Dancing Over the Hill

by Cathy Hopkins

  ‘And how many are you seeing?’

  ‘One more to go.’

  ‘OK. Good. Interesting. So – let’s address your unspoken feelings.’

  I felt like saying, maybe we should address your unspoken feelings. He was clearly annoyed that we were seeing other counsellors. We sat in an awkward silence for what felt like an eternity.

  Finally Richard sighed. ‘Do either of you want to say anything yet?’

  I looked at Cait. ‘You?’

  She shook her head and asked, ‘You?’

  I shook my head. We both turned to Richard.

  ‘Sometimes in a partnership, one is the leader, the other the follower,’ he said. ‘Were you saying that Cait is the leader in your relationship?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘As I just said, not by choice,’ she said.

  ‘OK.’ Richard looked at his watch. ‘So what are you saying, Cait?’

  ‘It was never my choice to be the leader but, if I didn’t lead, a lot of things wouldn’t get done. Things have changed lately, though. My husband has recently been made redundant. We have to make a plan about how we’re to survive. Rethink how we live, in fact.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that, Matt?’ asked Richard.

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that, Cait?’

  ‘Frustrated. Early days. What does that mean? He doesn’t talk to me. Won’t discuss plans.’

  ‘And what would you say to that, Matt?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘See,’ said Cait. ‘That’s what I get.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that, Cait?’ Richard asked.

  ‘I just told you. Frustrated.’

  ‘And how do you feel about Cait being frustrated, Matt?’

  I laughed. ‘Frustrated too. Not much I can do about it though, is there?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Richard. ‘Are you hearing what Matt said, Cait?’

  ‘Yes. He just said there’s nothing he can do about the situation.’

  ‘Is that what you meant, Matt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm. And how do you feel about that, Matt?’

  Like I’d like to hit someone, I thought. Preferably you, Richard, then ask how you felt about that.

  ‘I feel like we’re not getting very far,’ I replied.

  ‘Cait. Would you like to chip in now?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Cait.

  We continued in this vein for the rest of the hour. Going round and round in circles, with Richard nodding and asking how we felt and asking us to repeat back to each other what we’d said. It was very annoying.

  *

  ‘Cross him off the list?’ I said as we got back into the car after the session.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘OK good. And how do you feel about that, Cait?’

  She laughed. ‘Like I’d like to throttle you, no, him actually.’

  ‘OK. Good. See, we do agree on something. Let’s go to the pub on the way back. I need a drink after that, but first let me ask, how do you feel about that?’

  ‘I feel that you should lead the way and make mine a double,’ said Cait.

  Maybe this therapy lark does have something going for it, after all, I thought as I started up the car. You feel liberated when you get out.

  *

  Cait

  ‘Let’s have a blitz,’ said Matt when we got home to an empty house and a note from Dad saying that he had gone over to Lorna’s to walk her dogs. I was pleased to hear that because they’d met on many occasions over the years and always got on well, particularly when Alistair was alive. He and Dad had always loved to put the world to rights. ‘Clean the place up.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said.

  We were interrupted mid-hoover by Duncan arriving, so coffee was made and, as he often did, he pulled out a joint.

  ‘Got some new stuff,’ he said. ‘Want to try it?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said, and gave Matt a look to say ‘and neither do you.’ Sadly he didn’t appear to be telepathic because he took the joint and inhaled deeply. He immediately went white and almost keeled over.

  ‘Woa. Feel sick,’ he said as he steadied himself on the island, then staggered his way to the cloakroom.

  Two minutes later, we heard moaning. I ran to the cloakroom to find Matt on the floor. I bent over to help him up but he groaned in pain and refused to move.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I slipped, felt I was going to pass out,’ he said. ‘I must have twisted as I went down so I wouldn’t bang my head on the sink. Hurt my back.’

  Duncan came through and, between us, we managed to get him into the sitting room, where he lay on the sofa, clearly still in pain and very pale.

  ‘Have you broken anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ he said as he attempted to change position. ‘Arghhhhhh.’

