One Good Thing, page 6
‘OK, how about a movie?’
As I put on Netflix I’m reminded of when David and I would do a film night at the weekend. After a hard week at work I used to love ordering a takeaway, opening a bottle of wine, snuggling up on the sofa . . . Tears prickle my eyelashes and I blink them back furiously. I can’t start crying in front of Harry.
But it’s too late. He looks at me and starts whining again, and as the music swells and the title credits roll, he resumes his pacing. Despair beats. I’ve tried everything but I can’t get him to settle. He’s going round and round in circles.
Just like you did when David first left.
My mind suddenly casts itself backwards and, remembering the tears and snot and desperation, I wince at the memory. I was pitiful. Pathetic, really. But at the time I didn’t care. Shock and heartache do that to you. Pride doesn’t get a look-in. For weeks I was in a daze. Pacing up and down, stomach churning, my mind going round in circles. Disbelief congealing into devastation that we were over, and we could never go back.
I don’t believe it. Harry’s lain down.
I stare at him in astonishment. I was so distracted by my thoughts that I didn’t notice him lie down on the rug. Stiffly curling his big, black body into a circle, he tucks his long legs underneath him and buries his grey muzzle into his tail. After a few moments I hear his breathing deepen and he begins to snore.
Watching him sleeping, I feel a sense of relief. More than that, I feel a glimmer of hope. Discovering my husband was in love with someone else broke my heart, but it was the betrayal of my trust in him that truly broke me. But if this scared, defenceless dog can trust me, after everything he’s been through, then maybe one day I’ll be able to trust someone again too.
Valentine
Every morning he had a routine. That’s the first thing everyone tells you when you retire. Apparently it’s very important.
‘You must keep up a routine, Mr Crowther,’ his GP had warned him when Valentine went to see him about his waterworks, though to be honest, he wasn’t sure what a routine had to do with having to get up half a dozen times in the night to pee.
Still, he didn’t want to take the risk. Rumour had it that’s what finished off Cyril at number forty-two. Poor bugger had only been retired six months when he keeled over one afternoon while watching cricket on the telly. According to someone at the post office, he was still in his pyjamas.
So every day Valentine woke up just before 7 a.m. After sixty-four years of getting up for work, he didn’t need to set an alarm. After putting on his dressing gown and slippers, the first thing he did was go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He made it in the teapot, with tea leaves. None of this putting a teabag in a mug, like Helen.
‘Oh, Dad, I can’t do all that faffing around with a teapot – it’s only me,’ she’d said when she first moved into her own student flat and they bought her a teapot as a house-warming present.
It’s only me.
Valentine stared at the teapot now as he ladled in a single teaspoon of loose tea, just enough for one person. There was no Gisele to share it with him, to ask whether she was in the mood for Lapsang Souchong or Darjeeling this morning. The kettle boiled and clicked itself off. He reached for it and poured the water onto the tea leaves, replacing the lid to let it brew for a few minutes.
Who’d have thought it? Him, drinking posh tea. His old army mates would rip him to shreds if they could see him now. Back in those days, they used to brew up Tetley so strong it could take the varnish off the handle of your rifle. It was meeting Gisele that changed his taste in tea. But then she changed a lot of things.
Putting the knitted tea cosy over the pot to keep it warm, he set it upon the small table by the window, along with a china cup and saucer. The table was one of those with extending leaves, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to use them. Gisele used to love to entertain; she’d go to town, whipping up soups and soufflés and delicious-smelling casseroles, all polished off with a fresh tarte tatin and baked Camembert. He could see her now, standing at the stove like a conductor in charge of her beloved orchestra of orange Le Creuset pans, wooden spoon in hand, as they bubbled and steamed and browned under the grill.
They’d moved to Nettlewick when Valentine retired, away from the city and their pre-war semi on a busy main road, with exhaust fumes and lorries that shook their pictures on the walls. It had always been their dream to live in the countryside one day, but it was still a wrench to leave behind the home in which their daughter grew up and which held so many memories. Fortunately they found their new home warm and welcoming and soon made new friends, inviting them over for barbecues and dinner parties. It felt like a fresh start, in more ways than one.
