The Serial Dieter

by Rachel Cavanagh

  “Oh hello,” I say. “Weren’t you…?”

  The woman nods. The Tourist Information Office woman. “I help out for a bit on a Saturday because Rosa has to take her children to various clubs. She’s got six.”

  “Wow,” Izzy and I say in unison. One more than a handful.

  Mrs TIO continues. “Once she’s dropped them off, she relieves me and I come here.”

  Izzy and I share that ‘that could be us’ look and we frown. Then laugh then frown.

  The woman spots someone scratching their head, excuses herself, and goes to assist. My only thought is of the fleas escaping.

  We’re done and head to the café for a drink but not before we venture to the gift shop where I buy a postcard of the fleas. Izzy buys a programme, which includes a picture of the fleas but I get the postcard to send to Duncan. I just have to think of something witty to say.

  After two teas and shares of flapjack and teacake, we head to my aunt and uncle’s to collect Elliott. On the way, along Park Road and down into the top of Langdon Street, Izzy pulls out the walks brochures.

  “This is perfect for you: Hertfordshire Health Walks. Free and sociable short walks across Hertfordshire.” She opens it up. It’s a simple green and white A4 sheet folded in two. “Why walk? Getting active can be difficult… blah blah blah. Walk grading. Walks graded choose suitable… twenty to thirty, thirty, one point five miles, forty-five minutes, an hour, ninety minutes, here we go… longer than ninety minutes.”

  I gulp. I was picturing the first option.

  She continues. “What you need to know… medical advice… trained volunteers, refreshments, dogs welcome… oh great! No special equipment. Getting started. Oh.”

  We’re nearly at my aunt’s but Izzy stops. “Find your local walk. We have to go online.”

  “We can do that. I have my phone.” I pat my bag. I’ve not heard any beeps but could have missed a message from my mum so dig it out as if to offer to go online for Izzy.

  “No it’s okay. We’ll just use one of the other maps, otherwise we have to keep looking at your phone and it’ll use your data and battery.”

  “True.” I have almost-endless data but do want to leave the battery for my mum. Who’s not going to text.

  Izzy starts walking again so I follow and we arrive at my aunt’s.

  I ring the bell and point to the other brochures Izzy’s holding, the HHW having been returned to her bag. “There’ll be something there.”

  It takes a few moments for the door to open but in the meantime, we can hear scratching.

  Izzy bends down to the letterbox. “Hello Elliott!”

  “Yes, that’s really going to stop him scratching.” I laugh. Elliott whines.

  Izzy stands. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. He’d get excited at a pin dropping.” Not sure why that was the first thing that came to mind.

  My uncle steps back as he struggles to open the door. “Elliott, get out of the… Oh hello, girls. Lovely to see you again, Izzy.” My uncle’s lovely, so warm and fuzzy. Not that my aunt isn’t but he’s a bit younger than her and likes his gadgets so he and Izzy get on particularly well, though Izzy gets on with everyone who gets on with everyone else.

  My aunt comes through into the lounge from the neighbouring kitchen. They have two two-up-two-down cottages knocked into one with the door between near the front of the house and a walkway in the middle. “The kettle’s boiled if you’d like something.”

  “Just had one but thanks,” I say while Izzy makes a fuss of Elliott, or rather attempts to lessen his licking by distracting him by putting her fingertips together as if she’s got something for him.

  “Here.” My uncle hands her a squeaky ball which surprisingly still squeaks and that’s enough for him to transfer his affection.

  “Hello, Isobel,” my aunt says.

  “Hello.” Izzy’s never known whether to call my aunt by her surname or first name so just says ‘hello’ then always makes sure my aunt’s facing her so she doesn’t need to get her attention. It’s silly really at our age, especially as she calls my mum Lesley, but one of life’s little dilemmas.

  “We’re heading out for a walk so better not have another drink,” I say rather redundantly as they know we’re here to take Elliott off their hands for a while.

  We all head through to the kitchen where my aunt, it turns out, is at the start of baking some of her almost-world-famous brownies. “They’ll be done when you get back, may still be warm depending on how far you go.”

  That prompts us to spread the maps onto the nearest half of the table. She has all the ingredients ready: some melted butter, sugar, cocoa powder, some eggs, flour, what looks like baking powder and salt, a tiny bowl of something that looks like gravy but I presume is something sweet.

