Every Other Day But This Alex Woolf Elsa goes out one afternoon to post a letter. She knows she mustn’t be long. After all, her parents-in-law will shortly be arriving. But before she can return home, things start to spin out of control. It all begins when she decides to help an old lady with her shopping. One thing leads to another and soon she’s lost and far from home. As her chaotic journey through East London unfolds, Elsa is forced to confront some pretty uncomfortable facts about her life and marriage. It makes her wonder: is she really just a victim of a series of unfortunate events, or is something else going on?
“I’m just popping out to post this letter, love,” said Elsa. “Okay,” said her husband, John. “I’ll make a start on the dinner.” Elsa grabbed the letter and her bag and stepped out into the mild June afternoon. She was wearing her favourite jeans and a white wrap cardigan. On her feet were flat cream-coloured shoes and over her shoulder a canvas handbag. “I shall go to the one in Cannon Hill,” said Elsa to herself, as she skipped down the front steps and onto the street. “No I shan’t. I shall go to the one in Palmers Green. I fancy a bit of a walk.” It was half past four, so she would be back in plenty of time for dinner. John’s mum and dad would be arriving at about six for aperitifs. John would cook one of his heavy, meaty dinners— shepherd’s pie or lasagne. He liked to cook that sort of thing, whatever the season. Elsa had believed she possessed a hearty appetite—until she met John and his family. They all thought she ate like a bird. Elsa almost felt like a bird right now. The warm breeze at her back gave her an extra springiness, an effortless speed, an almost floating sensation. She turned right onto Fox Lane and began the long descent towards Green Lanes. Her shoes felt so snug and protective—old and a bit worn and yet doing their job to perfection. Her feet and legs moved in a blur of power and purpose along the paving stones. Grace—this was the definition of grace. She was like a young lioness. Did young lionesses take pride in their power and grace? How good would it be to feel like this all the time? As Green Lanes and the post office hoved into view, some of the warmth receded from her cheeks. Her heartbeat slowed, as she awaited a space in the traffic. The bird or the lioness became another pedestrian, trying to cross a road. The post office was crowded. Quarter to five on a Friday. My, what a queue! And all for a simple stamp. Was it really worth the bother? Elsa recalled Auntie Gill, who had been so kind to her and John during their stay in Southend the previous weekend—and she conceded that it was worth the bother. If she didn’t catch the last post
tonight, her thank-you note wouldn’t reach Auntie until Monday or Tuesday, and that would be too long after the event. “Window number seven, please.” The voice roused her from memories of their visit. She bought her stamp and posted the letter. As she turned to re-cross the road, Elsa caught sight of an old woman laden with heavy supermarket shopping bags. The bent-backed old lady looked almost ready to collapse under the weight. “Let me help you,” Elsa said without thinking. The lady looked up. “That’s very kind of you, dear. I only live round the corner, in Park Road.” Elsa relieved the lady of all three of her bulging Morrison’s bags, then followed her as she turned right into a residential street a little way beyond the post office. Elsa had rarely ventured east of Green Lanes before now. The houses all looked like pleasant, lived-in sorts of places. She pictured homely kitchens with soup bubbling on the stove and kids’ toys cluttering up the narrow hallways. Kids. She loved watching them play. Sometimes—daft really—she almost wanted to join in. She could still turn a decent cartwheel, ride a skateboard, and play keepy uppy with a ball. When John watched her watching them, he always made the wrong assumption that she wanted kids herself—like he did. In truth, she just wished she were one again sometimes. And tonight, that polite, but not-so-subtle pressure would again be applied by John’s mum. Oh, did you know, Mrs Whatshername next door has just become a grandmother. The schools around here are very good, so they say. Or she would make some mournful aside about how old she was getting or how empty her life was. Women these days, Mrs Anderson would observe, they put their careers before their husbands, kids, everything. “This is the place,” the woman said, pushing open the front gate of one of the shabbier-looking properties. Weeds grew from cracks in the crazy paving. The brickwork and windows were dark with grime. “Sorry about the mess, dear,” said the woman as she pushed open the front door. The hall carpet was littered with old freebie newsheets and junk mail. The place smelled of a thousand ancient meals. “Kitchen’s straight on. Thank-you so much.” Elsa tried not to trip over the carpet slippers or the fluffy grey cat that suddenly appeared from nowhere and slipped like a ghost through
her legs. She placed the bags on the kitchen table. The black-andwhite lino and freestanding fridge and cooker were from a by-gone age. The lady thanked Elsa again, then handed her a letter from the pile on the hall floor. “Would you be a dear, and pop this in at number 21. It’s only down the road.” “Sure,” said Elsa. Number 21 was some 30 yards further down, on the opposite side. It was a grand-looking place with a fancy Edwardian portico and door with stained-glass panels. A dusty silver Toyota saloon sat on the driveway. Near the car stood a girl of about 16, with blonde ringlets, talking on her mobile. She looked desperate, close to tears. “Oh, my poor Trixie. Is she in terrible pain? I just don’t know what to do. I…” Then she noticed Elsa, who was hovering on the pavement nearby, letter in hand. “Can you drive?” she challenged her. Elsa was dumbfounded. “Er…Yes,” she stammered. “Yes, I can.” The girl returned her attention to the caller. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Just give me the address again.” She propped the phone between her ear and shoulder and took a pen from her jeans pocket. “Oh damn, I need paper.” Elsa handed her the letter she was holding and the girl scribbled something down on the back, using the Toyota bonnet for support. After ending the call, the girl turned to Elsa, her cheeks flushed. “You have to help me,” she pleaded. “Our dog, Trixie, who disappeared yesterday, has just been hit by a car, and the driver, who I was just speaking to, says she may have broken her leg. He’s taking her to a vet’s surgery in Enfield Lock, but she’s suffering terribly and must be awfully scared, and I need to get down there right now, but my parents won’t be back for hours and I don’t know how to drive…” The girl then burst into tears. She looked as helpless as a toddler, standing there, despite her artful hairdo and stylish yellow top that hung down over her jeans. Elsa, who’d loved a dear little dog called Freddy when she was in her teens, couldn’t help putting her arms around her. “Don’t worry, dear,” she found herself saying. “I’ll drive you there. I’m sure Trixie’ll be fine, especially when she sees you.”