But it was a long time now since they’d had people over. Long before Gisele got ill. He’d tried to suggest it – even offered to cook, Lord help them – but she’d just patted his hand and said maybe later. That’s the thing about later, though. It never really comes, does it? Instead you always seem to skip right past it without noticing and then, before you know it, it’s not later – it’s too late.
Toast. Two slices with butter and jam.
Putting the bread in the toaster, Valentine put the butter dish on the table along with the strawberry jam. His GP had warned him about his cholesterol, but he wasn’t going to switch to that spreadable stuff.
‘Over my dead body,’ he’d told Dr McDermott at his last appointment.
‘And well that might be, if you don’t change your diet,’ Dr McDermott cautioned, giving Valentine a pamphlet about saturated fats and a list of foods to eat.
Nuts and seeds? What did he think he was? A bloody sparrow?
That reminded him, he needed to fill up the bird feeders. Reaching for the jotter pad that he kept on the side to make daily lists, Valentine turned the page to start a new one and wrote in his spidery handwriting:
Monday 10th February
1. Fill bird feeders
He’d shoved the pamphlet in a drawer, along with all the other stuff that he didn’t want to read. Endless circulars and flyers about getting his guttering cleaned and his drains rodded. Bills in brown envelopes with cellophane windows. They all went into the deep dresser drawers in the hallway. When they were filled up, he’d move on to the ones in the sideboard.
Before Gisele became poorly, he used to take pride in dealing with it all, opening the post every morning and filing everything neatly away. It was a husband’s job. Now he hid it all away out of sight – out of sight, out of mind. If only he could do that with all the regrets and the guilt and the memories that woke him in the middle of the night, his heart beating so hard he feared it was going to burst right out of his chest. With all the anger that still raged inside. Just shove it in the drawer and close it and that was it: all gone.
He turned on the radio.
Too much thinking never did anyone ever good. He tuned it to the jazz channel and glanced at the library books on family history and military records on the side. He’d been doing his family tree for years but not getting very far. Gisele was forever teasing him. ‘Can’t you get a faster hobby?’ ‘It’s not a hobby,’ he’d grumble, ‘it’s genealogy.’ ‘Well, can’t you get a different -ology?’ she’d reply, like that advert on the telly.
The toast popped up.
Putting the slices on a plate, he went to sit down at the table. He poured his tea, added his milk, buttered his toast and smeared on the jam. He made sure to use a different knife for the butter – Gisele was very particular about that. A lump appeared in his throat and he swallowed it down with a mouthful of tea. He gazed out of the window. At the whole day stretching ahead of him.
He’d looked forward to retirement. To all the things he and Gisele would do together when he finally gave up painting and decorating and hung up his ladder. Lots of blokes he knew down the pub dreaded retiring. They eked work out for as long as they could. ‘What are we going to do all day?’ they would groan into their pints, fearful of being stuck at home under their wives’ feet.
But not Valentine. Every morning over breakfast he and Gisele would look out of the window at the weather and eagerly plan their day. He liked to go for a drive. ‘Look at that view: God’s own country,’ he would marvel as they set off in their ageing camper van to take in the sweeping ghylls and valleys across the Dales. Gisele liked to visit garden centres. ‘Just look at the flowers on that Clematis montana,’ she’d exclaim with an equal amount of joy and wonderment.
He used to love their day-trips. They’d always stop somewhere nice for lunch. The cafe at the abbey was a firm favourite. They did lovely home-made scones there and you got a fabulous view of the ruined abbey. He went once by himself after Gisele left, but it wasn’t the same. He sat outside in the sunshine and watched children paddling in the river.
