Mary Elizabeth Reeves

My cousin Mary is getting married this year; we're all traipsing down to London for her hen night next weekend. This is why I'll be spending my six month anniversary having dinner with various relatives, assigned to my house for the weekend, while my husband runs screaming as far away north as he can get.

For the actual do on Saturday, one of Mary's best friends has asked us all to email her a memory or story about Mary, like the first time we met her, that she can put together into a book for the bride-to-be.

I had some problems narrowing down my memories, so at the moment what I plan to send is this:


Mary Elizabeth Reeves

I don’t remember meeting Mary for the first time; she’s simply always been a part of my life.

I do remember the excitement of a visit to Wrexham, back when we still lived in Surrey, because it meant we’d be at HQ on a Sunday, and I’d get to see the cousins. It meant I’d get to play with Mary. When we moved to Wrexham it was even better. I was nine, Mary was eleven, and we got to see each other every single Sunday.

We had endless games we could play at HQ; climbing the walls on the landing (before they were repapered); seeing who could jump off the swing at its highest point; searching for fairies in the fairy ring (although we never found any); weaving designs into the seat of the garden swing with red and orange twine; playing Scooby Doo (although Mary was always Daphne. I had to be Velma); hunting for Narnia behind the wardrobe in the Brown Room, or for the cuckoo clock anywhere else in the house.

There would always be egg sandwiches, or cheesy scrambled eggs, on offer for when we got hungry. And if we were lucky enough to be staying over (top and tail in the Pink Room, whispering secrets until the Spar sign across the road went out), the sweet fairies would come and fill the tin on the dresser with goodies for us.

Then there were the holidays; weeks and weeks of sunshine and swimming in France, or of squalls and seagulls in Porthmadog, where we filled our days with boule runs, Jimbo planes and tuppenny falls. Or cycling round Center Parcs, listening to Bryan Adams and drinking non-alcoholic cocktails named after characters in the Robin Hood stories.

Later, we found ourselves buying the same clothes; a throwback to the days when our mothers dressed us as twins. We’d bump into each other in the Golden Lion (Mary was present the first time I ever kissed my husband), then later in Marks and Spencer in Wimbledon. Living just down the road from each other in London for two years, we met often with Emma in the Weatherspoons to drink Lindemans Bin 65 and eat Chicken Pasta Alfredo with garlic bread.

I live further away now, but we still get together often; she’s always up for a visit to Stevenage if Simon’s making bread and butter pudding. And we’re still there, as often as possible, for family Sunday lunches, usually with our heads together, whispering.

So, no. I don’t remember meeting Mary for the first time; but I think that’s probably the only thing that I don’t remember.