One Good Thing, page 31
Afterwards we all go to the pub and stand outside in the dappled sunshine. So many of us: a whole village coming together to heal a broken heart. And we all raise a glass.
‘To Gisele!’
And to Valentine.
Turning the Page
By the beginning of October the village hall finally has a brand-new roof and windows, thanks to the hard work of Ben and his builders, who have worked around the clock to get it watertight before the weather turns. Autumn is now upon us. On my daily walks with Harry I’ve become aware of the morning chill, which causes me to reach for a jumper before leaving the house, and of the changing leaves on the trees.
Standing up high on the Dales this morning, I looked down across the sweeping valley and, whereas for months all I’ve seen is green, now there’s a kaleidoscope of colours transforming the landscape. Russet-coloured bracken that looks ablaze in the sunshine, hedgerows of bright-red berries, golden woodland. On a bright day like today it’s breathtaking, but these days are becoming few and far between as the new season brings with it wet weather and the threat of high winds.
And worse.
‘You know, two years ago we had a storm that caused the river to flood and brought down my chimney pots,’ Evelyn is telling me now as she sits at my kitchen table, nursing a mug of camomile tea and enjoying her captive audience.
I listen dutifully, thinking of how she must miss her school assemblies.
‘One minute they were there and the next they were in the road. Gladys at number three was unloading her shopping from her boot. Missed her by a whisker!’ Throwing her arms wide, Evelyn spills her tea down the front of her houndstooth gilet and tuts sharply.
‘Wow! Sounds intense.’ I pass her a piece of kitchen roll.
‘It was,’ she nods, putting down her mug and dabbing herself. ‘You should have heard the crash. Like a ton of bricks!’
‘Which I suppose it was,’ I say and she looks up with a flash of amusement.
‘Ah, very good. Very good,’ Evelyn nods, waggling a finger.
‘So anyway, about the calendar of events.’ I bring her back to the reason for our meeting today. ‘In terms of daily clubs and weekly classes, a lot of people in the village have made suggestions as to what they want from the hall.’
‘Zumba,’ says Evelyn definitively. ‘I trust that’s on the list.’
‘You’ll be pleased to know that’s scheduled for Monday,’ I say, referring to my ringbinder of papers.
‘With Ronaldo?’
‘With Ronaldo.’
Evelyn positively beams.
‘We’ve also got a whole host of children’s clubs and activities, drama classes, creative writing, yoga, a book group, film nights, guest speakers . . .’ Referring back to my files, I run down the list.
Coordinating it all had proved a challenge, even for someone like me who likes to organize and has bookshelves arranged by the colour of the books’ spines. The needs of the community are diverse, and everyone was excited about the hall reopening.
‘There’s something for everyone,’ I finish. ‘Plus I’ve also being doing a lot of research into what we can offer, in terms of special monthly and annual events, and there’s so much we can do – like having concerts or a music festival, for example.’
Opening up my laptop, I turn the screen towards her and begin enthusiastically showing her the PowerPoint presentation I’ve put together. Naomi had given me Danny’s number, and I picked his brain about booking bands and playing different venues and festivals.
‘The possibilities are endless. It’s such a great space and we could even hire the field behind. I spoke to the farmer and he’s agreeable . . . Honestly, the sky’s really the limit—’
I break off with excitement. Which makes me laugh as I think how Naomi recently pointed out that I’ve never actually been to a music festival. And no, getting ten-quid tickets to the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall didn’t count.
‘Alas, that doesn’t apply to our budget,’ says Evelyn.
I glance up from my screen to see her looking at me pragmatically.
‘I’m sorry, I know that’s rather pouring cold water on things, but I’m afraid we need to be sensible.’
Disappointment stabs. I know she’s only being realistic, but still.
‘But what about the opening? We need to do something to mark the occasion.’
‘Well, yes, obviously,’ she nods and I can see she’s thinking. ‘I know!’ Evelyn claps her hands with satisfaction. ‘How about a raffle?’