  Duncan sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘He’s had a whitie.’

  ‘A whitie? What’s that?’

  ‘Like a whiteout – when you almost pass out.’

  ‘What was in that stuff?’

  Duncan shrugged and laughed. ‘Not sure. Skunk is quite strong. Same thing happened to me last year.’

  ‘Not funny, Duncan. Skunk? Matt’s not used to that stuff.’

  ‘Sorry. Painkillers will do the trick for his back. Ibuprofen. Got any? He might have torn a muscle.’

  ‘I’ll get some, and it might be an idea if you left before I punch you.’

  Duncan grinned. ‘He’ll live.’ Thankfully, he made a swift exit, and I was left with Matt, who looked slightly bewildered; his pupils were dilated and he had come out in a sweat.

  ‘Still feel sick. Need to get up to bed before everyone gets back,’ said Matt. ‘So sorry.’

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘I’ll try. Oh …’ He made an effort to lift himself but yelped and lay back, where he writhed in pain.

  ‘Am in agony but need to pee. Can you help me?’

  ‘You need me to help you pee?’

  I try to lift him but he could barely stand. I managed to get him, groaning loudly, back to the downstairs cloakroom.

  ‘I can manage,’ he said, and steadied himself with one hand on the wall.

  I left him to it and stood outside the door.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked after a few minutes.

  ‘I can’t get my trousers back up.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  I went in and knelt down in front of him to pull his trousers back up. At that moment, we heard someone come through the front door.

  Dad came into the hall, took one look in the cloakroom at Matt’s bare bottom and me kneeling on the floor and took a step back. ‘Oh lord, sorry. Disturbed your private time.’

  ‘No, no, Dad. It’s fine, we weren’t, we were … just Matt …’ What could I say? Your sixty-three-year-old son-in-law has been smoking skunk and almost passed out.

  Dad had hotfooted it up the stairs and I heard his bedroom door close a few moments later.

  Matt attempted to bend and pull his trousers up but still couldn’t. ‘Please help me,’ he said, and groaned in agony again as we heard the front door open once more.

  This time it was Jed and Martin. They took a look in the cloakroom, where Matt was still moaning and I was still kneeling

  ‘Urgh, Mum,’ said Jed and put his hand across his eyes. ‘Do you have to?’

  ‘Your dad’s hurt himself,’ I said,’ he’s groaning in pain.’

  ‘If that’s your story,’ said Jed, and he and Martin headed up the stairs, sniggering. I heard Jed saying, ‘shouldn’t have used her teeth’, which led to more sniggering. Their bedroom door closed a few moments later.

  Matt looked very sheepish. ‘So sorry, Cait.’

  ‘Best get you into bed so you can sleep it off.’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ he said. I pulled his trousers up and helped him hobble back to the sofa. I could see there was no way he was going to make
it up the stairs, so I stripped off his clothes then raced up to the bathroom to get his dressing gown and comfy pyjama bottoms. Getting him into them was a difficult process. I managed to pull his trousers off, but his back went into spasm again, causing him to cry out. He really did look in a bad way. I was just bending over trying to get the pyjamas up Matt’s legs, and was nose to nose with Matt’s groin when, unfortunately, Dad decided to venture down again.

  He took one look in the sitting room, turned on his heel and fled. ‘Oh. Whoops. Sorry. Not finished. Was just going to make myself a cup of tea,’ he called behind him.

  ‘No. Dad, come back. I’m just getting Matt comfy,’ I called back.

  I looked at Matt lying helplessly on the sofa, stark naked from the waist down, his pyjamas round his knees, his face as white as a sheet and his hair all mussed up. ‘I think I’ve really hurt myself. I can’t move.’

  ‘I’ll call 111,’ I said.

  A lovely man at the other end of the phone recommended an ice pack for Matt’s back, that I ask the doctor for painkillers, then suggested a hot-water bottle be applied tomorrow. I had to suppress the urge to sing, ‘I believe in miracles, where you from? You sexy thing’, as I rummaged in the freezer then took a pack of frozen peas through to the sex god on the sofa.

