Dancing Over the Hill

by Cathy Hopkins

  ‘What do you want on it?’

  He sighed. ‘I’m getting in your way, aren’t I?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I lied.

  5 p.m. Bathroom. I could hear shuffling outside the door. ‘Where are you?’ called Matt.

  ‘Loo. What do you want?’

  ‘What’s for supper?’

  ‘Supper? Oh, I hadn’t thought about it yet. Sea bass, green beans OK?’

  ‘We had fish last night.’

  ‘Can we talk about this when I’m out of the bathroom?’

  ‘Oh. Course.’

  I finished what I was doing then opened the door. Matt was leaning against the wall.

  ‘OK. Supper,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you want. I tended to eat light in the week when you were away. Something healthy.’

  ‘Light? OK. No, don’t bother about me then. I’ll see what’s there and sort myself out.’

  5.45 p.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, are you in there again?’

  ‘Yes. I’m having a shower.’

  ‘I’ve just found a good website about downsizing. I’ll send you the link.’

  ‘Right. OK. Thanks.’ A minute later. ‘Are you still out there Matt?’

  ‘Erm yes, just—’

  ‘Go away.’

  6 p.m. Bedroom. ‘Cait?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘My mindfulness exercises. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.’

  ‘Right. Just I can’t find the frying pan.’

  ‘It’s where it always is. Left cupboard by the sink.’

  ‘Right.’

  And breathe in, one two three. Out one two three. Let go of tension. Stop grinding teeth.

  6.10 p.m. Sitting room. Must make an effort, it can’t be easy for him, I thought as I went and sat on the chair opposite Matt, who was stretched out on the sofa watching the TV.

  ‘How’s your day been?’ I asked.

  He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Maybe we could have a chat about what we’re going to do, you know, finances; maybe do a budget.’

  Matt sighed. ‘Can we do it another time?’

  ‘Sure. You OK? You know I’m here if you want to talk about what happened.’

  ‘Happened when?’

  ‘You lost your job.’

  ‘Do I want to talk about it? Relive it? Let me think. No. No, I don’t. Erm …’ He glanced over at the TV. ‘Just want to catch the news.’

  ‘News. Right. Of course. OK. Good. And, just to let you know, I’ll probably be going to the loo in another half-hour. Just so you know where I am.’

  He gave me a puzzled look.

  I felt miffed.

  8.00 p.m. Opened my laptop to look for emails. None.

  Quick look on Facebook to see if there are any new compelling clips that I must watch as part of my essential education on life and all its aspects.

  ‘Want to know who you were in a past life?’ Well, yes, I think I do, Mr Facebook. Did the questionnaire. Ah. Apparently I was a Turkish fortune-teller in the fifteenth century. Well, I never saw that coming. Must tell Debs. She’ll believe it.

  I was about to exit Facebook to go down to prepare supper when I remembered that I’d had a friend request from a Tom Lewis. In all the drama of Matt losing his job and me adjusting to being followed around the house, I’d forgotten about it.

  I noted that whoever this Tom Lewis was, he’d also sent a private message. Hmm, the spam requests don’t usually do that, I thought, my curiosity aroused as I clicked to see what I’d been sent.

  ‘Hey Caitlin. Found you! Would love to see you, remember old times, plot new times and check we’re both still on track re. our promise to never give in and grow old, to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled. Never forget, you were always one of the cool ones. Tom X’

  I clicked his profile photo up. Christ! It is. TOM Lewis. THE Tom Lewis.

  Cue violins, time slowing down, a flock of white doves being released into the air, rose petals falling from the sky. TOM LEWIS. I took a deep breath and reread the message, then reread it again. He’d gone abroad. I thought we’d lost each other forever, but there he was in the photo on my laptop screen, older, still handsome as hell, still got his hair though no longer black, still capable of making my post-menopausal heart skip a beat.

