Elizabeth Day - short story

* Inspired by the very lovely, very real, Elizabeth Day *

As was the case most Sunday afternoons, Shelley and Bea were to be found in their shared lounge. Copious cups of tea (Bea) and coffee (Shelley) had been imbibed, and the Sunday papers studied until they bore not the least resemblance to the rectangular oracles the papergirl had earlier shoved through the letterbox. Bea was a great one for the magazines, Shelley not so. There was no deep and meaningful reason behind this, no personal protest at the lack of real news within the glossy pages, no deep-set mistrust because the magazines had been printed earlier that week, and therefore could tell Shelley nothing she didn’t already know. No, far more mundane, her avoidance of this most sought-after Sunday section was down to a remarkable ability to receive paper cuts from anything remotely sharp. As a consequence, Shelley was unfamiliar with the regular columnists and contributors who were a part of most people’s day of rest routine. Which is why the following happened.

 ‘Oh, look, it’s Elizabeth Day! What a lovely shimmery blouse she has on this week, it looks like fairies spun the silver themselves from moonbeams and children’s dreams! Ooh, did you hear me then, Shell? I went all poetic.’

           Shelley’s attention was currently focused on attempting to read a back-page interview with a snooker player, no mean feat as the paper was upside-down at the time. As a result, the only word she heard was her own name. ‘What?’

            ‘I said, it’s Elizabeth Day, and—'

            ‘It is? Oh, happy St. Elizabeth’s day! I had no idea, is it on the calendar?’ Shelley squinted over at their Kitten calendar. A ginger kitten with eyes an impossible shade of cornflower blue sat in a watering can, crowning a month of disappointingly empty dates. The only one so far filled in was to remind Bea of her smear test. So, not a great month. That day, however, did come with a pre-printed date. Shelley leant over to read the tiny writing, ‘Assumption of Mary. Assumption of Mary. Would that be Holy Mary Mother of God? I assume so. Is that the assumption part? Or did somebody important assume something? Maybe it was Mary, poor love, assuming that nobody would be so cruel as to nail her son to a cross. Pretty safe assumption to make, isn’t it? No St. Elizabeth’s day though, Bea, are you sure it’s today? I wonder what she’s patron saint of? Blue veils? Donkeys?’ She gave a little nod to the kitten, and modestly crossed herself in honour of Mary – so she wouldn’t feel left out.

            Now, most people in Bea’s position may have reacted scornfully towards their friend at such an error, but most people weren’t as careful to cultivate a reputation for benevolence as Bea was. She merely smiled and shook her head, ‘No, St. Elizabeth’s day is in November, and she’s the patron saint of all sorts of downtrodden gynocentric causes. It’s big in Hungary.’

‘And how on Earth would you remember that then?’ Shelley asked, suspiciously.

‘We did it in school. We had a foreign exchange student over when I was twelve-ish, you see. Not that anyone went over to Hungary, so it wasn’t really an exchange, just, you know.’

‘Hmm,’ offered a clearly unconvinced Shelley, ‘and what was her name then, your little Hungarian friend?’

‘Why, Elizabeth of course. Anyway, Shell, this Elizabeth Day, see? Elizabeth Day, the writer.’ She held up the magazine for Shelley to see.

            ‘Oh, I see. I’m a little disappointed, truth be told. I had visions of us celebrating all the famous Elizabeth’s, in honour of the Virgin Queen. I mean, don’t get me wrong, your Elizabeth seems very pretty – particularly the Bambi eyes – what did you say she was? A food writer?’

            ‘No, just writer. Well, not just a writer. Presenter, podcast, umm, podcaster – is that the correct word? Anyway, she does loads. I don’t see why you’d be disappointed, Shell, I really don’t. You never even read—’

            Bea continued her special gentle blend of ticking off, unheard by Shelley, who had embarked on a wonderful delve into her memory, opening mental filing cabinets and extracting the Elizabeths within. When she had finished, her inner self was carrying an impressive pile of files, Bea had left the room to brew up, and Rick Stein was doing something to a fish on the TV. ‘I’ve got an idea to liven up next week,’ Shelley called through to Bea, ‘so don’t just dismiss it like you usually do. It will be fun, especially if you have a go on Thursday.’

