Dancing Over the Hill

by Cathy Hopkins

  Her girls were a bright bunch. They had gone off to university, met partners and carved out their careers, which is exactly what she and Alistair wanted them to do. ‘No one can predict where or for how long jobs are going to present themselves,’ I said, ‘and there was nothing doing round here for them in the fields they’d chosen. It’s great that you never held them back and encouraged each of them to follow their own path, as did Alistair.’

  Lorna nodded. ‘He did, but I know that he too had his dreams of an idyllic chapter as we grew older, and that they would be within driving distance. Neither of us ever imagined they’d all be so far away. They come back when they can, but travel is expensive and each visit feels too short. Then there are the inevitable goodbyes, waving them off at the gate, never showing that I’m crumbling inside.’

  It wasn’t meant to be like this, I thought again as I sipped on my drink and wondered what I could say to make her feel better. My two friends, both alone, though in different circumstances, both dealing with being by themselves in such opposite ways. I was glad that I’d come to see Lorna, and glad that she’d opened up to me about how she was feeling. It was a rare event, and I didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up Matt, Tom or my concerns in the face of her obvious loneliness and the brave front she put on most days. Despite that courage, there was no changing the fact that she was here on her own most nights, on the veranda at the back of the house where she’d spent every evening with Alistair, the dogs at their feet, before he died.

  ‘We’d talk for hours out here,’ said Lorna, ‘and while Alistair was alive, it was bearable that our family had flown to distant parts of the world. We had each other, always something to say and, you know, although he was ten years older than me, I thought he’d last at least another twenty years.’

  I nodded. ‘Me too. He was such a big character, the life and soul, with a hundred interests and opinions on everything, informed and stimulating ones at that.’

  ‘And now there’s just me here, an empty chair opposite where Alistair used to be, silence where there was conversation and company. Even inside, everything is as he’d left it in his study, a scribbled note on his desk reminding him to get tickets for an author event at Toppings bookshop in town, the history book he was reading on the side table by his armchair, his old cardigan hanging on the back of his desk chair. If I hold it to my face, I can still just about catch the scent of him, woody from the garden where, as you know, he spent most of his time.’

  I reached out and put my hand over hers. ‘Oh, Lorna. I know it must be so hard. You know you’re welcome at ours any time you feel like company.’

  ‘I know, and thanks, but the reality is, he’s gone, and I’d still have to come back and wake up here, have my evenings without him. I’ve been house-hunting in the last week, if only to keep my girls happy, as Jess and Rachel have been on at me again to move. I saw three houses, all perfectly nice, adequate, charming even, but I couldn’t see myself in any of them. What feels right is home, my home, so it’s only confirmed that I don’t want to move. I told the estate agent that I’d be in touch but I won’t.’

  ‘I can’t blame you for not wanting to go. It’s beautiful here. So peaceful.’ I knew that the house had been in Alistair’s family for three generations, making it doubly hard to let go of.

  ‘Even though it’s quiet without him, I feel his presence. When I look out on the garden, I’m reminded of the endless trips to nurseries when we began to redesign the layout. It had been so neglected in his parents’ old age. The bare root roses, wild geraniums, alliums, lavender, clematis, jasmine that we bought that will tumble over walls, trellises in June and July, tiny plants we nurtured that now fill the borders, they’re all reminders of him. I couldn’t leave them for someone else to neglect.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s perfect, and if it gives you comfort being here with all the reminders, then stay.’ She and Alistair had done their homework in the early days and driven all over England looking at National Trust gardens, Sissinghurst, Gertrude Jekyll landscapes. There were years when I remembered they’d pored over gardening books, attended workshops at weekends until they knew exactly what they were doing, before creating the wonderful garden that was in front of us now.

  I smiled and took my hand away from Lorna’s. ‘I can still see Alistair out there in his baggy old gardening clothes, on his knees planting or in the greenhouses watering his pride-and-joy tomatoes.’