  I remembered the first time I saw him. I was twenty years old, in my second year at university in Manchester, and he was post grad at the art college. Ours was the love and peace generation. John Lennon had released ‘Imagine’. Joni Mitchell’s version of ‘Woodstock’ played on the radio. I knew all the words by heart. The Pyramid Stage was built at Glastonbury. There was a rush of gurus to choose from: Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Maharishi, Sathya Sai Baba, Sri Chinmoy, Ram Dass – to name but a handful. Friends in the know swapped their cornflakes for muesli, potatoes for brown rice; green was a buzzword. My head was full of dreams: we were going to change the world and I was going to be a part of it.

  I’d heard of Tom’s bad-boy reputation and the trail of broken hearts, though I’d never met him. One night, Eve and I had gone to see a band at a pub in town, a place where all the students went. I knew as soon as I saw him that it was him. In a time when the other men we encountered were about as sexy as an Old English sheepdog, with their open-toed sandals, duffel coats and pale, hairy legs, Tom stood out a mile. He was leaning against the bar, elbows back on the counter, his body turned to the room, hips slightly thrust out. He was wearing cowboy boots, Levis, a leather aviator jacket. His mane of shaggy dark hair reached to his shoulders, and those crinkly eyes, navy blue, surveyed the territory with that look he always had back then, as though he knew more than the rest of us and the whole world amused him. I was coming down the stairs and could feel him watching me. I descended slowly, my hand on the banister, trying to appear cool, not looking at him, missed the bottom step and landed in a heap. He had come over to help me to my feet, asked if I was OK. I’d nodded, said I liked to make an entrance and he laughed, so easily. I could always make him laugh.

  I felt a rush as I looked at his photo on my computer screen and remembered afternoons and nights we’d spent on his mattress on the floor in his room at his digs. I even remembered the bedspread; it was from India and had a green and red paisley pattern. We’d spent a lot of time on it or under it, a whole week just after we met, locked away in a fusion of lust. There was a poster of Che Guevara on the wall, the scent of patchouli oil and sandalwood joss sticks in the air, the sound of Crosby, Stills & Nash on the record player. He used to play their track, ‘Guinnevere’, over and over to me, the one where they sing about her green eyes. I had green eyes. Still have them. He said they were beautiful, that I was beautiful. I was his lady with my long hair, ankle-length dresses and velvet cape.

  We prided ourselves on being open-minded about other cultures and beliefs. We read Buddhist scriptures, tried transcendental meditation, did yoga, went to meetings where we chanted Hare Krishna, ate curry and rice and listened to readings from the Bhagavad Gita, then would go home, get stoned and talk about our newfound discoveries until the early hours of the morning. Some nights we’d put on ‘Hot Rats’ by Frank Zappa and dance like mad things before bed, love and sleep. Other nights, we would lie on the floor in Tom’s room in the dark and listen to music: The Grateful Dead, Hendrix, Van Morrison, The Eagles, The Stones, The Doors, Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, Joni Mitchell, Miles Davis. We floated around in a haze of marijuana, and the world felt full of hope and the promise of new experience. ‘We must never grow old, Cait,’ he’d said. ‘We must stay curious. Promise me that, whatever happens, we’ll always stay in touch and remind each other to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled.’

  It had been a magical, mystical time that had ended just after he’d finished his degree and Chloe Porter, a Jean Shrimpton-lookalike in a micro-skirt had arrived on the scene. She was attending her brother’s degree ceremony and, two weeks later, Tom left Manchester and we
nt to be with her in London. All I got was a note left on our bed. ‘Adventure calling, Cait. I know you’ll understand.’ I didn’t. I was gutted, heartbroken. I’d thought we were soul mates, that he was The One. He was supposed to have been my knight in shining armour but he rode off into the sunset with another lady, leaving me the damsel in distress. I threw out my Crosby, Stills & Nash LP and played ‘Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye’ by Leonard Cohen over and over again until Eve, who shared the student house where I lived, called it ‘music to slash your wrists to’ and threatened to smash all my records.

  A month later, I’d received a letter from Tom. ‘Dearest Cait. Timing. You know we were too young to have found each other when we did. There’s too much experience still to have on this journey through life for both of us. But we’ll meet again. You know we will, we are meant to be in each other’s lives. Get out there. Have love affairs. Travel. Give your heart. I miss you but that’s how it is for now. Seek adventures. Remember the promise. I will be in touch from time to time to check you haven’t taken the easy option. Love always, Tom.’

