One Good Thing, page 13
‘You’ve got a spring in your step,’ remarked Ruth, the receptionist, when he next visited Gisele. He couldn’t wait to tell Gisele all about Harry and his offer to dogsit. Helen, too, when he spoke to her on the way home. Still, to be honest, he wasn’t sure if Harry’s owner would take him up on his offer, so he was a bit taken aback when he got the knock on the door the very next day and there she was, standing on his doorstep, asking if she could drop Harry off for a couple of hours next week while she taught. When he said yes, she tried to give him a hug, which was a bit awkward as he didn’t go in for all that, but he was chuffed nonetheless. As soon as she left he got his jotter pad and turned to a new page:
Tuesday 10th April
1. Looking after Harry
It was the best thing he’d written in the longest time.
There was a knock at the door. It woke him up. He must have nodded off.
‘Hi, Valentine, it’s Liv – I’ve come to collect Harry.’
‘Oh, is it that time already?’
She was smiling broadly as he opened the door and he felt the pressure to smile back, but inside he felt only dread. How had the time gone so fast? He’d looked forward to this all week, and now it was over. Harry was fast asleep on the sofa inside. He felt a slight panic at the thought of Harry waking up and leaving.
‘I’ve brought you a cake to say thank you.’ She held out large white cardboard box. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t make it myself – it’s from the bakery in the village. It’s chocolate.’
Taken aback by her kindness, he stood, frozen, on the doorstep.
‘Oh dear. You don’t like chocolate. I knew I should have gone for the Victoria sponge.’ Her face fell and Valentine felt a stab of guilt.
‘Victoria sponge? Over chocolate? Never!’ Swiftly he took the box from her. ‘Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.’
He blurted out the invitation before thinking. He hadn’t had any visitors since the care workers came to move Gisele into the home. But it was too late now.
‘Oh, thank you.’
Stepping inside, she closed the door behind her as Harry appeared in the hallway, bashing their legs with his bushy tail.
‘Hello, have you missed me?’ Dropping to her knees, she began kissing and hugging him. ‘I know you’re not supposed to make a fuss at first, but I can’t help it.’
‘Neither can he, by the looks of things.’
Leaving them to their reunion, Valentine continued through to the front room. A few moments later they followed him.
‘I see he’s made himself at home.’
Bugger. She’d spotted the sofa with his blanket on it. He felt himself colour up. There was also evidence of biscuit crumbs. Valentine had discovered that Harry shared his fondness for custard creams.
‘He didn’t care much for his rug.’
As if to prove a point, Harry jumped nimbly onto the sofa and settled himself down.
They both pretended not to notice.
‘So what tea would you like, Olivia?’
He wasn’t going to call her by that silly nickname; no one ever called him Val.
‘Oh, I don’t mind – whatever you’re having, thanks.’
Valentine took the cake through to the kitchen and set about busying himself boiling the kettle, filling the teapot, finding teacups and saucers and side plates. His hands trembled. It was so long since he’d had guests and he felt absurdly nervous. He located a cake stand, stuffed in the back of a cupboard. He wished he’d got fresh flowers. Giselle always used to have them on the table. He made a note to put them on the list.
When he came out of the kitchen holding a tray, he found Olivia reading the back of one of his library books from the large pile on the side.
‘I’m doing my family tree,’ he offered in explanation. ‘Well, trying to.’
‘Genealogy is fascinating.’ She began flicking through the book and he felt pleasantly surprised by her interest. ‘I love that programme on the TV – what’s it called?’
‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ said Valentine, putting the teapot down on the table, along with the cake.
‘Yes, that’s it!’ She looked up then, her face filled with enthusiasm. ‘I love how they always discover such interesting stories about their ancestors – like their great-granddad was a highwayman, or they’re descended from Charles I.’ Putting the book back on the pile, she turned her attention to him. ‘What have you found out? Don’t tell me you’re related to royalty too.’
He gave a small laugh of embarrassment.
‘Well, to be honest, I’ve been doing it for years and not getting very far.’
‘Oh, really?’ She looked disappointed now. ‘Have you done one of those testing kits?’
Pausing from getting out the place mats from the dresser, Valentine frowned. ‘What are those?’
‘You know – the DNA tests, where you can trace your ancestors.’
Valentine had heard about them; the librarian had mentioned it to him once when she restamped his books, but he preferred to do it the old-fashioned way, trawling through archives and records and censuses, going back to the library, month after month. It was laborious and time-consuming and involved lots of painstaking research. One day it had struck him that perhaps he didn’t really want to get anywhere, because what would he do then, when it was finished?
‘Too expensive.’ He shook his head dismissively and began setting the table.
‘I got a test for Christmas a few years ago – not exactly the most romantic of presents, but . . .’ She broke off, shrugging. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘No, you’re fine.’
He wished she’d sit down. Relax. Valentine didn’t feel very relaxed.
‘Is this your wife?’
He looked up to see Olivia peering at a small silver-framed photograph on the dresser. He nodded.
‘That’s Gisele with our Helen, when she was just a baby. We’d gone on a day-trip to the seaside at Whitby.’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Whitby, ever since I read Dracula.’