The girl sobbed her thanks, then ran inside to get the car keys. Elsa had never driven such a big car. Luckily, it was an automatic, so easy enough to drive, but manoeuvring it out of the driveway and onto the narrow road without hitting anything took some blind courage and quite a bit of time. She could sense the girl beside her bubbling over with impatience. Soon, they were on their way. The girl, who introduced herself as Jen, directed Elsa along Hedge Lane and across the Great Cambridge Road into Edmonton, then north through Ponders End, Brimsdown and, finally, Enfield Lock. As they motored along past endless warehouses and industrial parks, Elsa noticed the car begin to feel sluggish. They turned right onto Smeaton Road and right again onto a road that ran alongside a small river. “Nearly there now,” urged Jen. “Why are we going so slowly?” “I’m not sure,” frowned Elsa. Then she clocked the fuel gauge. “I’ve a horrid feeling we’re about to run out of…petrol.” Before she had even finished the sentence, the car juddered, sputtered, then glided into placid lifelessness by the side of the road. Elsa turned it off and on a few times but got nothing more than a series of dry coughs. “I could murder my mum,” ranted Jen. “She never remembers to fill the car up.” She turned to Elsa. “Listen, the vet’s only a few hundred yards from here, I reckon. We could walk it, what do you think?” “And then what?” asked Elsa. “We’ll still be stuck without petrol. Do you have a fuel canister anywhere in this car?” Jen got out and rummaged around in the boot, emerging with a shiny, red metal can. “Is this what you mean?” “Perfect,” said Elsa. “I’ll try and find a garage and buy some petrol, while you go off and check on your dog.” “Oh, would you? Thank you so much. You can meet me at the vet’s as soon as you’ve got the car going again.” She looked in her bag. “I’d offer you money but—” “Don’t worry. Just go to Trixie. She needs you.” With a final smile of gratitude, Jen raced off down the road, and Elsa turned the other way, red canister in hand. Now where would a petrol station be when you need one? She crossed the road and a grassy verge to the riverside path, hoping to find someone who could help. The water shone with
mystery, like cool green glass. The light had dimmed and taken on a golden quality, reflected in the dappled surface. What a beautiful place, thought Elsa. But I mustn’t linger. Really I mustn’t. I have to find a petrol station, and then I have to…goodness me! She looked at her watch and gave a start. She’d only popped out to post a letter and that was almost an hour ago. John must be getting worried. His parents would be arriving soon. She decided to forget about finding petrol and head home instead. But her feet were stayed in the act of turning by the sound of music: a song on the lips of an old hippy sitting on a bench with his guitar. He sang about the desire to travel. The song was addressed to a girl who wanted him to stay. But in the chorus, he declared that he was as free as a bird, and this bird she couldn’t change. Elsa could identify with that sentiment. She often felt like a caged bird, yearning for freedom. But then, she began to ponder how free she actually wanted to be. Every day she was offered the possibility of doing something unique, unexpected, true to herself, and every day she spurned that offer and did the typical, the expected. She preferred the cage, however much that she pretended otherwise. She shrugged and began to walk westwards, cagewards, towards the sinking sun.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alex Woolf was born in London in 1964. After reading History and Politics at university, he became a non-fiction editor. Since 2001, he has been a full-time writer of fiction and nonfiction, mainly for young people, and has had over sixty titles published in various languages, including books on spiders, Nazis, asteroid strikes, ghosts, aliens and much else besides. His recent fiction includes Chronosphere, a time-warping sci-fi trilogy, Aldo Moon, featuring a teenage Victorian ghost-hunter, and Soul Shadows, a horror novel about cannibalistic shadows. His longest book to date is a 300-page history of the world. Woolf has also written numerous short stories, which have been published in journals including Sirens Call, Leafing Through, Words Undone, Writers Billboard and Strange Circle. He lives in Southgate, North London, with his wife and two children. Elsa, the central character of Every Other Day But This, also lives in Southgate, possibly in the same street as the author. The book is intended as an exploration of the randomness of fate, and was planned and written in that spirit, with the author often as unaware as the reader (or Elsa) of how the story would develop. A control freak by nature, Woolf was keen to explore the more arbitrary approach to plotting that this book offered. He has since taken this experiment a stage further, writing several interactive novels for a publisher called Fiction Express, in which readers are given a say in the direction of the narrative.