  ‘And inside, every room has paintings and artefacts left by his parents, and others we chose together on various holidays. Every one tells a story, to me at least. So no, I don’t want to move yet. Some day. Not yet.’

  Suddenly she stood up and shook herself. ‘Enough of being maudlin, Lorna. I’ll think of something,’ she said as she went down the garden to wind a stray stem of clematis around a pergola pole. ‘If Alistair going has taught me anything, it’s that we must seize the day and live our lives fearlessly, Cait: life is short. Sorry. Enough of me and doom and gloom. How are things with you? How’s your lovely dad? And heard any more from that Tom bloke?’

  ‘Dad’s OK though lonely I think. And no, I haven’t heard from Tom.’

  ‘Did you delete his friend request?’

  ‘It’s on my list of things to do when I get back.’ I didn’t need to tell her that I’d accepted Tom’s request if only to satisfy my curiosity. If I unfriended him, she’d never know.

  ‘You make sure you do it, Cait. How’s Matt?’

  ‘Same ole.’

  ‘Same ole good or same ole bad?’

  ‘Same ole somewhere in the middle. He keeps bringing me tea in bed. His way of making an effort.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get through this.’

  ‘I know. I’ll give him time.’

  ‘And yourself, Cait. It’s an adjustment for you too.’

  10

  Cait

  To do:

  Unfriend Tom Lewis.

  Make a list of decorating tasks for Matt.

  Start clearing out rooms for Airbnb.

  Collect rubbish for the tip.

  Plant white geraniums in pots at front.

  Visit Dad.

  *

  Resolutions made on the drive over to see Dad in Chippenham.

  Stop saying oof and groaning when getting in or out of the car or on or off sofa.

  Stop talking out loud to myself.

  I usually talk to myself at home so it’s OK, short phrases like, ‘Right, that’s done now.’ Or talking to the plants in the garden after removing bindweed – ‘I think you’ll feel better now.’ However, I found myself doing it in the supermarket this morning when picking up a few things to take to Dad.

  ‘Don’t forget red peppers,’ I said to myself as I went along the vegetable counters.

  ‘That’s another off the list,’ I said as I found mushrooms.

  ‘Good,’ I said as I loaded loo paper onto the trolley. ‘Now, should I get a packet of frozen peas or not?’

  An elderly woman by my side gave me a curious look as she picked out potatoes.

  I smiled at her and said, ‘I see dead people.’

  She didn’t get the movie reference and backed her trolley out of there fast.

  *

  Dad was sitting on a bench at the front of his bungalow when I arrived and didn’t see me at first. He was wearing his battered panama hat and a light summer jacket and was eating an ice cream with a spoon from a tub. He liked ice cream, and I had a flashback to days out at the seaside when my brother Mike and I were little, and he’d buy 99s for us, those cones with ice cream and a chocolate flake. Blackpool was his favourite place for a trip. He used to go there as a lad with his parents, then later as a young man when he was a ballroom dancer. He’d won prizes in competitions there back in the day, long before Strictly. Whatever the weather, beaches with him were always full of fun: donkey rides, ball games, squealing at the cold waves in the sea. There were always people around on those seaside trips, car-loads full of
aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, all laden with sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, bottles of Vimto or dandelion and burdock to drink. The journeys were noisy affairs with lots of banter and singing. The garden at home in summer was the same, with the paddling pool, tennis racquets, cricket bats all deployed. Dad was always first up to play, whatever the game – whether it was croquet, rounders, or running around with the hosepipe soaking us all. And now there he was, a frail old man with white hair, sitting on a bench, shrouded in loneliness. It was evident in the hunch of his shoulders and the slowness of his movements, and it broke my heart to see him like that.

