by Annie Murray
Exhausted, I sink on to the sofa, unlace my trainers and tuck my feet under me. The house is nice and warm at least. God, I’m like an old lady myself, needing naps in the daytime. How does Ian manage to keep going, working so many hours? But work, it seems, is all he wants to do.
Just as my eyes are closing, my mobile starts throbbing on the arm of the chair, jerking me awake. Mom and Dad’s landline number shows on the screen. I drag a deep breath in and brace myself.
‘Jo?’ Mom starts talking in a rush. ‘Are you all right, love? We were so sorry not to get over to see the new place yesterday, only Amy has been ever so poorly and of course poor Clare was expected at work even though it was the last thing she needed. She’s looking a bit better today – Amy, I mean. We were afraid it might be something like measles, or – you know, well, she didn’t have that injection and I remember when you had it – anyway, it isn’t as it turns out. But then you’ll never guess what happened! Mark went out to fix something outside and has somehow sprained his wrist – badly. They spent three hours in casualty last night and he’s all strapped up, so we’ve had a bit of a time of it . . .’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, trying not to think, But she’s your great-granddaughter – isn’t there anyone else who could have looked after her? What about Lisa? But of course, Lisa, my sister-in-law and Amy’s grandmother, was out, busy as ever. Lisa is not really into being a grandmother at the age of forty-eight.
‘We thought we’d come over tomorrow, if that’s all right. It’ll have to be the afternoon – we’ve got things on in the morning . . .’
‘That’s fine.’ Saturday’s as good a day as any other in my hectic social calendar, I think, but don’t say. And at least Ian might be there as well.
‘Oh, good.’ Mom suddenly sounds enthusiastic. ‘It’ll be lovely to see it. Now, is there anything I can bring? A cake – rubber gloves?’
‘Not that I can think of,’ I say, in the face of this random selection of offers. My mother and father do brisk at all times.
‘Well, all right, we’ll see you tomorrow, love – about three, I expect.’
I click the phone off and stare out of the front window. I’ve taken the nets down – I don’t like them. The houses facing ours are almost its mirror image, except that the one opposite has two little bay trees in pots each side of the front door, cut into leafy globes like lollipops, the one green thing permitted amid a sea of paving slabs. Big, sharp-edged clouds move across the blue sky.
Mom and Dad never quite coped with Paul, no matter how hard they tried. They weren’t unkind, nothing like that. But something in them, some primitive reflex, meant they couldn’t quite bend to an outsider, someone not of their blood. I remember once, we were all down at the caravan. They keep it on a site outside Redditch, where they live. Paul was about six and Dad was trying to teach him to play cricket. I was standing in the doorway of the caravan watching. It was late in the afternoon and they were in a patch of sunlight, between the shadows from the trees. Paul’s hair was dark, curly – that made him stand out as a stranger to begin with. Of course, Ian’s family, the Stefanis, all have dark hair and Paul blended right in, but no one else in our family has hair as dark as that. And he kept dropping the ball, seemed bewildered by the whole concept of the game.
‘Come on now, lad!’ Dad kept saying, impatience veiled by a forced jollity. He’s a dapper man, my dad, always very tidy, in his white summer shoes, short-sleeved shirt tucked tightly into grey trousers, belted high on the waist. He’s a clever man, but it’s the cleverness of calculations, categories, things fitting into place. ‘That’s it – pick it up and throw it back to me. That’s it, lad – no, over here! Oh, dear, oh, dear!’ He chuckled in a despairing way as the ball veered off in the wrong direction.
Watching them, my heart clenched. Paul never quite did what boys were automatically supposed to do, not in Mom and Dad’s eyes, not the way my sporty brother Mark did – has always done. And Dad made him nervous.
‘We had a nice game, didn’t we?’ Dad said afterwards, too jolly, a hand rumpling Paul’s foreign hair as he stared unhappily at the ground. ‘But I think stamp collecting might be more his line.’
Paul raised his head and looked at me, frowning. He had no idea what stamp collecting was.
Six
CHILD’S POSE
The yoga class is at ten-thirty on Tuesday mornings.
