The News With Lost Time

It never takes long for anything to make its way around the town. Even the little things- especially the little things, I guess. If someone has a new haircut, they’d need only walk down one street before someone else had spotted them, and through phone calls and social media, it would be old news before they hit the next street.

That was part of why I love living here. True I don’t live here full time, but with the current job market you have to go where the money is. But I come back more weekends than not, and my folks have said they’ll always keep my room as it is.

But you don’t realise the ways that living in a place like this changes you. Most of my new friends, those who’ve lived in cities their whole lives, are horrified when I tell them that I was let go from my old job through the grapevine.

“That’s horrific! And so unprofessional!” they cry, as I recount the story of when my grandma brought a chocolate cake round for me as a consolation, before I’d even been told.

“It’s quite nice actually. Softens the blow, you know?” And at least you know that someone cares, is what I think but will never say.

Some of them say it’s Stockholm syndrome, and they tease that I was indoctrinated into it as well. But the truth was I found it reassuring. I mean, can you imagine being so insignificant that people aren’t gossiping about you?

It’s part of our ritual, whenever I come home. The kettle will go, the biscuits will come out, and no matter how much mum and dad say they want to hear about my life, it’s only a few minutes before they are filling me in with everything that’s happened since I’ve last been back.

“Oh, and you know how last time, I told you that Susie’s youngest- Ellen- had started dating? Well, that didn’t last long-”

“Never does at that age.”

“Shh dear. Anyway, what happened was-”

They always do this, and settling back into the sofa while they started up was like slipping on my favourite sweater, or sinking into a perfectly-warm bath. The words wash over me, and I can put faces to most of the names as I picture them living out these actions. It’s like getting a recap of the weekly soaps, with a lot less drama and a lot more haircuts. I swear, sometimes it feels like all anyone does around here is re-style their hair. Maybe that’s why we’re all such incredible gossips.

“-oh, and Aaron says he saw you, over at the shopping centre last weekend.”

Typically I was halfway through a mouthful of tea when this came up, and there’s no way to avoid the implicit question that comes with the statement. “Yes,” I say as a gulp the last of my mouthful down. “I drove a friend out there. We were going to pop in on our way back, but then we got a call from her flatmate- she’d locked herself out. Again.”

“Ah. Well anyway, so Aaron was over there buying a present for Margie, who went into hospital, you remember-”

And no matter how much story there might’ve been to follow on from the segment that I started, I’ll never get to finish it. Which is fine, I’m used to that at this stage.

In fact, that’s the problem.

Treat it like the paparazzi, my old childhood friend had said, back when we were in our teens and talking about it. All the world’s a stage, remember? And at the time we had laughed, and everywhere we went we posed and pranced like movie stars.

This all came tumbling down for her though, when everyone heard about her ‘experiment’ with another girl in our year, and she had a breakdown over all the questions and assumptions, until at last it got so bad that she had to leave town. We still talk, a couple of times a year, but she tells me very little about her life now, which is probably for the best.

As I’ve said, there’s a problem, and it’s only starting to dawn on me now.

I don’t talk about myself, or my life. In the city it’s not so noticeable, as my friends ask questions and lead me on. Out here though, where everyone’s so used to knowing every aspect of my life, no-one leaves the space for me to add to it. And when so much of my parents’ identities come from gossiping- so much of the town’s identity comes from talking- I can’t bring myself to interrupt.

This isn’t helped by the fact that I’ve never had to tell anyone anything before now. At school, my teachers would report straight back to my parents. When I was dating, someone would see us walking about and let everyone know how it was going. Any jobs, and a friend of a friend would be on the hiring panel, and it would get mentioned casually over dinner.

Being in the city is enough of a scene change, and it’s an entirely different world, one where I have to tell people what I’m doing. But every time I come back out here I’m a child again, and it feels like I’m walking up to my house, to see my headmistress leaning on the wall chatting to my mum again.

Yet there isn’t anyone else living in the city with me, there isn’t anyone to report back and keep the rest of the town updated if I don’t do it. By this point they must think I have the most utterly boring life ever, as they never hear anything about it.

And that’s anything but true, as my mother is about to find out.

“-and so that’s why she’d been away that day, and- oh, would you like another cup of dear sweetheart?”

“Yes please.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely ring. Been treating yourself with all that money you’re making?”

“Oh, no. That’s the engagement ring.”

Both of the mugs shatter when they hit the floor. For a second I think my mother is going to follow them.

Slowly it dawns on me that I haven’t told them, and now I’m trying to work out if I’ve even mentioned Marcus to them yet.

Before I can say anything else though, she’s out of the door and banging on next door, desperate to tell them the news.

The news has lost time to catch up on, after all.