  What a pile of crap, I’d thought, and ripped up the letter. I’d known what he was like and cursed myself for falling for his easy charm and honeyed words for so long. I should have known better. We hadn’t stayed in touch. After I’d finished university, I decided to give up on men and look for God instead, to seek a higher, unconditional love as opposed to romantic and limited. I joined the hippie trail and went to India, where I learnt to view life, its highs and lows, as a dream, a temporary illusion. I came to believe that attachment to worldly possessions and people was what caused pain. On my return from the East, I heard from an old university friend that Tom had gone to live in the States and settled in LA. I didn’t take his address. No point. He hadn’t bothered to let me know himself where he was going, and any thoughts of him still hurt, despite my aspiration to detachment. I wasn’t going to chase him. I drifted for a few years, worked in a co-operative shop that sold organic food and vegetarian meals, did dance and drama classes and a bit of acting, sang in a band as a backing singer, but nothing that came to much. In my late twenties, I decided it was time to get real and put down some roots. I put my degree to use and got a job as an English and drama teacher. When I was thirty, I met, fell in love and married Matt and for the first time in years felt settled We set up house, Sam came along then, five years later, Jed, so I had a family to care for and no time to indulge in the youthful notion of taking the road less travelled. Bringing up two boys was enough of an adventure into uncharted territory.

  And now, after all this time, Tom wants to be my friend on Facebook. Well …

  4

  Matt

  Cait brought a cup of tea through to me in the sitting room. She was dressed in a summery coral dress and had done her make-up ready to go out. She was a good-looker, my missus, always was, though she never thought of herself as attractive. She’d inherited her mother’s delicate features and high cheekbones and was still slim, with an open, friendly face and those cat-like green eyes I’d fallen for so many years ago.

  ‘What are you up to today?’ she asked as she glanced at the TV screen, which was showing a rerun of a Star Trek episode. She was trying to sound upbeat, but I knew the subtext was: ‘Are you going to go out today? You’ve lain around for almost two weeks now. Do something useful and get out from under my feet, you good-for-nothing bastard.’

  I shrugged a shoulder by way of reply, then hit the TV pause button.

  Cait sighed so I sighed. There was a lot of sighing going on round here lately.

  ‘Why not call one of your friends? Might do you good to get out.’

  Hah. I knew it, I thought. ‘What friends? All my friends are, or rather were, in the business, at work.’ I used to have other friends, Tony, Steve and Pete, good mates from university days, but over the years we’d drifted apart as marriage, kids, work took over. Plus, as Cait would say, I’m a lazy arse when it comes to actually making contact and picking up the phone, and so are they. I had made an effort last week though, not that I told Cait. I’d gone into Bristol and met Mike from my old office. He wasn’t someone I’d call a close friend, but I’d shared a building with him for the last twelve years. I’d wanted to hear what was going on there since I’d left, but he wasn’t forthcoming. I had the scent of loser on me: redundant, no longer of use or need, so no longer privy to the gossip or changes. It was a short lunch – he had to get back for a meeting, which made me feel all the more pathetic, left sitting there in the restaurant with nothing urgent to do. I’d had a second glass of wine then wandered out into the late spring sunshine, not knowing where to go and not wanting to go home to The House of Sighs. So no, Cait, I thought, I won’t be contacting any of my ‘friends’ soon. When Jed and Sam were living at home, I had no need of friends. My family was everything. The house was always full of the boys’ friends and my time was taken up with giving lifts here and there; attending sports events, football or rugby matches, helping with homework and projects. It was only when they’d gone that I realized the hole that they’d left and no one to fill it.

  Cait sighed again. I out-sighed her. This was a competition I could win.

  ‘Matt, talk to me, tell me how you’re feeling.’

  ‘To be honest, bad, really bad.’

  ‘So tell me. If I know what’s going on inside you I can help.’

  ‘Doubt it. Arsenal lost to Man United in the last game. Disaster. Not a lot you can do about that.’