He liked to watch kids playing; there was something so innocent and carefree about them. One of them, a little girl, reminded him of Helen when she was that age, and he told her Helen’s favourite ‘Knock, knock’ joke – the one about the penguin – and it made her laugh, a giggly, girlish laugh. But then the mother came rushing up and pulled the little girl away. Caused quite a scene. He left soon after that and never went back.
Valentine buttered a second slice of toast and looked out of the window of the bungalow. There wasn’t a soul about, just a field full of cows. It was situated right at the top of the lane that led onto a public footpath, and he rarely saw anyone passing except the odd hiker. As for friends, they’d drifted away, after the diagnosis. Last year Gisele had shouted at one of the neighbours further down the lane, accusing them of stealing from her, and the police were called.
Then there was the time in the post office when she insisted on paying with coins, counting them out, one by one. Some customers in the queue got impatient and started saying things, so he tried to pay with his card, but that only made Gisele upset and angry and everyone stared. In the end they stopped going out – it was easier that way. Most people in the village had been kind, but he’d retreated into himself. Caring for Gisele had been hard, but harder still was the guilt Valentine felt for not being able to look after her properly. Now he kept himself to himself.
The central heating was coming on.
As the radio played in the background, Valentine listened to the radiators gurgling and cracking as they expanded. Peace and quiet. That’s what they’d liked the most about the bungalow. ‘I can hear a pin drop,’ Gisele had marvelled with delight. Valentine sipped his tea and looked out of the window. Now it felt suffocating.
Bugger! His hand slipped, spilling tea down the front of his dressing gown. Tutting, he reached for his jotter pad:
2. Wash dressing gown
He looked at his to-do list. Two things already. Once he’d finished this piece of toast, he’d best make a start on those bird feeders.
First Steps
The next morning dawns crisp and clear and, after feeding Harry, I clip on his new lead and step out of the front door. It’s deepest February and there’s a sharp wind, but the sun is shining brightly and its cheerful resilience buoys me up.
Harry seems perkier too, despite keeping me awake half the night with his howling. I’d put his basket in the kitchen, but in the end I surrendered and let him come upstairs, immediately breaking the ‘first and most important rule of setting boundaries’, according to all the dog behaviourist books I’ve bought. But I didn’t care about rules at three in the morning. All I cared about was getting some sleep.
Still, it was probably just first-night nerves. I’m sure he’ll soon get used to the sleeping arrangements. It’s going to take a few days, that’s all.
‘That’s right, isn’t it, Harry?’
I look down at him as both of us stand on the doorstep, Harry sniffing the air expectantly. He looks up at me as I say his name and I feel a beat of anticipation. So this is it. Our First Walk. It feels quite momentous.
‘Come on then, boy.’
When I’d envisaged getting a dog, I’d pictured long hikes across the Dales, but Harry and I are only going on a short walk around the neighbourhood. Locking the door behind me, I set off walking slowly, with Harry limping beside me. We make an odd couple. Harry seems anxious and unsure of his new surroundings, while I hold his lead nervously. It’s quiet. On the other side of the street someone with a Labrador walks past and nods. I nod back, feeling a bit like an imposter. They think I’m one of them.
My grandparents lived in a large, rambling old farmhouse that overlooked the river, but my own, much smaller house is at the end of a cobbled fold of traditional stone cottages at the opposite end of the village. Even in winter, it’s picture-postcard pretty. Tiny front gardens, in which the first snowdrops are already peeking their heads, lead out onto the narrow lane that runs alongside the graveyard. We begin making our way towards its entrance, Harry stopping every few minutes to sniff various trees and fence posts. It’s a slow process.
A sign on the gates says that dogs are allowed on leads, so Harry and I continue inside. After my initial unease at overlooking a graveyard, I’ve actually grown rather fond of seeing it from my bedroom window – if you can be fond of a graveyard, that is. I like watching people coming and going with their bunches of flowers. Some sit quietly in reflection on the benches; others are industrious, weeding and tidying, armed with small trowels and bedding plants.