‘Well, we didn’t find any vampires, only buckets and spades,’ he said and Olivia smiled.
‘She’s beautiful. They both are.’
‘Aye.’
His voice was gruff and he turned back to the table to finish laying the cutlery. ‘Oh, bugger!’ A fork fell on the floor. ‘It’s too small . . . the table.’
‘Is it one of those that extends? I can help.’
‘No, it’s all right.’
But before he could say anything, she was crouching down next to him, pulling out the folding leaves and dusting them off. He watched helplessly, feeling a rising panic. He didn’t want her to touch things. He wanted them left as they were.
‘There. See, much better.’ She grinned when it was finished and the table was set and they’d both sat down. ‘Don’t you agree?’
And, much to his surprise, Valentine did. He poured the tea, while Liv offered to cut the cake and Harry joined them from the sofa, settling himself underneath the table to wait patiently for crumbs. Valentine felt much better. Things weren’t meant to be folded away and not used, he realized. Like people, really.
‘Gosh this is delicious. What kind of tea is it?’
Fifteen minutes later they were on their second cup. Olivia looked impressed when Valentine told her.
‘I only drink builder’s,’ she confessed, digging into a large slice of cake. She’d cut them the size of doorsteps. ‘You must think me such a philistine.’
On the contrary; Valentine thought her completely fascinating as she chattered away, complimenting him on his bungalow and the view, while telling him how she’d recently moved here on her own from London. From London – imagine that. Valentine couldn’t. He’d once been on a coach trip with Gisele to see Les Misérables, and that was enough. Too many people. Too much noise and traffic. How did anyone hear the birds?
‘So, no fella?’ he asked and then, seeing her expression, added hastily, ‘Or lady friend?’ Well, he didn’t want her to think him a philistine.
She smiled then, like he’d said something funny. ‘It was a fella . . . now it’s just me.’
She had such a lovely smile. Wide and generous, it creased up the corners of her dark eyes. And yet he couldn’t help noticing it never quite reached them.
‘And Harry, of course.’
There was movement underneath the table and Harry’s nose emerged from below the tablecloth, ever hopeful. They both laughed.
‘What about you?’
‘My wife Gisele wasn’t well . . .’ Valentine trailed off. ‘Now it’s just me, too.’
‘What about your daughter? Does she live locally?’
‘No. Paris,’ he added, after a pause.
‘Lucky her.’
‘Aye. Lucky her.’ He nodded and speared a large chunk of chocolate cake on his fork. He tried to swallow it down, but it felt dry and stuck on a lump in his throat. In the background Valentine became aware of the radio and the sound of loud trumpets. With everything that had been going on, he’d forgotten it was still playing.
‘Sorry, I’ll turn that off.’ He stood up, his chair scraping loudly.
‘No, please, keep it on. I love Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra.’
‘You know them?’
Valentine was surprised. They were a big swing band from the 1940s. Young people didn’t listen to that kind of music. They listened to loud, thumping stuff that he could hear even through their headphones when he sat next to them on the bus to the care home.
‘His band was one of my grandparents’ favourites.’
‘Mine and Gisele’s too,’ he nodded, ‘we had all his records. We used to go dancing together at the town hall and they’d play all his tunes; that and later swing, and jive and rock-and-roll . . . She was such a good dancer, so light on her feet.’
‘You must miss her.’
‘I do, though I still get to visit her every day at the home.’
‘Oh, I thought—’ she broke off, looking embarrassed, and it suddenly dawned on Valentine.
‘That I’m a widower?’
‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Nay, don’t be,’ he reassured her. ‘Sometimes I wish I was one.’
It just came out. He didn’t meant to say it, but he’d thought it many times. But if Olivia was shocked, she didn’t show it.
‘I know that’s a wicked thing to say, but often my wife doesn’t recognize me. Worse still, I don’t recognize her.’ It was the first time he’d said these things out loud and, as guilty as he felt, telling someone brought a sense of release. ‘She’s got Alzheimer’s, and it stole her from me. That bloody disease – it stole my wife, and I miss her. I miss growing old with her.’
He was so full of anger and sadness and regret that he didn’t know what to do. It was all stuffed inside of him. So tight and all tangled up. Sometimes he felt like he couldn’t breathe with the unfairness of it.
‘We had all these plans for when I retired. We were going to travel. We were going to see the world together . . .’
And for a moment he was back there: Gisele excited, with her arms full of glossy brochures from the travel agent’s in town. Him with his maps spread out over the very table they were sitting at.
‘Now she’s in a world that only she can see.’ He scratched his cheek, roughly brushing away the tears that threatened to fall. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me.’
He snapped back, mortified. Honestly – pouring his heart out like a silly old fool. What must Olivia think?
But if Olivia thought anything, she didn’t say a word. Instead she did the most remarkable thing. She put her cup down onto her saucer and reached across for his hand. And while Valentine’s instinct was to pull away, he let it be held by this kind-hearted young woman that he barely knew, who had come into his home bearing chocolate cake, and conversation and friendship. And who, for a brief while, had made him feel normal again.