  I’d told him time and again that he could come and live with us, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Last thing I want is to be a burden to anyone,’ was his constant reply. After Mum died, he visibly shrank, incomplete without her. He’d always had double energy, a full-time job lecturing at the university, as well as the hobbies, like making wine (my brother Mike and I called it Krudo and would pour it away discreetly as soon as we could when offered a glass). Then came the making of dolls’ houses, and after that barometers and coffee tables. I still had a table he’d made with a wonky leg, and wouldn’t hear of having it replaced with a new one. He was never happier than when out in his shed at the old family house with a hammer and nails bashing away at something. I used to love going in there, the smell of woodchip and petrol, looking at the rows and rows of tools and screws, each neatly labelled and in its place.

  When we were little, he’d read bedtime stories to Mike and me and did all the voices of the different characters. He was always a great entertainer and could sing too. Bath times were occasions to look forward to when we had to pretend we were in a soap commercial and be on our very best behaviour. He did magic tricks, pretended to swallow toothbrushes, made dolly mixtures appear from the light fittings, traditions he continued with my two boys when they were young. He made life fun, with Friday night declared fizz and crisp night, something Matt and I carried on for many years, when one of us would arrive home with a bottle of bubbly and nibbles for us and lemonade and crisps for the boys. Dad was always in charge of the drinks. On the 24th of December, he’d set off on his bike to buy crème de menthe, Advocaat or Babycham for visitors, most of which stood untouched throughout the season, but seeing those bottles in the back room was part of our Christmas. Dad played piano, sang in the choir, was part of the local tennis club, until his knees let him down and partners aged alongside him or died off and suddenly he didn’t feel it was his place.

  He’d kept up exercises, though, going through an army routine every morning, with his constant companion Brandy the Labrador sitting at the door watching with interest. And now Mum had gone, Brandy too, and the bungalow they retired to has grown quiet. He told me that the days there were long. Like so many of his generation, he didn’t watch TV during the day. Radio Four was permissible but not TV, despite the many box sets I’d bought him, it was only allowed after six, starting with the news. He and Mum had had their rituals: breakfast – always the same, porridge and fruit, then at eleven coffee and a biscuit, a cup of soup and crackers at twelve thirty, tea and a cake at four, supper at six. When they were younger, they’d always had a sundowner in the evening, taken with great relish, but Dad rarely drinks any more. It upsets his stomach. He could cook for himself, though it tended to be frozen meals from M & S, his once large appetite reduced to that of a bird. Despite various suggestions about sheltered accommodation, he won’t move house. ‘I’ve got my independence and I know my way round here,’ he insisted. But, to me, it didn’t seem right that such a happy and full life had shrunk to one where it felt like he was waiting around for his turn to die.

  He was always the protector, the one we all went to in order to talk over options, always a good listening ear with sound advice to pass on. I adored him when I was a child, feared him as a teen when he became critical of skirts too short, telephone calls too long, but then came a softening as he grew older and I grew up. And now I knew he was lonely and a bit depressed, which was so unlike him. I knew he missed my mother, as did I. She had been the practical one who had run the house, he was the one who made the magic. On the rare occasions that she’d send him off to get groceries, he’d return with a puppy or a bike or a new gadget to try out. We’d always had dogs, but when Brandy died a year before Mum, Dad didn’t replace him, saying it would be unfair because he wouldn’t want a pup to be left behind when he died.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ I called.

  He immediately sat up, throwing off the invisible cloak that had settled around him and put on his cheerful face. ‘Caitlin.’

  ‘What you up to?’

  ‘Oh you know, this and that.’

  I waved a newspaper. ‘Want a paper?’

  ‘Already read it, cover to cover.’

  I took his hand. It was like holding a large soft paw. ‘Dad, you would say if you don’t want to be here any longer, wouldn’t you? You know you can always come and live with us.’

  ‘Not necessary. No. This is my home. It’s fine,’ he said, then laughed and came out with his favourite familiar line delivered in a Scottish accent. ‘I’m no long for this world.’

  ‘You have to stop saying that. You’re eighty-nine. You might live till you’re a hundred.’

  ‘Hope not.’

  ‘Are you OK? Really?’

  ‘Just fine, Cait. Just fine.’

