I can’t remember who started the conversation or how old the woman was – at 17 someone of 46 is ancient – but I vividly remember her story. She’d recently lost her husband, and, lonely and desperate, had acted on her sister’s suggestion that she sold up and moved south. In theory, it was the ideal arrangement: the two of them could be near each other, her brother-in-law would be around to help out with odd jobs, she could downsize to a smaller, more manageable property and there was a ready-made social life waiting for her. In practice, the move was a disaster. Not only did she miss her husband, she missed her house, her beloved garden and the memories that went with living there together. The fact that her sister’s husband was still very much alive and kicking highlighted that hers wasn’t, as did her sister’s social life that revolved around couples.
The woman became more and more hysterical as the story unfolded. She felt she’d lost everything; she couldn’t go on; she didn’t want to go on, what’s more, she had nothing to go on for. She might as well throw herself off the train, in fact, she was going to throw herself off the train, right now. In 1981, the old slam-door type carriages meant that this was a real possibility.
I don’t know what I said, but at 17, I suspect I wasn’t much use. I do remember looking around the carriage for a grown-up to help me (and her), but everyone had their noses stuck in books or newspapers. Someone must have been listening in, as eventually a passenger turned up with the guard, and they led the distressed woman away. Perhaps they took her to the dining car and gave her a stiff drink and let her cry. Perhaps they took her to the guard’s van and sat on her until we reached the next station. I’m ashamed to say that at the time I didn’t find the incident upsetting – I found it rather exciting.
I’ve never forgotten the conversation, but of course now it resonates with me, particularly because one of the first rules of widowhood everyone trots out is: make no major decisions for the first year.
Three weeks after JS drowned and about a week before his funeral, I trudged up our road, in the dark, with The Hound. Our house is on a corner and I could see it ahead of me: the lights were on, but there was no one home. In the street, my husband’s car was parked where he’d left it before we went on holiday. It was at that point that, with startling clarity and conviction, I made a decision: I was going to move house.
Actually, I wasn’t going to move; I was going to leave, put my keys through the letterbox and run away. Others could sort everything out in the way that I was having to. My husband had disappeared, and so would I.
But where to?
Marbella? I’d never been, but last year I’d met a lovely woman at a party who’d lost her husband, moved from London to Marbella and loved it. Slight location problem: Marbella is by the sea, a no-go at the mo.
Australia? Perfect! I love Australia. I’ve got family in Sydney, friends in Perth and an ex-boyfriend in Melbourne. Damn! They’re all by the sea too. But Oz isn’t all Bondi and buff bodies. I could relocate to somewhere in the outback and, if it all got too much, make a Lady Gaga-style dress out of kangaroo meat and let the dingoes cart me away. Knowing my luck, a passing dingo would just sniff me, cock his leg against mine and trot off, leaving me stinking of rotting joey and dingo pee. I decide to scrap Australia, plus, I couldn’t put The Hound in quarantine.
Ireland? Ideal! The Irish accent is so soothing. I could reinvent myself as a mysterious and tragic figure and sit alone, in a bar, tracing initials (JS) in the foam of my Guinness. People would approach me, but I’d give them a glacial stare, and they’d back off muttering about what dark secrets I held: Murder? Tax evasion? A communicable disease? This was a non-starter: I don’t like Guinness, I’m by nature a talker and it’s hard to look mysterious with a glass of Merlot and a dachshund who wags his tail at anyone who looks his way.
I’d like to point out that this train of thought took place roughly between the ‘Give Way’ sign and my front door, and by the time I got in, I didn’t want to move. And even though I no longer have such sudden and fleeting bouts of clarity about the future, I still lunge from being so desperate to stay here I’ll live in one room and eat pickled herrings from Lidl all winter in order to be able to afford to run it, to playing estate agent roulette: plugging random places into PrimeLocation and seeing what comes up. Last week it was Leicester, last night the Cotswolds. I suspect that even if I did move, I’d still be living on Planet Grief. It seems to me that however fast you run from The Grief Monster, however far you travel, you can never really hide or outwit it.
So, all in all, I think that the first rule of widowhood is a good one to stick to, if you can. There are some business decisions I’ve had to make which I would have preferred to have left for a while, but couldn’t, and JS’s beloved car was sold days before the funeral. When he was around I never drove it, I couldn’t park it, and the sight of The Hound rushing up to it and wagging his tail further shattered my heart.
I wonder what happened to the woman I met on the train 30 years ago, and how the rest of her life panned out. I hope she eventually met a widower at the local golf club and ended up happy and cherished, even if there was always darkness at the edge of the light. I’d like to think that although she never remarried, she and Golf Club Man bought a little bungalow together and she got her garden back. I’d like to think they had photographs on show – ones of her late husband, some of his late wife and others of the two of them together – acknowledging the past and the people they’ll always love and never forget, but able to live in the present. Most of all, I hope she found some peace.
CRUSE CONTROL:
COUNSELLING PART FOUR
At only four months in to my grief, most people don’t want me to grieve anymore. They are tired of it, it’s old news to them. If only they knew. ~ Gaynor
‘I’m from your local branch of Cruse. Are you still looking for counselling?’
I was at the bus stop when I took the call, and I could have hugged the people in the queue next to me with relief. I’d contacted Cruse some time ago, only to be told that the waiting list in north London was long and their pool of volunteers small. I’d all but given up on them (and their daytime helpline which was constantly engaged), telling myself that I didn’t want to sob in front of some do-gooding woman wearing a floral skirt and American-Tan popsocks anyway. But right now, I’d see anyone. I gushed down the phone that yes, I still needed help.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m ringing to let you know that we still can’t offer you anything for the foreseeable future.’
It was another kick in the gut. I’d reached a dead end with my attempts to get help: private counselling was expensive and hadn’t been for me; the NHS had a long waiting list; my council had nothing to offer unless I was a drug user or an alcoholic, and although the local hospice was rumoured to provide wonderful support, I failed to qualify on two counts: JS didn’t die under their care, and he died too quickly.
I felt totally abandoned.
But then, less than a week after this conversation, Cruse called unexpectedly to tell me that a slot had become free; the counsellor could visit me at home on Thursday evenings. It sounded ideal: I didn’t have to travel and it filled up a lonely hour before Coronation Street kicked in and the Merlot came out.
Confirmation of my appointment arrived by post a few days later, together with the first name of my counsellor. It was an unusual name, so of course I Googlestalked her. When I began to write about my grief, I made a decision to conceal the identity of everyone I write about, unless they are happy to be ‘outed’ or deserve to be humiliated, so my code of conduct means that I can’t tell you what I discovered in advance of our first session. With that in mind, let’s just call my counsellor, Sister Mary . . .
At the agreed hour, Sister Mary arrived dressed head-to-toe in black,