  ‘Football? We’re talking football?’

  ‘Yes. You asked how I was feeling.’

  Cait’s shoulders drooped. ‘I give up.’

  ‘Me too. If they carry on playing like this, they’re going to be out before the final.’

  ‘Matt, if you don’t let me in, I—’

  ‘Let you in to what? There’s nothing to be let in to if you’re not familiar with the players.’

  Cait left the room. I felt bad. I knew she didn’t want to hear about football, but what was there to say? Or do? Let her in to? How could I when I hadn’t a clue what was going on myself. I glanced at my watch. Eight forty-five. When I’d been working, I’d look at my watch and it would be four in the afternoon and I wouldn’t have known where the day had gone. Now I didn’t know how to fill the long hours, the eternal minutes.

  I got up, went into the kitchen and over to the dresser where I collected up my retirement cards, all sent by well-meaning friends. I sat at the table and began to flick through them.

  ‘Retirement is not the end of the road, it’s the start of the open highway. Debs.’ The lyrics to the song, ‘Highway to Nowhere’ sprang to mind.

  ‘Retirement means twice the husband and half the income. John and Marie.’ Ouch.

  ‘How many days in a week? Six Saturdays, one Sunday. Sue and Charles.’ Thanks Sue and Charles.

  ‘How many retirees does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but it might take all day. Live it, love it, Duncan.’ My brother. At least he’d attempted humour.

  ‘When is a retiree’s bedtime? Two hours after he falls asleep on the couch. Rosie and Anth.’ Well, they got that right. Now I’m doing nothing, I do feel exhausted.

  ‘Goodbye tension, hello pension. Love Arthur and Mary.’ Well Arthur and Mary, that’s all very well, but I don’t have a pension and any savings were used to buy the house and subsequently into seeing Sam and Jed through university. I won’t get the state pension just yet and, even when I do, it won’t be enough to get by on. Our house is our pension. Cait and I agreed that property would earn us more than any savings account which is why we took the leap and bought this house. It was a stretch but we agreed: live somewhere we like while we can and downsize when we have to. Problem is, we never thought ‘have to’ would come around so soon. Cait’s already had the estate agents in to value the place, but I don’t think either of us really wants to move, so I see that as our last option and only if I can’t get another job.

  There was a smal
l pile of books on the table, also sent by well-wishers – How to Survive Retirement manuals with cartoons depicting bald old men bent over with a walking stick. I’m not like that. I have all my hair and my teeth. I can walk unaided. Oh yes. And I still wake at seven, geared to get up and go, only there is nowhere to go to. Cait’s getting irritated with me, I think; no, not think, I know she is and I know she’s trying to help in her own way, but I wish she’d back off and give me some time and space to adjust. Losing my job, my identity, my routine had hurt. Cait had always been the leader in our private life, always coming up with suggestions which I had, in the main, gone along with. She’d research our holidays, I’d book them and take care of the travel arrangements. She’d arrange our social life, organize a dinner or lunch party, I’d go out and buy the wine, do the clearing up, be the back-up. We’d known our roles and what was expected of one another but of course all that has changed now.

  Oops. Cait was back. Look cheerful, Matt. I knew I was bugging her. The house was her territory when I was out at work all day and I felt as if I was now in her way, but she needed to cut me some slack. What had just happened was life-changing. I needed time to adjust and, for once, didn’t want to do everything her way or in her time frame.

  ‘New lot of brochures for me to look at?’ I asked as she placed a magazine on the side table. So far, she’d brought home reading material about the u3a (that’s the University of the Third Age to those in the know), the rugby club – ‘You can watch the matches up there with company and they do a nice lunch,’ she had said, and the gym, ‘Got to keep fit going into our next stage of life.’ But I was not ready to venture out in my cloth cap yet. I wanted to stay home and lick my wounds for a while, least until I could make sense of what had just taken place. Lunch in my business had been a wonderfully social affair with a bottle, maybe two, of fine wine. I was not ready for a casserole and pint of beer to nurse in a corner of a club full of lonely old men.

  ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Who said I needed help?’