The Kicking the Bucket List

by Cathy Hopkins

  ‘It’s always good to keep in practice but, seriously, not interested.’

  ‘Sounds like the lady doth protest too much.’

  ‘No, really. I mean, did you see those rubber wristbands? So pretentious. You don’t even have to believe in the cause because your bracelet says it for you. They say I support charities. I support meaningful causes. Right on, brother, and all that.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I think the people that really do something don’t flaunt it. They just do it, quietly, sans bracelet, sans advertisement to the world that says they are one of the good guys.’

  I didn’t tell her that up until a month ago I’d worn two bracelets from charities I supported. ‘No more than wearing a pink ribbon for breast cancer awareness or a poppy on Remembrance Day.’

  ‘Oh knock it off you two,’ said Rose. ‘What does it matter if he wears bracelets? As Mum said, don’t shoot the messenger.’

  ‘What did you think of him, Rose?’ I asked.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? We’re doing this for Mum, though I did think he was a bit full of himself. Smug. Probably because he knows what we’re in for.’

  ‘Your type?’ asked Fleur.

  Rose gave her a withering look by way of reply.

  ‘And what about Mum’s programme of events?’ I asked.

  ‘Ridiculous. Colonic irrigation as a way to explore happiness? Seriously?’ said Rose. ‘I think perhaps Mum was on some weird medication when she thought this up, because frankly it’s bordering on insane. I mean, come on, a dead woman sends her three daughters to have colonic irrigation as one of the conditions of her will. It’s mad.’

  Fleur laughed. ‘I agree, it does sound a bit bonkers when you put it like that. I thought we’d be doing happy things, seeing as it’s supposed to be an exploration of how to be happy.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked.

  ‘What makes anyone happy? Looking at flowers. Skipping in sunlit fields. Eating cupcakes. Drinking champagne. Buying shoes.’

  Rose looked at her as if she was deranged. ‘Buying shoes?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, but having a colonic would definitely not be top of my “how to be happy” list.’

  ‘Maybe she’s punishing us for not seeing each other?’ I suggested.

  Fleur suddenly burst out laughing.

  Rose turned to her. ‘Why is that funny?’

  ‘I’ve just realized the inference. Why she’s done it. Mum was saying we’re full of shit.’

  Fair point, I thought.

  ‘In that case, our mother might have been eighty-seven but she was surprisingly immature,’ said Rose. ‘I suppose she thought it was funny too.’

  ‘She probably did,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Fleur. ‘I’ve had colonics. They’re not so bad. Your skin will glow and your eyes will sparkle. Doesn’t hurt. Might even do us some good.’

  ‘And this is supposed to bring us together how?’ asked Rose.

  ‘I can see the sense of it, sort of,’ I said. ‘A clear-out is always a good thing. Like clearing the leaves out of drains, get rid of the rubbish and you get to the clear water underneath.’

  Rose raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Typical of you to say something like that. Did you hear it at one of your New Age workshops down in Cornwall?’

  ‘No, but I do tell my art students that when they feel that their work isn’t going well. In any creative venture, you always have to clear the gunk first. Don’t you tell your writers that?’

  ‘No. I tell them to rewrite.’

  ‘Same thing, sort of.’

  But I’d lost Rose’s attention. As far as she was concerned, she was the only one whose opinion mattered when it came to being creative. She glanced at her watch. ‘There are so many other things I could be doing with this weekend. I’m going to my room. I’ll see you for the first session at eleven.’

  With that, she turned and walked off.

  Fleur sighed and took the paper from me. ‘Ah. Happy days,’ she said as she glanced at it, then left the room and took off in the direction of the bar.

  9

  Saturday 10 October

  At 11 a.m., the three of us trooped back to the library for the first session, where our counsellor was already waiting. She looked to be in her sixties, a large woman with silver hair past her shoulders, chunky amber jewellery, layered clothes the colours of autumn: ochre, brown and orange, and a pair of wide, comfy shoes, the kind bought by older people with bunions. Fleur would probably comment later on her bosom and need for a good bra – an over-shoulder boulder-holder, she used to call them.

  The counsellor introduced herself as Beverly. She spoke with an American accent, East Coast – possibly a New Yorker. ‘I met your mother on several occasions when she came and stayed here in her younger days,’ she said.