‘Sometimes I just feel so lost,’ he said.
‘And that’s why Harry and I are here to find you,’ she replied.
Which made him smile, because really it was a lovely thing to say to a silly old fool like him, and that made her smile too. And this time Valentine noticed it reached her eyes.
Hey you,
It’s late. Sometime after midnight. I need to turn out the light and go to sleep, but I was thinking about you and dreaming about summer. Being here brings back so many memories of summer holidays and rocket-shaped ice-lollies, and running around barefoot in bathing costumes from dawn to dusk. And that feeling of being carefree.
You know, sometimes it’s hard to remember that feeling. I think the last time I felt truly carefree must have been the summer I turned eight. Do you remember? That was the really hot year when the river nearly dried up and the tar on the telegraph poles melted. We would pick it off with our fingernails while we listened out for the chimes of the ice-cream van. It was so hot Grandma refused to cook, so it was sandwiches and crisps for tea every day – and salad cream with everything. I remember we used to fight, but on this we were in agreement: it was like being in heaven.
Back then Granddad still worked for the council and every day he would return home at five thirty on the dot. I used to wait for him at the end of the lane and wave when he appeared. He drove a denim-blue Morris Minor with cream hubcaps and knitted covers on its seats, remember? That would be the car I’d later learn to drive in, and that you’d have your first kiss in, but for now it was just Granddad’s car. His pride and joy.
I remember how every Sunday he would hand-wash it, soaping it down with a bucket and a giant sponge, working methodically in circles, back to front. And how, for two sisters watching this ritual that hot summer, it seemed to take an eternity. We were desperate for him to finish because, at the end, Granddad always let us hose it down. Of course it was simply an excuse for us to play with the hosepipe before they introduced the ban. You knew how to do this thing with your thumb, pressing it against the pipe to make the water spray out – you always knew how to do all the cool stuff – and I would run through it, shrieking with laughter, while Grandma would come out of the house, yelling for us to mind her windows.
‘Can you recall a time when you felt truly happy and carefree?’ It was the therapist who asked me that question. I’d gone to see her after David left, to talk about him, but the funny thing was, I ended up talking about you instead. You see, at first I assumed it must have been on a recent holiday, or celebrating my birthday or even my wedding day. After all, isn’t that supposed to be the happiest day of your life? But it was only when she really made me think about it that I realized it was none of those times. Despite the happy occasions, I didn’t feel carefree. There’s a difference.
I needed to go further back. Back to those long, hazy and bleary-hot days when we were running around in the driveway with the hosepipe, getting soaked. Back to the innocent sounds of shrieks and laughter; the sensation of ice-cold water on warm suntanned skin and the pure, unfiltered, not-a-care-in-the-world carefreeness. Back to the summer before Mum died. Before everything changed. Before two little girls grew up way too fast.
OK, that’s the church clock chiming. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’ll sign off now.
x
PS: I hope me talking about the past doesn’t upset you but you’re the only one who understands and ever will.
Father and Son
They say a year in a human’s life is equivalent to seven years in a dog’s life. Which means, according to Harry, he’s already been living with me for over a year. And in a funny kind of way it feels like that, as already I can’t imagine life without him. We’re like an old married couple. Only in this case one of us isn’t having an affair with the yoga teacher.
I’ve also discovered there’s another way to measure time: builders. Since Ben’s firm started work on the cottage I’ve learned that ‘A Builder’s Week’ is a normal person’s month, as everything takes infinitely longer than the builders say it will. Sort of like ‘A Baker’s Dozen’, only there are no free loaves; just two more weeks of waiting and an extra headache. Their ability to make time elastic is also reflected by how long they’ve been in your house, as they completely take over. It’s only been three weeks, but it already feels like a decade.
That said, living with builders does mean that life’s never dull. Fetch Me and Carry Me are like a comedy duo and are forever cracking jokes, most of which are too rude to repeat, but I probably don’t have to, as I’m sure everyone in the village can hear them, because they like to yell at each other from one end of the garden to the other. There’s also a constant stream of new faces: Sparky the electrician, Flood the plumber, Beanz the gas man.
As for their interesting – and, in the case of the plumber – rather worrying names, I don’t like to ask. I do, however, draw up some house-rules after Fetch Me blocks the toilet for what feels like the millionth time. Well, we are sharing a house and I’ve heard too many horror stories of people falling out with their builders. Hopefully this will stop me falling out with mine:
Builders’ House-Rules
When listening to the radio, check the volume. Windows rattling are a good gauge that it might be too loud.
If singing along to aforementioned radio, please try to be in tune.
The crack of dawn is not the best time for the noisiest, messiest jobs.
Kindly remember that, after the mix-up with the Portaloo, we are sharing one toilet and the walls are thin. So I would prefer it if you didn’t drink ten pints and eat a curry the night before.
PS: Striking matches in the loo does not work.
If outside, please don’t clear throat of phlegm, release gas or use expletives before looking over the fence to check if the guests in the holiday cottage next door are relaxing in the garden with a bottle of wine.