‘A raffle?’
‘Yes, a raffle. They were always very popular when I was a head teacher.’
I like Evelyn. I really do. But I’m getting the feeling we’re not on the same page.
‘I was thinking rather more than gift vouchers and a food hamper.’
‘Such as?’ she asks.
Rather sniffily, I can’t help thinking. Maybe it’s a head-teacher thing: the ‘my way or the highway’. In staff meetings with Mr Godfrey, our head teacher, his answer to any suggestion deviating from his plan was always, ‘No, but . . .’
Only this time I’m determined not to back down.
‘Well, I’ve had some ideas, and I thought, what about a dance?’
‘A dance?’
‘Yes, like they used to do in the fifties. They were so popular – everyone used to go to them. Valentine has told me so many stories about much fun they were and I think that’s what everyone needs, don’t they? Some fun. I mean, who doesn’t love dancing?’
As I say it, I think briefly of my ex-husband David, which only serves to spur me on even more.
‘I thought we could hire a band, and I’ve been doing some research and found a wonderful six-piece that can do both swing and rock-and-roll . . . We could even have a little competition to see which couple are the best dancers – it could be like Strictly.’
‘Now let’s not get carried away,’ Evelyn cautions.
‘But why can’t we get carried away?’ I argue, feeling frustrated.
‘Because our finances are stretched as they are,’ she replies.
‘We could sell tickets,’ I suggest.
‘But wasn’t the whole point that the village hall would be free for everyone to use, whatever their budget?
That is a good point and momentarily it takes the wind out of my sails.
‘Absolutely. You’re right, of course,’ I nod. ‘I realize you’re only being sensible, Evelyn.’
She shifts now in her seat and I see her shoulders square in righteousness.
‘And it’s good to be sensible,’ I continue, ‘only I’m sick of being sensible.’ No sooner has the wind dropped than it picks up again. ‘Sensible gets you to the station on time, so you don’t ever miss a train. It gets you ironed shirts and comfortable shoes, and savings for a rainy day. It gets you mornings without hangovers, and waistbands that never need unbuttoning, and days spent at the beach sitting in the shade. But what it doesn’t get you, Evelyn, is a life.’
And now I’m not talking just about a dance – I’m talking about myself.
‘Because life is also about spontaneity and fun, and making mistakes and doing the wrong thing. It’s about blisters and sunburn, and that extra slice of pizza. It’s about the absolute riot of an evening that you had drinking that bottle of wine – hell, make it two bottles and throw in a couple of chasers—’
I break off now, slightly out of breath and not sure exactly where I’m going with this, and look across at Evelyn, who’s staring at me, taken aback by my outburst.
‘Look, I understand your frustrations, Olivia,’ she says, as diplomatically as ever, then adds, ‘Trust me, I don’t quite have a stick up my arse, you know.’ Which isn’t quite so diplomatic and makes me smile. ‘And I love to dance too. Strictly was one of my and Charlie’s favourite shows. It still is. Who can ever forget Harry Judd’s Viennese waltz?’
For a moment we both fall silent as we remember.
‘But we simply don’t have the funds.’
‘What about asking the council if they could allocate more funding?’ But, even as I’m suggesting it, I know the answer.
‘With the current cuts, we’re lucky to get any funding at all.’ Evelyn sighs and leans back in her chair. ‘I think we should count our blessings, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
‘You know, you actually remind me a lot of myself when I was younger,’ she says, standing up and gathering her things, and I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment. ‘One can always want more, but one must also know when to be satisfied. You should be proud of how much we’ve achieved.’
I nod. I am. It’s just . . .
She smiles swiftly and gives me a wave. ‘No need to get up. I’ll show myself out.’