  ‘Our mother actually came here?’ asked Rose.

  Beverly nodded. ‘She did. She attended a few of the workshops I ran over the years. She contacted me earlier in the year and told me she was putting together a list of activities for you and asked if I would meet with you as part if it. I suggest that we begin by introducing ourselves. Would one of you like to start?’

  ‘We’re sisters,’ said Rose. ‘We grew up in the same house. We don’t need any introduction.’

  Beverly regarded her for a few seconds. She had a very direct gaze. ‘I do this with all my clients, even the married ones. We so often think we know each other, but actually there’s always something new we can learn. Rose, why don’t you go first? Tell us a little about yourself.’

  Ha-ha. Take that Rose, I thought.

  Rose gave a tight smile and, without looking at Fleur or me, began to speak. ‘My name’s Rose Edwards. I live in Highgate, London. I’m fifty-one years old. Two children. One husband. I work in publishing.’

  ‘Speak to Fleur and Dee, Rose.’

  Rose turned in her seat. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘How do you feel about being here, Rose?’ asked Beverly.

  The look Rose gave Beverly almost made me laugh. I knew it so well. Her ‘I won’t be bossed around and you watch your step missie’ face. Beverly reflected it right back. This could be fun, I thought as I settled in my chair as Rose continued. ‘I feel frustrated. I don’t want to be here. I have better things to do with my time.’

  ‘Good,’ said Beverly. If Rose was expecting an argument, she wasn’t going to get one. ‘Now you Daisy.’

  I turned to look at Fleur and Rose. ‘Mum was the only one who called me Daisy. I’m Dee McDonald. Forty-nine. Divorced, presently single. One daughter, doing well, and thanks to both of you for asking about her. OK, we might have fallen out but she’s still your niece.’

  ‘Mum always let us know how she’s doing. Anyway, we’re in touch on Facebook,’ said Fleur.

  ‘You are?’ Ouch. That was news to me and hurt. Lucy hadn’t accepted me as her Facebook friend, but then ours had never been an easy relationship and we’d often been at war with each other when she was growing up. We weren’t close like Mum and I had been, though I hadn’t given up hope that one day we might be. Lucy was wilful and stubborn as a child, ran wild in her teenage years, and her opinions often clashed with mine. As soon as she left school at eighteen, she was out the door and went to get a job in London and live with her aunt, Andy’s sister. She’d lasted less than a year there, then went to live in Byron Bay in Australia, near her father, who she adored and who could do no wrong. We Skyped regularly, but letting me see her Facebook page was a no-no as far as she was concerned.

  ‘Yes. She often messages me,’ said Fleur. Turn the knife, why don’t you Fleur? I thought.

  ‘Let Dee speak,’ said Beverly. ‘How do you feel about being here Dee?’

  ‘I was feeling great, but now I feel insulted that my sister Rose feels she has better things to do with her time than be here with Fleur and me. I think the least we can do is try to
approach things with a positive attitude.’ What I didn’t say was that I was gutted that Lucy and Fleur were friends on Facebook and I’d been left out. It felt too familiar, reminiscent of times with Fleur and Rose when I’d been excluded from their various groups of friends.

  Rose rolled her eyes.

  ‘Good,’ said Beverly. Good? Is she mad? I wondered. You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife. ‘And lastly, Fleur.’

  ‘Fleur Parker. Youngest. Married twice. Presently single. Nicest of the three.’ She grinned at Beverly.

  ‘Don’t hide your feelings behind jokes and charm, Fleur. How do you feel about being here?’

  ‘Actually I feel good,’ she replied, and turned to look at Rose and me. ‘I think the stupid standoff has gone on long enough and it’s time to make up. We’ve just lost our mother. It’s a time to be with family.’

  If it’s not too late, I thought.

  ‘We were never close,’ said Rose.

  ‘Yes we were. We were. I remember loads of good times with both of you. You have a selective memory, Rose. I’ve missed you both.’

  I was surprised to hear this. Fleur had always been so independent, and never appeared to need anyone, except in her thirties when she’d gone through a bad patch with alcohol. She used to call in the early hours of the morning when she’d been drinking to bemoan about some relationship or other, but mainly to berate me for not being there for her, as if she was the only one who ever had problems. Rose had had many years of the same phone calls, and both of us had grown weary of them and taken to putting the answering machine on after ten in the evening.

