time. It wasn’t about me. It was about them. More specifically, it was about Carol. About who she wanted to be, and how she wanted to portray herself. They were both in stasis, paused, ready to burst into flower, waiting for the right conditions. And when that moment came, it came quickly, and it changed everything, completely, forever. They weren’t as close ever again, never as willing to be each other’s best friend, not as relaxed in each other’s company. That gap only became wider as they got older, though I’ve some more blame to take for that later, truth be told. I will tell you it all in due course, I don’t see the point in telling you my story and leaving out the shameful parts. So, here’s one of them, this is how I let my daughters get wrenched apart by a children’s beauty contest.
*******
The week before the judging, I tried to lower everyone’s expectations. I had left it too late, but at least I tried to pre-empt the catastrophe that was advancing upon us. I tackled the issue immediately after dinner, in that relaxed spot where everyone is full, and knows that something sweet is about to appear in front of them. I had a sticky toffee pudding warming in the oven, and the unseasonal smell of treacle had risen during our meal, leaving my family in happy contemplation of the treat ahead. This tactic had worked well for me over the years, from trying to get Papa to let me go out dancing for the evening, to getting Frank to do some fixing-up work around the house. My girls were no different from the men, they were more agreeable with a swollen belly and the scent of something sugary to come. We had one of those round wooden tables, in the room off the kitchen. It was barely an alcove but it did the job. My family was sprawled around the table in a post-dinner slump, so I gave it a go.
“You know girls, it’s the judging for the May Queen next week.”
Their eyes turned towards me though their heads remained still.
“Are you sure you want to take part?”
They sat up a little straighter then, exchanging a confused look between them.
“You don’t have to do all that prancing around in the parade if you don’t want to.”
It was a weak start. I knew it and, from Frank’s snort, he didn’t believe a word of it. I gestured, urging him to say something in support, but he shook his head with a grin on his face, to which I responded with a grimace. Our exchange went over the girls’ heads, of course.
“I’m so excited, its finally happening,” or something similarly gushing came from Lucy, while Carol furrowed her brow.
Or at least, that was how they reacted as far as I can recollect. Lucy, cheerful and optimistic. Carol, grouchy and forceful. Frank, amused and unhelpful. I’ve pictured them often, slumped around the table looking puzzled, all the times I’ve thought about how else I may have proceeded. Of course, there was only a week where I pictured that scene but didn’t know the outcome of the judging, whereas I’ve had thirty years, oh my, thirty years of remembering this scene with the knowledge of what followed. But still, I’m sure that was how it happened.
“Well, if you insist on taking part, just remember girls, we love you both anyway, no matter what happens,” I said, ineffective and feeble, even to my own ear.
Finally, Frank joined in, although only to make matters worse, “Ha-ha, no-no-no, of course my girls have to be the prettiest of them all. What are you talking about, woman? It’s a great chance to show them off, start lining these girls up with some boys from decent families, never too young to start thinking about it.”
Neither girl was looking at me now their Dad had started off. I’d heard this many times before, and I was getting frustrated.
“No-no-no, I have every intention of marrying one of you off to Joel, so becoming the May Queen would be a good start. I know you won’t let me down.”
Joel was the son of the owner of the factory where Frank was a junior manager. It was unlikely that Joel would marry one of our daughters, it would be surprising if they dated, but we all knew that being the May Queen would help no end.
“Besides, someone will have to be the Crown Bearer, won’t they, maybe that boy will be impressed by you, too.”
Frank continued to tell my eight-year-old girls that it wasn’t too early for them to start impressing good men, and that he couldn’t take care of them forever. The conversation was well off-track, and I was desperate to pull it back, and get us all re-focused on the main issue.
“Carol, you know that you can’t both be the May Queen, don’t you?”
Well, it was the very worst thing I could have said. She jumped up from the table, slammed her fist down on it, and began screaming that she was just as pretty as Lucy, so why shouldn’t she be the one chosen to be the Queen? Lucy started crying, dropping her head into her hands and hiding her face, as if this were sufficient for her to absent herself, for this to not be happening to her. Frank leant back in his chair, with a smirk across his face that I felt an overwhelming desire to slap off him, an urge as strong as a chemically induced craving. I restrained myself but, in doing so, I wasn’t thinking enough about Carol and how she was reacting to my insensitivity.
I blathered on, “I mean to say to both of you, it will be okay, believe me, this judging won’t matter in a couple of weeks, and it won’t matter at all when you are older, regardless what your father says.”
I could tell it wasn’t enough.
“Anyway, who’s to say one of you would be chosen as the May Queen? Maybe someone else will be chosen, and all this worry would be for nothing.” Time for my sucker punch. “Mmmm, smell that, I’ve made sticky toffee pudding as a special treat, who wants some?”
Carol stormed off upstairs, hammering each foot down so hard that she felt more present in the room than Lucy, sobbing into the remains of her dinner. Only Frank seemed to be listening to me.