After Evelyn leaves, I sit at my laptop for a few moments longer, trying to think of another solution. Except there isn’t one. Evelyn’s right. Closing my laptop, I glance across at Harry, who’s been asleep in his basket, but is now looking at me expectantly. My eyes flick to the clock on the wall above my bookshelf: six o’clock; time for his dinner. I could set an alarm by him. My gaze drops and it’s then that I notice it. Tucked into the row of books on my shelf: the first edition that David bought me as a gift for last year’s Valentine’s Day.
Scraping back my chair, I go over and slide it from my bookshelf, carefully turning the pages. I’d wanted this book forever. It’s one of my all-time favourites and the prose is so wonderful, and yet I haven’t looked at it since the day I received it. Too many painful memories.
Clambering out of his basket, Harry yawns and stretches, wagging his tail. Scratching his furry head, I put down the book and reach for his bowl to mix up his food. Since the fire, he gets expensive sardines to go with his kibble. The ones in olive oil.
‘There you go.’
Then I pick up my phone from the table and google the number of an antique bookshop I’d noticed next to the castle when I’d visited at Easter. This book will have cost a fortune. David never skimped on gifts, remember? Then I smile, thinking about what fun I’m going to have, turning those painful memories into good ones.
‘Hello, is that Harrison’s Rare and Collectable Books? Hi, yes, I wondered if you could help me. I have a first edition I’d like to sell . . .’
Valentine
‘A dance at the village hall?’
Valentine stopped digging a hole in the plant pot and turned to stare at her.
‘Yes. I’ve already booked the band. They’re a sort of tribute band and do all the Bill Haley hits and some swing too. Anything and everything, really.’ Her words came tumbling out excitedly. ‘They’re called “Shake, Rattle and Roll”.’
Kneeling next to him on his patio, Olivia gave a sort of jazz-hands wave in her thick yellow gardening gloves.
‘Isn’t that a brilliant name?’ She grinned. ‘Everyone can dress up, and there’s going to be a bar selling beer and cocktails. It should be really fun. You know, it’s because of you that I got the idea? You inspired me with your stories about you and Gisele.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
Putting down his trowel, Valentine shook his head and stared at the flagstones. When he looked up, her smile had faded and she looked troubled.
‘Is that a good or a bad thing?’
‘It’s a marvellous thing,’ he reassured her, but she obviously didn’t believe him as she clutched her forehead with a giant glove and let out a groan.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I haven’t gone and been totally insensitive, have I?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he tutted, frowning. ‘It’s . . . well, I don’t have anyone to take to a dance, do I?’
It just came out, but as soon as he’d said it, Valentine wished he hadn’t. She’d been so excited about telling him all about it, and now he’d gone and spoiled it.
‘Well, I’m free, though I know that’s not much of a consolation.’ She gave him a small smile, almost an apology. ‘Plus I’m pretty rubbish. I fell over last time you tried to teach me to jive.’
As he looked at Olivia, Valentine could almost hear Gisele’s voice, telling him off for feeling sorry for himself. ‘Well, don’t just sit there, do something about it,’ she would say to him, and he would always grumble and grouch, annoyed that he wasn’t allowed to wallow in his own misery and indulge in the unfairness of it all, while grudgingly appreciating her tough love. It made him both sad and happy to think of her. He missed her – by ’eck, did he miss her – but the sad truth was he’d spent the last few years missing her. So many times he’d felt like a widower. Only now, it was official.
‘Best start practising then, hadn’t we?’ he replied and watched Olivia’s face brighten. More happy than sad, he decided.
They’d spent the morning at the big garden centre on the edge of town, buying compost and spring bulbs. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Waking up, Valentine had put on his dressing gown, pulled back his curtains and looked onto his small front patio, just like he did every day. Only today he’d abruptly made the decision. Right, that was it. The pots and containers had been sitting empty for long enough. There was no excuse for it any more. Gisele’s funeral was three weeks ago and, as much as he missed her, he knew he needed to start looking forward to the future. Not to mention that she’d have his guts for garters, if she saw the state of her beloved patio.