A long roll of a parcel arrived for me on Saturday. Ian, who had agreed not to work that day as my parents were coming, brought it through from the hall and looked questioningly at me as I sat eating toast.
‘Yoga mat. I’ve found a class in the church hall.’ I had told him this before.
‘Oh, yeah.’ He forced a joke. ‘I thought it might be something to keep your dad busy. A club for attacking weeds?’
I stared back at him, not in the mood for jokes. Having to cope with Mom and Dad’s arrival later was bad enough. Dad’s one of those people who are lost without a little practical task, however futile, to keep him busy. Come to think of it, Mom is much the same.
Ian seemed to realize he’d said the wrong thing – or at least maybe the right thing but at the wrong moment.
‘I can get him sorting out these window security keys,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had time to try them.’ So far, we’ve not been able to open any of the windows.
I relented. ‘Yeah. Good idea.’
As I walk along the road to the yoga class, I can’t stop thinking about Mom and Dad’s visit last Saturday. The thought of it is lodged in me heavily, like an undigested meal. It always takes me time to recover from seeing them. Always? Maybe not. I suppose it really started to get to me as Paul was growing up, his not fitting into their prearranged ideas.
Within moments of arriving, my mom, in a workmanlike yet pink tracksuit, with packs of J-cloths and bright yellow microfibre cloths, was buzzing about squirting Cif and wiping down already clean surfaces, saying how a new start always made all the difference.
‘You can move on properly now, can’t you, love?’ she said, conscientiously scrubbing at something.
I stared at the back of Mom’s head. Her not-to-be-allowed-to-go-grey hair was dyed a glossy chestnut with blonde highlights, cut in a neat bob, the ends blowdried under. It looked so immaculate that I realized this was what she had been busy with this morning – the hairdresser’s and a long session of trimming and dying. She must have felt my murderous eyes boring into the back of her head because she turned, hands encased in her yellow Marigolds, and looked seriously at me. I was so close to boiling that I said nothing.
‘There’s got to come a time,’ she said. Then she looked down at herself for a second and added cautiously, ‘Would you be able to find me an apron, love?’
Still saying nothing, I found her a blue-and-white striped apron and took myself into the front room where I sat on the edge of the sofa for ten minutes until I could breathe properly again.
We spent an uneasy couple of hours. Ian kept Dad busy with a drip feed of Allen keys, WD40 and spanners (which brought me closer to him with gratitude than anything else had for a long time). Of course, Dad had his own tool kit in the boot of the car. After all, hardware and tools used to be his business. My grandfather started Gilby’s, the family’s big, successful store, in the 1930s and Dad inherited it. It’s still one of the few non-chain survivors. Mom used to work in the office and they had a lot of loyal customers, So much better than B&Q.
We drank tea. Mom had brought an M&S lemon cake. I knew you wouldn’t have had time to bake. We chatted about the caravan, about the neighbours’ doings and Amy’s. For all of her eleven months, Amy has been an endless source of anecdotes. They kept looking at each other, egging each other on to tell another story and laugh. And I sat, full of rage and hurt and yet telling myself, This is what people do – you have to talk, to go on with life. This is normal. But I wanted to get up and scream – Talk about my boy! I want to talk about him, not about Amy! But we never did talk much about Paul – ev
en when he was alive. And their relief as they got up to go was unmistakeable.
‘Take care of yourself, love,’ Mom said, giving me one of her hugs which somehow involved minimal bodily contact. ‘Mark and Lisa said they’ll be over to see you soon, once you’re settled in.’ Her well made-up face, the grey eyes, lids tinted with something shimmery, looked pityingly into mine, that look which said, If only your life had turned out like Mark’s, with his nice wife and girls and grandchild . . . She fumbled in her bag and pulled out a twenty-pound note which she pushed into my hand.
‘There – put that towards a nice haircut, eh? It’ll cheer you up.’
I stood out on the pavement as they got into the car. I felt as if I had been scraped all over with something, my skin all sore and sensitive. I stood next to Ian, waving, with my other hand closed round the money.
It’s always taken time to get over seeing my parents and this felt worst of all.