  *

  ‘Cait, please can you collect my prescription?’ Matt asked later the same day. Cue a lot of groaning in case I hadn’t realized how hurt he was.

  ‘Is there any of that Toblerone left? I’ve got the munchies,’ he called five minutes later.

  ‘Cait, please could I have a cup of tea, that chocolate’s made my mouth dry.’ More groaning.

  ‘Cait, please could you put some more cushions behind my back.’ More groaning.

  ‘Cait, I forgot to post a letter to the accountant. Could you …’ More groaning.

  ‘Cait, have we got any of that anti-inflammatory gel? No. Please could you get some? Sainsbury’s is probably still open.’ More groaning, which I decided to join in with. A duet. Sadly, Matt wasn’t amused.

  I’d have felt more sympathetic if he’d fallen or slipped by accident, but no, it was due to him being a first-class eejit. Of course I didn’t like to see Matt in pain, but I’d also have liked to slap him and say, grow up, you’re not in your twenties any more, the rock-and-roll days are over. I was finding it hard to maintain my kindness resolution, plus any thoughts of resurrecting the romance seemed impossible in the light of seeing my husband, hair standing up like Marge Simpson’s, in pain, dignity flown to the wind, bollocks akimbo.

  Some are born kind, some achieve kindness, and some have kindness thrust upon them. That is me today. I have had kindness thrust upon me. Of course I will get the pain-relief gel, serve the tea, bolster the cushions. I am not a monster, but it is not the same as choosing to do it from the goodness of my presently withered heart.

  In the meantime, Dad was avoiding eye contact and Jed couldn’t look at me without sniggering.

  I skipped my Zumba class and went upstairs to look at photos of Tom’s house in Majorca. I sent him a text asking – do you smoke dope? He texted back, no, don’t do drugs. Why? What are you suggesting?

  *

  Matt

  I am in agony and God, I’ve done it again, let Cait down. I’m back in the doghouse. So much for my keep-fit programme too – that’s scuppered now. Why oh why did I take a toke of that joint? And just after things were feeling marginally better between Cait and me. I really must shape up and stop acting like an idiot. Smoking dope was never my thing, not even back in the Seventies but I’ve felt a bit reckless since losing my job, at sea with who I am and where I’m going which is why I want to try new experiences but that’s no excuse for my stupid behaviour. Lately, I’d felt that I was finding my way again … until this. So, no more. Once I’m mobile again, I am going to change, show Cait that I haven’t taken a dive into drugs, depression and depravity. I shall resume my work on the TV series, do what I can to support Cait, act like a man again and sort our present situation out. In the meantime …

  ‘Cait, I need some more painkillers,’ I called, ‘and please could you pass me the TV remote, I can’t reach it.’

  She came in a few moments later and I could tell she was finding it hard being kind. She’d never have made a nurse or doctor. She was good for a few rounds of tea and toast then she turned into Harold Shipman.

  31

  Cait

  Our wedding anniversary.

  Presents received.

  An M & S voucher from Dad. Nice.

  A landscape watercolour of a beach in Thailand from Jed, by Jed. Fabulous. I shall treasure it.

  Bottle of bubbly sent from Sam. Appreciated.

  White roses from Lorna. Thoughtful.

  A Post-it note from Matt saying ‘Duncan’s giving me a lift to the chiropractor. Will get some more gel for inflammation while I’m out. C U l8r.’ It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?

  *

  Items lost:

  My waistline.

  My willpower.

  Jaw line. Pulled cheek skin up and back to see how I’d look if I had a facelift. Hmm. Fish face comes to mind. I wonder how much it would cost? I read about a procedure where they put a metal hook under your ears and a thread under the chin then sew it up to the hook so tightening a slack jaw. Argh. Think I’d rather be wrinkly. Must stop looking in mirror. Of all the things you wear, your expression is the most important, so smile. I smiled at my reflection. It didn’t make me look any younger.

  *

  I’ve decided to start the 5:2 diet. Everyone’s doing it. Five hundred calories a day for two days a week. I could do that. I must do that.