When Olivia had walked past with Harry, he’d mentioned it to her and she’d kindly offered to take him in the Land Rover. Well, he could hardly carry heavy bags of compost on the bus, and the mechanic had finally called last week to say the camper van was kaput.
‘You’re probably better off selling it as a scrap.’
‘Scrap!’ Valentine had been both horrified and insulted. ‘Bugger that! I’m not selling my van for scrap. There’s nowt wrong with it.’
‘Nothing except the alternator’s gone, it needs a clutch and the floor is almost rusted through,’ replied the mechanic, running through a long list.
‘Well, can’t you fix it? I don’t care what it costs. It’s got sentimental value. You can’t put a price on that.’
At which the mechanic had really put his tail between his legs and apologized and said yes, of course he could fix it; and several hours later he’d called back with an estimate. To which Valentine had said there was being sentimental and there was being crackers, and how much could he get for scrap?
Two hundred quid in cash, it turned out, which was the money he was going to use to transform his patio. Though he knew nothing about gardening. All those years watching Gisele and he hadn’t a clue. It had been the same with the washing machine. Still, he’d picked that up – though not until he’d shrunk all his jumpers and his shirts turned pink (well, how was he supposed to know you separated the colours?) – and now he was a dab hand at all the different programmes.
That said, buying new jumpers had been costly, so he’d rather not repeat his mistakes. Olivia was helpful, though she said she was still learning, and went on about Monty Don’s Jewel Garden a lot. Luckily there was a very nice assistant who explained about all the different spring bulbs and how to plant them, and Valentine ended up buying a huge selection. Daffs, crocuses, grape hyacinths, alliums and so many different colours of tulips. Some even had stripes and frilly edges.
‘You know, I could have lent you the money to fix up the camper van,’ Olivia was saying now as she reached for more compost.
Harry was lying up against the bags of multi-use potting compost, basking in the weak October sunshine that was shining through the low branches of the trees. He lifted his head grumpily as she removed his back-support.
‘I’ve still got some money left over from paying for the band, and I sold some of my old clothes on eBay recently. A lot of it was vintage designer stuff that I bought in London, but my lifestyle’s changed now. I’ll never wear them again. Or fit into them,’ she added with a roll of her eyes.
‘That’s very kind of you, but no need.’ Valentine shook his head. ‘That part of my life’s over.’
‘Oh, don’t say that.’ She looked dismayed.
‘It’s all right, love. It’s how it should be. We had some wonderful times in that van and I’ll never forget them, but life moves on and you’ve got to move with it.’ He gestured to the packets of bulbs. ‘Look to the future, eh?’
A look passed between them.
‘That doesn’t apply only to me, you know,’ he added.
‘I know.’ Olivia shrugged, averting her eyes and opening a packet of small narcissus bulbs. She shook them into the palm of her hand. They were like little silver pearls.
‘So how come you’re going to the dance with an old bugger like me then?’ he continued. ‘Why don’t you have a nice fella to take you?’
‘I’ve got a nice fella,’ she teased, winking at him.
‘You know what I mean. What happened to your builder, Ben? He seemed to have taken a shine to you when I was last round your house.’
She looked self-conscious then. ‘He’s been busy, what with repairing the damage from the fire, and work – we both have . . . anyway, he’s just a friend.’ Grabbing the gardening fork, she began raking the soil industriously. It was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Right then, that’s the last one planted. How about a cup of tea?’
Along with everyone in the village, Valentine had been shocked by the fire. Thankfully, everyone got out safely and there was no harm done – nothing the insurance couldn’t fix anyhow. At least that’s what he thought. He watched Olivia stand up, brushing the soil from her knees, and her distracted expression before she caught him looking and forced a bright smile. He wasn’t so sure now.
‘Only if I make it,’ he nodded, raising himself stiffly to his feet and wondering if he should try those yoga classes at the village hall that Olivia had been telling him about. After all, he needed to get fit for all that dancing he was going to be doing. ‘None of that teabag stuff.’