            ‘My smear test,’ Bea shouted back, ‘can’t do anything else that day. Remember last time, that rough nurse? I bled all day, remember? She was in a rip about Dr Cane retiring, and took it out on my poor cervix with her swizzle stick. No, I’ll be straight to bed with a hot water bottle and a stiff drink afterwards.’

            Shelley smiled at her friend as she came back in with two steaming mugs, ‘That’s the beauty, Bea, you don’t have to do anything, other than get gynocentricly dressed in the morning. You weren’t planning on going naked, were you?’

            ‘Of course not. Come on then, out with it. Your eyes are shining amber again, so I can see you’ve been inspired.’

            ‘We celebrate St. Elizabeth’s day, and, no, don’t interrupt, I know that isn’t what you meant, but just listen. We celebrate for a full week, pay homage – is that the right word, homage? – to all the Elizabeths we know, dress up like them, have dinner themed to them, become them, for a full week. Just think, Bea, things to write on the calendar! Us!’

            Bea’s mouth opened to let her friend down gently, but the more she thought about it, the better it seemed. And, just think; entries on the calendar! Them! She smiled at Shelley, and nodded. ‘Alright, but on one condition.’

            ‘Name your price,’ said an elated Shelley, ‘it’s yours.’

            ‘I get to be Good Queen Bess on Thursday. That will teach Nurse bloody Rough Hands and her speculum. Navigate that farthingale, while I lie serenely back, all ruffs and pearls. When she tells me to flop my knees apart, I shall insist she calls me Gloriana! Shell, this is by far your best idea. Who shall you be first?’

            Surprisingly enough, given that it was her idea, Shelley found herself overwhelmed by a mob of Elizabeths and all her derivatives, all pleading that she pick them. There would have to be rules, that was clear. ‘Well, they have to be an Elizabeth, that’s a must. No Bessies, Besses, Bets, Bettys, Betsies, Beths, Ellies, Ellas, Lizes, Lizzies, Lizas, Lisas, or any other variation. Only Elizabeths allowed.’

            Bea sat transfixed, listening to her friend rattle through the names. Almost in alphabetical order, unheard of for Shelley. She had the ‘mind of an artist’ as she liked to put it, Bea thought that ‘cluttered’ was a better term, but here was her friend, alive to possibilities and details. Incredible.

            ‘Next,’ Shelley continued, caught up in her own thoughts, ‘they must be real people. No fictional folk allowed. That means no Ms. Bennets, Swanns, Lemons, Lavenzas, Poldarks, or any other imposters. No, only the existent Elizabeths will do.’

            ‘Doesn’t 'existent' mean still existing?’ Bea asked, ‘I mean, if we do that, then I can’t be Elizabeth I. And I’d rather not be Elizabeth II yet, I’m far too young! I suppose I could do a young Elizabeth Taylor, with furs and a black wig – do we still have that Halloween wig? I could cut it short I suppose. The rug in your room could double as a fur stole if I folded it in half. Shall I try it out?’

            ‘Dead.’

            ‘Me? If I fold your rug up, Shell? Dead’s a bit much, don’t you think?’

            ‘No, Bea, Elizabeth Taylor is quite dead. Besides, you know I run a mile from confrontation, I’d hardly murder my best and oldest for the minor infringement of folding my floor furniture in half, would I? I suppose I could allow existed Elizabeths, too – if you like?’

            Bea nodded, ‘who will you be first, Shell?’

            ‘I might be that one, if you don’t mind,’ Shelley replied, slyly eying the magazine on Bea’s lap, ‘the food writer. Now, what was her name again?’