Spoilsport.
Later that afternoon, Fran sat at her kitchen table staring down at the page in her notebook where she had written ‘Happiness List Thing’ in careless, barely legible handwriting. She had been sitting there for half an hour now, during which time she had underlined the words with a decorative curly line, drawn a doodle of some flowers and was contemplating adding a cartoon picture of Alan. She smiled down at the dog, who was, as per usual, sitting underneath the table by her feet.
‘Who’s a good dog, eh?’ she cooed, reaching down to stroke his head. Alan stared up at her with mournful eyes. He really was the most beautiful dog – all caramel fur and velvet ears. You couldn’t help smiling at him. Or giving him a treat. Alan knew this, of course, and milked it to perfection. ‘You’re a good dog. Yes, you are.’ Alan gave a gentle bark of agreement. ‘Right, well you have to help me with this,’ she told him, holding up the notebook, ‘because I need to exceed my mother’s rock-bottom expectations somehow but I don’t know what to put. I am on the verge of writing “more walks with Alan”, even though that would pretty much turn my life into one long dog walk.’
Alan jumped up, barking with excitement, and then to further illustrate the point, ran to the hall and began a charming chasing-his-tail dance in front of the coat rack.
‘Bugger. Rookie mistake. I said the “w” word out loud, didn’t I?’ Another bark of affirmation. ‘Right, okay. I guess we may as well head out because I’m not getting very far here.’ Fran pulled on her dog-walking coat, trainers and clipped on Alan’s lead. ‘After you, doggy.’
They trotted along the street in the sunshine. Fran felt its warmth on her face and a sense of calm descend. Maybe this was what mindfulness felt like and she’d simply never realized. Fran wouldn’t call it happiness as such but she wasn’t unhappy. It was just that grief had that annoying habit of being there all the time so that these small moments of joy were a bit like licking the icing off a cupcake and finding that the cake was made of shit. Yeah. Even two years on.
Fran didn’t honestly believe that people got over grief. How could they? Someone you loved more than anything was gone. For ever. How could you ever reach a point where you blithely said, ‘Yeah, I’m fine with that? I’m happy again.’
Never. Gonna. Happen.
The problem was that after two years, people sort of expected you to have moved on. They weren’t being unkind. She would probably do the same. You couldn’t keep doing the sympathy thing for ever, the ‘how are you?’ voice.
Still, just because the rest of the world had moved on, it didn’t mean that she had. In the days immediately after Andy’s death, she had found herself thinking, This time two days ago, he was here, having dinner at home with us, and then, This time three weeks ago, we were watching an episode of The Sopranos and drinking that delicious wine Sam bought us. It then became, This time three months ago he was here. He was alive. But now it was ridiculous. She couldn’t say to herself, This time one hundred and four weeks ago, he was still breathing. She knew something had to change but at this moment in time, she had no idea what it was.
As she returned home from their walk, she let Alan off his lead and made her way to the kitchen. She spied her notebook sitting on the table, open, the blank page taunting her. She grabbed her pen and started to write.
‘There,’ she said to Alan. ‘Done.’ She flicked on the kettle and gazed out at the overgrown mess of a garden. She glanced back at the book. Alan gave a quizzical whine. She stared at him. ‘You’re right. It is too soon. I’ll think of something else.’ She grabbed the pen and put a neat cross through what she had just written.
Pamela
My Happiness List
1. Just bake
‘Observe the soured cream as you gently pour it into the chocolate mixture. See how it changes the consistency of your batter. Look at the way it alters as you stir, creating swirling patterns and a light tinge to the colour.’
‘Do we have any Jeyes Fluid, Pammy? That bloody fox has done his business on the front path again.’
Pamela pressed pause on the iPad. ‘Barry. I am trying to do some baking here. I don’t know if we’ve got any Jeyes. Why don’t you look in the shed?’
‘So-rree,’ he huffed. ‘I was only asking.’
Pamela closed her eyes and sighed. Three deep breaths and bring yourself back to the moment. That’s what the nice American lady said. Satisfied that Barry was safely foraging around in the shed, she pressed ‘play’ on the recording.
‘And now we add the vanilla essence. I recommend Madagascan for the ultimate aromatherapy experience. Open the bottle and allow the sweet scent of vanilla to fill your nostrils.’ Pamela wrestled with the cap – it was an unopened bottle, stubbornly sealed. ‘Pour one teaspoon into the mixture.’
‘Hang on a second, ducks,’ she said, gripping at the cap and trying without success to unscrew it.
‘Now mix it all together, allowing the mingled aromas of chocolate and vanilla to waft into your senses.’
Pamela tried to gnaw at the bottle top with her teeth. A loose crown flew from her mouth into the mixture. ‘Bother,’ she declared, fishing it out with a spoon.
‘Take a moment to admire what you’re creating.’
Pamela frowned at the resolutely sealed bottle of vanilla essence. ‘Never mind,’ she told the batter. ‘You look lovely as you are.’
‘Now observe the sensations in your arms and body as you mix.’
Pamela wondered if the woman meant her to dwell on the nagging pain in her wrist but decided she probably didn’t.
‘Once you have mixed it thoroughly, spoon evenly between the muffin cases, taking time to focus on what you’re doing.’
I wonder if Barry found the Jeyes? Oh, I forgot to take the sausages out of the freezer for tea. I wonder if Matty will want to eat with us tonight? Unlikely after Barry went on at him for not having a job. How can he be so unkind to his own son? You have to support your children no matter what.
‘If you find your mind wandering, just bring it back to the task in hand.’
‘Sorry, lovey.’ Pamela grimaced.
‘And now place the cupcakes in the oven. Have a seat a safe distance away and close your eyes. Take three deep breaths. You have nothing else to do but sit here for the next fifteen minutes while they bake. Listen to the sounds around you, feel the warmth of the oven and inhale those delicious smells as they start to waft over you. If your mind wanders, don’t worry. Just focus on this gentle music and bring it back with three deep breaths. Enjoy this moment in your comfortable, warm kitchen filled with its wonderful aromas.’
Pamela did exactly as she was told. She closed her eyes and began to breathe.
Oh damn, I still haven’t taken the sausages out of the freezer. Never mind. I’ll do it in a sec.
Breathe, Pammy.
I wonder when Matthew’s going to get up. He doesn’t always help himself with his dad by lying in bed until goodness knows when.
Breathe.
If only he’d find a job – something he enjoys. I might take a look in the shops on the high street to see if there are any ads.