  I knew things could be worse regarding my parents. Although Mum’s death had hit me hard, she’d gone quickly. She’d died after a fall, had five days in hospital having a hip replacement from which there were complications, and she’d never returned home. Five hellish days but, looking back, it was swift. Too swift. I’d been to visit on the Saturday then gone home thinking that she’d be out a few days later. Due to unexpected problems, she’d gone into a coma and died the next day. I’d never forgiven myself for not being there, for not having realized something like that might happen, something I found hard to come to terms with despite reassurances from Dad and my brother that there was nothing I could have done. Hard though it was, I was glad it hadn’t been more drawn out. Lorna’s mother has dementia, has had several strokes, and has been told she wouldn’t last the night more times than I could count in the last years. In her rare lucid moments, she says she wants to go, she’s tired. Lorna had grieved, let go, grieved then let go so many times that all she wanted now was release for her mother. It was the same for a few of our friends who had aged parents who had no quality of life. So hard to witness and do what could be done, but feel helpless all the same.

  ‘So what have you been doing, Cait?’

  ‘Planning to do up the house.’ I told him about the latest plan to do Airbnb.

  ‘You sure? Strangers in your house?’

  ‘But that’s just it. Apparently you never see them. They’ll be tourists, so only want a bed for the night. All we have to do is give them breakfast.’

  ‘If you say so, love. I couldn’t be doing with strangers in my house.’

  ‘Do you want to go out anywhere?’

  ‘Where to? Why?’

  ‘Change of scenery.’

  ‘Maybe.’ That meant no.

  On my last few visits, he’d been reluctant to go anywhere, as if he was retreating more and more into himself.

  ‘Let’s go out for lunch. You could have a beer.’

  Dad smiled. ‘You’re a good daughter, Caitlin. Now then, tell me all about what’s happening in your life.’

  I filled him in on the latest with Matt and news about the boys.

  ‘And are you happy, Cait? How are you really?’

  ‘I’m fine, busy, working on new book ideas, just fine.’

  We are both good liars.

  11

  Cait

  Sunday evening was time for my New Age course with Debs. Usually there were only three or four of us and we’d done all sorts of weird and whacky stuff over the year – dowsing, card readings, crystals. Matt called it my witchcraft course, Lorna pr
onounced it baloney, but they didn’t put me off because the sessions felt like going back to kindergarten and always cheered me up, and I needed that after seeing Dad. I always came away from him feeling sad that I couldn’t do more to make his last chapters happier ones.

  ‘Excellent timing,’ said Debs when she opened her door. ‘I was just doing a Tarot reading. I could do yours as well. See what’s in store for our future.’ She was dressed in one of her fabulous long kaftans, this time a deep red one that gave her the look of a fortune-teller. In my jeans and beige top, I felt drab in comparison.

  ‘Anyone else coming?’ I asked as I followed her through to her sitting room.

  ‘No. Just me and thee tonight so it’s good to have company.’

  ‘So what shall we do this evening?’

  ‘As it’s just us, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do stage two in my post-Fabio “I’m Moving On” phase. A card reading, some visualization and maybe some Gestalt and of course, anything you’d like to work on.’

  ‘Lead the way,’ I said as I took a seat on one of the Chesterfields by the fireplace and watched as Debs shuffled the Tarot cards.

  ‘Help yourself to wine,’ she said as she indicated the bottle of Chablis in an ice bucket and two glasses on the coffee table. ‘This layout is the Celtic cross,’ she explained as she carefully placed cards on the table. ‘First we look at the card in the position that represents what’s passing out of my life. Ah. Not surprising – the Six of Swords.’ The card showed a sorrowing woman being ferried across the water. ‘A time of tension but she is moving away from it. Row row row the boat, gently down the stream, Fabio you stinking slime-ball, you are but a dream.’ She surveyed the rest of the layout. ‘The other cards reflect the same, a time of difficulty but change is coming. Hurrah.’