Three days later I’m not feeling much better.
Reaching the church hall, I hesitate out in the little lobby. I can see there are a couple of people inside. I don’t even know why I’m here now. I didn’t feel like coming, but the thought of staying home was worse.
To buy time I go into the ladies. Five minutes later there are half a dozen people in the hall. My heart is hammering and I want to turn and run. New people. I never used to be like this, but now thought of even saying hello feels like a mountainous obstacle. But then someone else comes up behind me and I can’t just block the way, so I push the door open.
There is a handful of women, a couple over to one side, chatting, one unrolling a mat, another standing by the windowsill writing in a notebook. Mats of various colours are laid like petals round a fat candle in the middle. Two women are sitting quietly, one cross-legged, the other with plump little legs stretched out, clad in grey tracksuit trousers. But I can’t see Sheila, the woman I met the other day.
The notebook woman looks up and smiles and comes over to me. She must be in her mid-forties, a nice curvy shape in navy leggings and grey vest, long brown hair caught up in a trendily messy sort of topknot. I like her face immediately, her wide smiling mouth and kind eyes, and something inside me relaxes a tiny fraction.
‘Hi, I’m Kim and I run the class – have you come to join us?’ She speaks gently, cautiously, as if not wanting to seem pushy.
I nod. ‘If that’s OK.’
‘Of course it’s OK – you’re very welcome.’ Her voice is deep and silky, but it has in it an appealing hint of laughter. ‘Let me just get my little book.’ She retrieves it from the windowsill. ‘Have you done yoga before?’
‘A bit – not much.’ I find myself feeling timid and tongue-tied. I never used to be like this. I tell Kim my name and hand over the five pounds.
‘Lovely –’ Kim writes her in the register – ‘Jo Stefani . . . Great, Jo.’ She puts the book down and touches my shoulder to guide me across the room and it makes me feel cared for. She is that kind of person. Nurturing, as they say. ‘You can come on a drop-in basis – that’s fine. No need to book ahead or anything. Now, if you just find a space . . .’
I unroll my mat in an unoccupied segment of the circle.
‘That’s it – you come here next to me’, says the lady who is still sitting with her legs stretched out. ‘I’m Sunita.’ She’s a middle-aged Asian lady, plump, with shoulder-length, rather chaotic-looking hair, round, dimply cheeks and a motherly manner.
The woman on the other side of me also says hello, in a reserved sort of way. As an afterthought she says her name is Pat. She is probably in her late fifties, slender in black leggings and a white striped T-shirt, and with a round, blue-eyed, fresh-faced look. She has greying brown hair which has a natural curl, a few tendrils falling over her forehead; her smile, showing big, square teeth, makes her look cheerful and suddenly youthful, like a girl. Once I have laid out my bright blue mat, which smells new and rubbery, I see Sheila come in, wearing a black tracksuit, a mat under her arm – ‘Sorry I’m late’ – and followed by another neat-looking, short-haired woman.
‘No Fred today, Pat?’ Sheila asks the woman next to me.
‘No – he’s had to take the car in,’ she says, rolling her eyes. I’m not sure why she’s rolling her eyes but it makes everyone laugh.
‘Right –’ Kim comes over, squats down to light the candle, then settles into a limber, cross-legged position. She smiles round at us all. Somehow, she is a person who makes things seem fresh and possible, as if she has eternal energy. This makes me feel rather tired but sort of hopeful at the same time. The room quietens. ‘Welcome, everyone. As you can see we have someone new today –’ she smiles at me – ‘so shall we do quick introductions?’ Everyone nods.
‘Well, I’m Kim, as you know. I’ve been teaching here for – goodness, three years now. I used to be a midwife but I started to find it . . . Well, let’s just say I needed a change. So –’ she shrugs humorously – ‘here I am.’
Sheila and Sunita introduce themselves, just giving their names, and suddenly it’s my turn.
‘I’m Jo. I’m new to the area. And I feel – well, I think I need to do yoga.’
The others laugh. Again, I’m not sure why but it feels sympathetic, as if to say, Don’t we all?