“Oh yes please, grab me a spoon darling, I’ll have theirs too, if they aren’t bothering,” he said, nodding as he winked at me.
Obviously, I’d made a right mess of it. I tried again, of course, for a whole week that is all anyone heard from me. You don’t have to do it, I don’t care if you win or not, you won’t care in the future. I said it all but they knew better, as none of it was true. The girls had a lifetime of experiences which taught them to want to be the May Queen, and nothing I said at such a late stage could change that. It was as inevitable as spring.
*******
I hope you don’t think I was playing favourites, my dear. I wasn’t, and I never have preferred one daughter over the other. If there is blame for me to accept, it’s that I was too focused on treating them the same. It was the simple truth, Carol was not as pretty as Lucy. They both knew this, it was one of those unspoken understandings which exist in every family. The shock did not come from the sentiment, but from its voicing. I wouldn’t have said something if I hadn’t thought it would minimise the damage caused by the collision course we were on. If I couldn’t prevent the impact then I hoped to soften it, I hoped talking about it before the judging ceremony would cushion the blows. Rather naïve of me, I know, but even if I’d fully understood the futility, nonetheless, it was important to try my best.
The other consequence of this conversation only struck me years later, and that was how central this whole event proved to be in destroying any lingering respect I had left for Frank. The moment where my frustration and anger turned into disdain and dismissal. Funny, because at the time, I didn’t see any difference at all. Maybe that was because I was dedicated to my girls, perhaps such dramatic shifts are only apparent with the benefit of hindsight. My family was changed forever by that judging ceremony, and not only in the obvious ways. Who knows how our lives may have turned out, if Carol hadn’t won the May Queen Crown.
Oh, I’m sorry, had I not said earlier? Yes, Carol won. It was a shock to us all. Everyone but Carol had expected Lucy to win, and for Carol to be upset. No one was prepared for the reverse, or for the destruction it would cause.
*******
Judging day dawned bright and clear. Swallowing my apprehension, I waved two beautifully dressed, neat and tidy girls into their school hall, surrounded by the other eight-year-olds, all smartened up but none coming close to the sweetness of my twins. They didn’t let the mothers in. They wanted to test how well the children would manage on their own, as they couldn’t be accompanied on the parade. We spaced ourselves out across the playground as if we were crows in a field. Our friendships were paused for these few minutes, we didn’t wish to discuss our hopes for our children, to give voice to our ambitions, to share our disappointments. Not even I could be cocky, for while it was a beauty pageant in some respects, the girls’ behaviour and attitude were also being assessed. And so, when the girls came out, I assumed it was Carol’s poise and determination which had won her first place. Lucy’s hysterical tears and hunched demeanour appeared to support the judges’ decision, as Carol boasted about her triumph the whole walk home. The truth only came out during dinner that evening, when Frank got his teeth into their story.
Before they could walk around the hall for the first assessment, Carol pulled Lucy’s hair and made her cry. This was bad enough, but then she said that Lucy was scared and needed her to hold her hand, otherwise she wouldn’t keep going. And the judges relented. They were allowed to walk around together, and whenever Lucy looked like she was getting her confidence back, Carol tugged her hair again. Lucy was eliminated and the path was clear for Carol’s victory. Carol had been so resolved on beating Lucy that she hurt her. She cheated. She won.
Lucy cried for days afterwards. I had to work hard to bring her around to accepting the injustice of it. Telling on Carol may have stopped her being the May Queen, but that wouldn’t mean Lucy would take her place. Best to let one of them do it, I reasoned, and find another way to balance it out. Lucy saw the sense in that, but she was sad about it, just the same. She acted differently around Carol after that, started flinching from her, which was something I’d never seen before. Lucy spent more time alone, sitting in her bedroom while Carol kept herself warm by the fire. She started to be the last to come to dinner, and the first to leave the table. She stopped asking for her hair to be braided so I put it in a simple pigtail, thinking that she’d come round once the parade was over. Somehow, I believed this was a phase, and that it would pass.
Carol, on the other hand, I’d never seen her so pleased with herself. She was boastful and insensitive, and showed no shame, no embarrassment at how she had come to prosper. If it had been my choice alone, I would have removed her from the parade and relinquished my opportunity to bask in the reflected pride. I was angry enough to do so. But Frank also had a say, and he wasn’t disappointed at all. He kept telling her how proud he was of her, and he refused to allow me to say anything different.
“Should she just accept second place because you think Lucy is prettier?” he asked more than once.
Denying this would have been pointless. Frank liked to ask questions but not receive answers.
“Is Carol’s success not to be celebrated? Should it mean less because it came as a result of her guile rather than her looks?”
I did try to disagree, to set some standards of behaviour for our girls.
“She bullied her way to be the May Queen, Frank, that isn’t okay.”