  ‘I do have a selective memory,’ said Rose. ‘And that is why we’re not close – because I remember what you can be like.’

  Beverly nodded. ‘Fleur’s turn, Rose.’

  ‘People change,’ said Fleur, ‘conquer demons.’

  ‘Do they?’ Rose replied.

  ‘Not you apparently,’ said Fleur.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You haven’t changed at all. Still judging, sitting on your high and mighty throne with no compassion.’

  Ooh, that’s harsh, I thought, though had to agree. Rose could be heartless.

  ‘OK, good,’ said Beverly. ‘We’ve broken the ice a little. Now I want each of you to use three words to describe your sisters. Positive words. This time we’ll start with you, Fleur. Three words about Rose.’

  Fleur looked at Rose then back at Beverly. ‘Three?’

  Rose looked indignant at the insinuation that three positive words were going to be hard to find. I thought it was just Fleur trying to be funny and have a dig at the same time.

  Beverly nodded. ‘Three.’

  Fleur hesitated. ‘Can Dee go first?’

  ‘Can you, Dee?’ asked Beverly.

  Rose sighed heavily, looked at her watch, crossed her arms and legs and the left foot began to twitch.

  ‘OK,’ I said, and looked at Rose. If I was to be honest, I’d say uptight, anal and patronizing for her, and self-obsessed, impatient and frivolous for Fleur, but I’d been in therapy and knew how to play the game. They get you to start positive then bring out the knives later. ‘OK. Rose. Hard-working. Conscientious. Focused.’

  ‘Conscientious and focused are almost the same, can you give us another word?’ asked Beverly.

  I looked at Rose again. ‘Stylish. She always looks immaculate.’ Rose shifted in her seat but didn’t look displeased.

  ‘Good,’ said Beverly. ‘And for Fleur.’

  ‘Beautiful. Light-hearted. A free spirit,’ I said. Free spirit meaning she does exactly what she pleases, but Beverly wouldn’t know that and what I’d said seemed to have worked. The atmosphere had lightened a tad.

  ‘Fleur, your three words for Rose,’ said Beverly.

  Fleur had a mischievous look. ‘Five foot three.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Rose rolled her eyes again.

  ‘I get the feeling you’re not taking this seriously, Fleur?’

  Fleur gave her a ‘duh’ look. Beverly gave it back to her just as she had returned Rose’s look earlier. ‘I am taking it seriously,’ said Fleur. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t tease each other. That’s all it was.’ She shrugged, then turned back to Rose and appraised her. Rose looked bored and turned to look out of the window. ‘Capable, organized, efficient.’

  Rose turned back. ‘That makes me sound like a bank clerk.’

  Fleur raised an eyebrow as if to say, And your point is? ‘She’s a great mother too,’ she continued, ‘and highly intelligent.’ Rose visibly relaxed a little. She’d prided herself on her high IQ and top grades all through school and university. ‘Bossy as hell. Hah. There are another three good words for her.’

  ‘Positive Fleur, keep it positive for now,’ warned Beverly.

  ‘OK. Um … great cook. She does a mean Sunday lunch, or rather did. I haven’t been invited for over three years and, yes, I am doing fine thank you very much, thanks for asking.’

  Typical of Fleur. Making up her own rules as usual, I thought as I counted her words to describe Rose. A lot more than three. I glanced at Beverly. I suppose she saw people like us every day in her line of work. I wondered if she ever got sick of it, listening to people moaning on and having a go at each other. Her expression gave nothing away.

  ‘OK, now Rose, three words for Dee.’

  Rose glanced at me. ‘New Age hippie.’

  ‘Is that said in a positive way?’ Beverly asked.

  ‘And I am not a hippie,’ I objected.

  ‘You went to art college,’ said Fleur. ‘You drink herbal tea, wear Eastern-style clothes.’

  This time it was my turn to roll my eyes. ‘That does not make me a hippie. And I rarely drink herbal tea these days – that was a phase, not that you’d know.’

  ‘Let Rose speak,’ said Beverly.