  Why are you doing it? asked an inner voice that sounded distinctly like Lorna. I wasn’t overweight but it wouldn’t hurt to shed half a stone.

  In case I decide to run away with Tom Lewis, said another inner voice.

  No it isn’t.

  Yes it is.

  So why not tell Matt about him? the inner dialogue continued.

  Matt had gone by the time I got downstairs in the morning, but he never forgets the date. He always sent a card and arranged for flowers to be delivered. We did keep up some traditions. I’d bought him a couple of history books, plus a bottle of Armagnac and another Toblerone. I wrapped them and left them on the desk in his den, ready for when he got back.

  Late morning, I spent an hour filling the boot and back seats of the car with rubbish from Sam and Jed’s room ready to go to the tip. It had been stashed in the garage, along with all the stuff that had accumulated in the garden shed. It was surprising what was in there – piles of plastic plant pots, paint cans and roller trays, stacks of old papers and magazines, old curtains, damp and mouldy cushions and bed linen. It would be good to get rid of it all and a clear-out always made me feel better.

  ‘What a glamorous place to go on a wedding anniversary,’ said Lorna, who had agreed to go with me, as we sat in the car waiting for a slot.

  ‘I know. I go to all the best places.’

  ‘Let’s put on the radio,’ said Lorna as she looked at the queue, ‘it looks like it’s going to be a long wait.’

  I turned on the radio and tuned to Radio Four. There was a programme on about life coaching, and I half listened as I stared out at the sudden downpour of rain.

  ‘So much for a flaming June,’ said Lorna as she gazed out of the window.

  ‘In essence, you have to see prospects and potential everywhere. Reach out and grasp them,’ said the life coach on the radio, ‘don’t just expect opportunities to come knocking at your door. You have to go out and find them, but not only that, more importantly, you have to be ready to recognize them when they appear, because sometimes the most remarkable breaks in life aren’t glaringly obvious, nor do they always come in the guise we expect. The ability to recognize them is often what marks out the successful from the unsuccessful. Be ready. Be open. Be amazed.’

  ‘Be gone,’ I said as I switched off. ‘She s
ounded like Debs. She’s always coming out with “seize the day”, “reach for the stars” type sayings. Sometimes I want to throttle her.’

  Lorna laughed. ‘And not much chance of being amazed at the tip,’ she said as we looked at the dismal grey buildings ahead of us and the queue began to nudge forward.

  When a place finally came up, I drove in, switched off my engine, and Lorna and I began to unload the back, then looked around to see what went where.

  ‘First time?’ asked a voice to my right. I looked over to see an attractive man with white hair, a beard and a friendly face. He was addressing Lorna.

  ‘Yes, I’m a tip novice,’ Lorna replied.

  ‘It takes a bit of getting used to,’ the man said as he took a quick look at our pile then pointed to a corner. ‘Wood is that way, plastics over there, paint cans next to that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Would you like a hand?’ he asked, and indicated his car, which was empty apart from a large chestnut-coloured dog, which was watching us from the open window of the passenger seat. ‘I’ve done mine so could show you where it all goes.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, if you’re sure you have time,’ said Lorna, and she went over to stroke the dog, which began to wag his tail at the attention.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ said the man.

  ‘A very handsome fellow,’ said Lorna.

  As is his owner, I thought, as I took in his tall, lean frame. Although dressed in old jeans and a sweatshirt, he had an air of sophistication about him.

  ‘He is. He’s a Labradoodle – more Labrador than poodle.’ He held out his hand to shake Lorna’s then withdrew it. ‘Sorry, filthy hands. I’m Patrick.’

  I noticed that he was wearing a wedding ring. Shame, I thought, but then as Debs is always saying, all the good ones are taken. And shame Lorna has got her old togs on and no make-up because that man likes her.

  ‘I’m Lorna,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you. So – d’you come here often, Patrick?’

  He laughed. ‘I do, particularly in the gardening season.’

  ‘Are you a gardener?’