“No-no-no she played to her strengths and she’s got her moment in the sun now, teaches them both a valuable lesson. They need to sort these things out between themselves, we can’t be interfering in every squabble they have. Leave it be, woman.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
*******
The day of the parade arrived. It rained the night before, so there was no chalk to line the path. The sun didn’t shine but it stayed dry for the parade and so, for everyone who wasn’t a member of my family, it went well. Carol posed in the carriage with a metal tiara on her head. Some boy called Peter was the Crown Bearer, he was a pleasant enough child but he couldn’t upstage Carol. She appeared as if she were born to the honour, and although I couldn’t approve of her methods, I wouldn’t deny I was pleased to see her up there. Having a daughter crowned at the May Day Festival was every mother’s dream, after all.
Lucy came along to watch, and she managed to smile and wave as the carriage drove past. I was proud of her for doing that, and I made sure she knew it. She even danced around the May Pole with all the other children who hadn’t been chosen that year. Something like that is noticed by other mothers as well. Grace in response to adversity is as crucial as elegance when attention is bestowed, and Lucy was resilient, capable, coping with life’s tougher moments. I didn’t intend for that to be a recurring theme in her life, but then, I hadn’t planned for it to be impacted upon the way it was. Frank didn’t come to the parade. He had tickets for the away game, and he wasn’t going to miss the match to see his daughter waving at a crowd of our neighbours. He had his bragging time in the pub afterwards.
I thought everything would return to normal then, and it did, in most ways. My girls didn’t repeat this escapade. As far as I know, neither of them hurt the other ever again. But a wedge had been placed between them and from then, they grew apart, maturing into their different ways and separate lives. Carol kept trying to look prettier than Lucy. She worked at it, and she looked good. She set her sights on Joel and married him before either of them were twenty-one years old. Frank would have been so proud of her. She was determined and she was successful, although hopefully a little less ruthless these days. She still lives in Conterring, leads the May Day Committee, remains the woman every other tries to impress.
Lucy, on the other hand, she started going the other way, she stopped taking much notice of other people’s opinions of her. As Carol became more polished, Lucy became more carefree. She had a natural beauty, and she embraced it. She let her hair run loose when the trend called for it to be pumped high, she wore her make-up light while others piled the colours on. She embraced the hippy movement despite it passing out of fashion, and she travelled. She never did settle. She found love, many times I believe, and she’s been true to herself, I’ve no doubt. She’s the woman who doesn’t feel the need to impress anyone.
When I compare my daughters, it is hard to believe they are the same two girls, the non-identical twins who could barely be told apart. That is why I have stopped blaming myself for the May Day Catastrophe, even if I do re-live it every spring, when I see the beauty and cruelty of nature. The girls were always going to have to break free from each other and follow their own paths. Maybe they were delayed by my insistence that they were treated the same, perhaps they needed the spark of the parade to kick start their separation. I’ve come to see it was inevitable, brutal, and necessary. Each spring brings more babies into the world but not all are well-placed to survive. I’m grateful that both my girls did. In the end, it was Frank who didn’t make it.
*******
Oh look, my dear, the sun has come out to play. It may have taken its time, but now, we know it’s here to stay. Nature tells us, you see, everything is blooming and blossoming, no sooner do you turn your head than it changes. Look, all those trees on the horizon are now in full leaf. When did that happen? There are so many shades and hues of green, it’s called God’s colour, you know, as green goes with every other colour. It never clashes, not with others, not with itself. Everything is verdant now, except for the oak, standing there, solitary, barren, waiting still for spring. At least there are birds resting in it, giving it some semblance of life.
This month is a good time to take stock of my patch of land, see what I can expect in future. I have rhubarb sprouting, and the blackberry bush is getting ready to flower, so there will be at least a few berries even if the raspberry canes don’t perk up. I’ve given some more space over to vegetables than to flowers this year, I’m growing a handful of potatoes and some garlic, they are flying already. But I’m about to give up on the lettuces, something is eating away at them. Those flowers which remain will have to perform better than ever before to make up for their reduced number. I know the buddleia bushes will deliver, but I’m not sure those foxgloves will earn their place. While it wouldn’t do for me to have a favourite, I hope you are still visiting me when it is time for the sunflowers to bloom, they make a gorgeous display in late summer.
There’s lots here that demands my attention, but my first priority is always my herb bed, I’m rather proud of it. There are some valuable specimens in here, plants cultivated by my grandmother, she was quite the hybridiser in her day and she taught me a thing or two. For now, I’m potting out a few seeds I’ve grown separately, filling the gaps, refreshing the stock. I’ve some horseradish to put in, which is going to go next to the oregano, I’ll harvest the radish if it becomes thuggish, or is stealing light from the rocket. I can always trim down the rosemary bush if it comes to it. That is the beauty of the herb bed, it is not meant to stay the same, but to evolve and grow, like our children do.