  ‘It wasn’t meant in a negative way,’ said Rose. ‘I meant she’s idealistic, romantic, child of God, you know, Woodstock and all that. Creative. Talented. There.’

  ‘And Fleur, what would you say about Dee?’ asked Beverly.

  Fleur pouted. ‘Rose nicked my words. I was going to say creative, talented.’ I almost laughed again. Half a day in each other’s company and we’d reverted back to being nine-year-olds; Fleur sulking because someone had used something of hers. I remembered endless tantrums if anyone dared to touch anything that belonged to her, and God forbid if either of us ever tried to borrow any of her clothes.

  ‘I’m sure you can think of some others, Fleur.’

  Fleur looked at me. ‘Er … happy. Yes, you’re a happy person Dee, sunny, or you were … Er …’

  Yes, I was, I thought. I felt flattered she’d used the word happy to describe me, but also sad that I didn’t think it applied any more. I wondered if Beverly would ask us to use three words to describe ourselves. Mine for me would be: wrinkly, disappointed, broke.

  Fleur looked over at Rose. ‘I know two good words for Dee. Animal-lover.’

  Rose laughed but it came out as a snort. Beverly looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Family joke,’ said Rose. She looked annoyingly pleased.

  ‘Not a joke shared by me,’ I said. I knew they were referring to Max and Misty and probably saw me as a mad old cat lady.

  ‘OK, let’s stay focused,’ said Beverly. ‘Now we’re going to say what you don’t like. Dee. Why don’t you go first again, and remember to speak to them, not to me.’

  Old insecurities threatened to surface. ‘Neither of you ever got me or where I was coming from. We made our choices and went our separate ways. And you know nothing about my life.’ I took a deep breath and blinked away tears. I didn’t want to break down and feel exposed or vulnerable in front of them, in case they went in for the kill as they sometimes did when we were young. ‘You could both be cruel.’

  Rose scoffed. ‘Like when?’

  A memory from when I was fifteen flashed into my mind. ‘Stuart Robinson.’

  Fleur laughed. She remember
ed too.

  ‘Who was Stuart Robinson?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Dee had an almighty crush on him,’ said Fleur. ‘You must remember, Rose. Our April Fool? It was only a joke, Dee. A bit of fun.’

  I took another deep breath. He was more than a crush. I’d loved him with a love that was true, but he’d hardly noticed me. I turned to Beverly. ‘One Saturday morning, I was woken from a deep sleep by these two. “Stuart’s at the front door and wants to see you,” said Fleur. They seemed pleased for me and as excited as I was. I begged, “Don’t let him leave, make him a coffee.” I leapt out of bed, got dressed, splashed my face and made it down the stairs in record time. Stuart at our house. Come to see me. I was a teenage girl. Over the moon. I got downstairs. No Stuart. Just Fleur and Rose. “April Fool,” cried Fleur. And there, Beverly, you have just one example of how mean my sisters could be.’

  Beverly nodded. ‘OK. Good, but if you can, just give me the three words for Rose and Fleur for now,’ she said.

  I felt a flicker of anger deep inside.

  ‘Rose. Controlling. Cold. Stubborn.’

  Rose bristled. ‘If anyone’s stubborn, it’s you.’

  ‘Please let each person speak without interruption or comment,’ said Beverly. ‘You’ll get a chance to express your views later. Please continue Dee. Your words about Fleur.’

  ‘Self-obsessed. Unreliable. Frivolous.’

  ‘Unreliable? You can talk.’

  ‘Rose. Your words about Dee and Fleur.’

  Rose sighed. ‘Dee. Irresponsible. Dreamer. Gives up too easily – er, that’s more than three but you know what I mean. Fleur, selfish, shallow, also irresponsible.’

  Well this is going well, I thought, as Fleur and I both crossed our legs and arms at the same time.

  As the session went on, Rose clammed up completely. She’d said her piece.

  Fleur’s phone beeped that she had a text message. She got it from her bag and was about to read it.

  ‘Turn your phone off, Fleur,’ said Beverly. ‘This is uninterrupted time with your sisters.’

  Fleur did as she was told but looked shocked. It was probably years since anyone had told her what to do. By the way a vein was throbbing on the left of her forehead, I could see she was holding in a curt reply. As Rose’s foot was her giveaway, the vein in Fleur’s temple was hers.