‘I’m Pat. I usually come with my husband, Fred.’
‘I’m Liz,’ the short-haired woman the other side of her says. She seems quiet, rather shut in on herself.
‘I’m Hayley,’ says the girl who slipped in even later than the others. She’s beautiful: startlingly young amid such a middle-aged group, with thick blonde hair in a high ponytail and a pretty face, even more striking for the wide, dark brown eyes. Her voice is soft and lispy. ‘Sorry I was late, Kim. Bit of a hold-up this morning.’
‘No worries, Hayley,’ Kim says. ‘Right – well, we’ll get started. Let’s all begin by sitting in a comfortable position, legs crossed if you can and eyes half-closed. Take a deep breath, breathing right down into your abdomen.’
I let my spine straighten. I rest my hands on my knees and began to think about breathing. Air courses down my windpipe and I feel myself expand, as if the breath is plumbing down into forgotten folds of me. The air is lightly scented by the candle, something sweet and musky. It feels amazing, as if it’s the deepest breath I’ve taken for months and months. As if I am just discovering breathing for the first time.
We exercise our necks and shoulders. I keep my eyes half-closed through a lot of it, enjoying the feeling of doing something physical, of noticing that I have a body. For all these months, all I have known has been the pain inside me, my body a shell for that pain, otherwise disregarded and untended. Now, in noticing, the old guilt surges up – You’re alive, how can you be alive? I try to breathe it away, to alter my mind’s direction of travel.
With each position I try deliberately to think of the part I am moving: arms – I have arms! – legs, belly, neck, spine. And muscles. We stand up and begin on the Salute to the Sun. I used to be quite fit. Now with each move, my stretching muscles prod me with reminders of neglect; reminders that I have a body, that I am a living, physical being.
Legs stretched wide for Warrior pose, thigh muscles shaking from the effort, I find myself thinking of a tiny, bedraggled bird emerging new-born from an egg. After about half an hour, listening to Kim’s soothing voice, following the movements of stretching and extending myself, something frightening starts to happen. At first, I start to feel a bit sick and wonder if I am overdoing it for a first time. I gulp in air, trying to overcome the feeling.
‘Right,’ Kim says. ‘Now – we’ll go back on to all fours, knees under hips – yes, legs back a bit further, Sunita, that’s it. Cat-Cow – take a nice deep breath, flexing your spine . . .’
As instructed, I stare at the blue mat between my hands, beginning to wonder if I should escape to the bathroom. The weird pressure is notching up inside me. Blood pumps in my ears. I’m not exactly sure that sick is what I feel. I can’t wo
rk it out. It’s more the feeling that something is coming at me from a distance, like knowing somehow that a huge lorry is hurtling towards you along a street but not yet being able to see or hear it.
I breathe in deeply, then let the breath out, back arching, head between my shoulders: I breathe in again, belly down, back flexing, head up. We repeat the movement several times and the feeling swells into raw panic. My arms start to tremble, as if something is pressing down on me.
Don’t give in to it, I tell myself, frightened now. But I start to wonder if I’m in fact having a heart attack or something. What are the symptoms for women – aren’t they different from men’s symptoms somehow? I can’t remember. All of me is starting to shake and I keep my head down, hoping everyone else is doing the same so they don’t notice the state I’m in.
‘Right,’ Kim says. ‘Now we’ll go into Child’s Pose. That’s it – knees together, lay your arms back alongside your legs, head down – just let everything relax.’
As I sink down on to my knees, it sweeps through me like a massive surfers’ wave, turning me over and over, helpless. The sound that started to press out of me feels far in the distance at first, high, tiny, like a kitten mewling somewhere until I just can’t stop even though I know it’s me and it grows into a howl that just keeps coming, on and on, seemingly all on one breath.
‘Jo?’ A hand touches my back with soft caution. I am locked down, my forehead on the floor, in a darkness that has taken me right over and the hand is the only other thing I know. It begins to stroke, slowly back and forth along my back, just managing to connect me. ‘Jo – it’s OK. It’s OK . . . Don’t worry, it’s all right. You’re safe, everything’s all right – it’s going to be all right.’