We do a short loop past the primary school down to the river, crossing the narrow wooden bridge and walking along its wide grassy banks. Just long enough for Harry to stretch his legs, but not overtire him, and for me to learn that he does not like tractors, ducks or children on scooters racing towards him on the pavement. It’s like being in a video game. They come at us from all angles and, after trying to dodge them, with Harry barking in fear or attempting to chase them, he isn’t the only one whose nerves are fraught.
Heading back, I decide to take a quieter footpath through the patchwork of fields. I remember it from when Josie and I used to run along it as children and, as we pass through the stile, memories come flooding back. Endless hot, sticky summer days by the river, Josie, brave and undaunted as always, jumping straight in, while I paddled safely in the rockpools.
Up ahead I see a three-bar gate: Whistling Gate, that’s the name we gave it one Christmas, when the fierce gales blew through its holes, making it whistle. I fasten it carefully behind us as we carry on past the patchwork of allotments, where my granddad used to grow funny-shaped carrots and big, fat tasteless marrows that grandma would stuff with mince and onions and nobody wanted to eat.
The warm syrup of nostalgia runs through me as the cold wind continues to blast across the fells. ‘Blowing away the cobwebs’ – that’s what my grandparents always used to say. Enlivened, I pause to look out across the valley, feeling the fog of lethargy that I’ve had for months lifting. Just look at the landscape. The space. The vast skies. London felt so claustrophobic, but now I feel as if I can finally breathe.
I take in a deep lungful of fresh country air—
And nearly gag. Shit! What’s that awful smell?
Hearing the rumble of a tractor, I spot a farmer in the field below and realize he’s muck-spreading. Literally squirting the fields with exactly that: shit. Which abruptly makes me laugh; that will teach me to start waxing lyrical and getting carried away. The countryside is beautiful, but it’s also a lesson in keeping things real. And covering my nose with my scarf, I tug Harry’s lead to hurry him along.
It takes a further twenty minutes to reach the end of the footpath. It’s not very far, but Harry likes to pause frequently to sniff things. A gatepost. The drystone wall. A cowpat. One things for sure, he isn’t squeamish or bothered by smells.
Strangely, he’s a lot fussier about exactly where he wants to ‘go’. So it’s a relief when he finally decides on a small grassy verge in front of a bungalow. I don’t remember the house being there as a child, it must be quite new. I study its exterior. It’s perfectly nondescript, but for the plethora of terracotta pots on the small front patio. All different shapes and sizes, they fill the flagstones, but what strikes me is that every single one of them is empty. I stare at them, idly wondering if anyone lives there as the place looks so bare and neglected, when the front door opens and an old man suddenly appears in his dressing gown and slippers.
It’s too late to look away.
He seems surprised to see me. Well, I doubt he was expecting to find someone standing in front of his house, gawping while their dog takes a dump. It’s barely even light.
‘Morning.’ I smile politely.
There’s a brief moment when I think he might ignore me, but then he gives a curt nod of his head. ‘Morning.’
He looks both grumpy and embarrassed to be caught in his dressing gown and slippers, and pulls the belt tighter.
‘I was just waiting for my dog.’ Feeling the need to explain, I gesture towards Harry.
‘I hope you’re going to clear that up,’ he replies gruffly.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Because I trod in some the other day – right mess it was.’
‘Oh dear, that’s awful.’
‘Not the dog’s fault, mind. It’s the owner’s.’ He stares at me accusingly and I feel myself wither under his stony glare.
‘Totally inconsiderate.’ I nod in agreement, and then turn my attention back to Harry, who seems to have one thing in common with my ex-husband in the extortionate amount of time he takes to go to the bathroom; David used to be in there for hours.
‘By ’eck, you’re hungry buggers, aren’t you?’
The old man’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn back to see him pull a packet of birdseed out of his dressing-gown pocket. Talking to himself, he carefully unwraps the packet and unscrews the lids from the empty bird feeders hanging from various hooks around the patio. I notice they’re made out of plastic bottles.