  My aunt sees me frowning at the bowl. “Vanilla extract.”

  “Oh. I thought vanilla was white or a stick.” Comments like this remind me how little I know my stuff (the minutiae of food).

  She laughs gently.

  Izzy coughs and draws my attention back to the job at hand.

  On top of the pile there’s a coloured A4 sheet of Tring reservoirs. Having been there twice recently, it wouldn’t be my first choice and Izzy dismisses it. “We’d either have to drive or it would take so long to walk there that we’d just turn round and come back again.” She has a point.

  Next up is ‘Tring Days Out’. Being a forty-eight page book, it’s a bit off-putting to wade through although the crossroads sign on the front with a lovely open-field scene behind it is encouraging. Izzy opens the front cover and we skim the contents page. “Bit too heavy to carry,” she says and closes it again. “Grand Union Canal Circular Walk Three,” she announces from the next leaflet’s heading. “Kings Langley, Hemel Hempstead. Fine if we were at your work but no.” I agree. So that’s another dismissed.

  We’re left with five individual numbered Tring Parish Walks. We have one, two, three, five and six. Not sure what happened to number four.

  “One,” Izzy reads as she opens the A4 card folded in three. “Little Tring.”

  “Little Tring’s nice,” my aunt says, spooning the mixed ingredients into a high-sided rectangular metal tray. “But a bit far again. Not as far as the reservoirs, you’d likely go through Little Tring to get there, but even so.”

  We could go back to Mum’s and get my car but I’m loath to suggest it as I still don’t know what she and Charles are up to.

  So map number one is also dismissed.

  “Map six. Tring Station, Wigginton and Tring Park.”

  “Tring Park’s not far,” I say. “We could do it in reverse order.”

  “I think they’re circular walks so you start and end at the same place.” Izzy’s being gentle with me.

  I feel silly.

  “Map five. Drayton Beauchamp.” Izzy looks at me for guidance. I have no clue where that is so shrug and we look at my aunt who’s brushing her hands.

  “Little Tring, A41 Wendover way.”

  “Oh. That’s a no then. Two left: two and three.”

  “Three was the one the Tourist Information lady suggested?”

  “Let’s have a look at two then first. Save the best till last. Stubbings Wood. That sounds nice.” Izzy opens the sheet and looks at the hand-drawn map. Doesn’t look too bad. Car park, past the museum… not sure if that’s the…” She moves to the central strip of text. “Yes, the natural history one where we’ve been.”

  Elliott nudges her arm. “Hello, boy. Won’t be long.” She continues reading. “You can see from left to right: Aston Hill, The Vale of Aylesbury, Mentmore Towers, Ivinghoe Beacon, Pitstone Hill, Aldbury Nowers, whatever nowers are, The Bridgewater Monument and below you to the right Tring Park. That sounds lovely.” She closes the front. “An hour and a half. Mmm, bit short.”

  Elliott nudges her arm as if to agree. “Nearly done. Last one,” she says as she puts map number two on the ‘no’ pile. So it’s map three or go back through them
again.

  She looks at the front. “Tring Park and beyond. It’s three hours and fifteen minutes. Seven miles. Is that okay?” Elliott’s looking over at me as if to say ‘please say yes!’

  “Sure,” I say a little less enthusiastically than Elliott’s eyes.

  Chapter 83 – In Mind If Not In Body

  “Okay then,” Izzy says when we’re by the front door. She bends down, takes Elliott’s lead and hands it towards me.

  “Oh no, it’s okay, you carry on.”

  Izzy looks down at the map’s front. “A circular walk starting from Tring town centre and exploring the historic parkland. Sounds lovely.” She opens the map. “Looks simple enough. And presumably we get to see an owl.” She shows me the illustration of a barn owl.

  “Nice. It’s daylight though so…”

  “True. Right. Frogmore Street East car park, behind Dolphin Square and the Church of St Peter and St Paul. Do you know where that is?”

  “I do. Seeing you’ve got Trouble, shall I take the map?”

  “Trouble?”

  I look down at Elliott who’s sitting patiently, wagging his tail. “Not that you ever are of course, are you?” He barks his innocence, making us laugh. I don’t know how I feel about the fact that the walk is going to take us through Tring Park, and possibly the summerhouse where Charles proposed to my mum. I’m happy as long as she’s happy and she seems tremendously happy. Perhaps a little cautious because I’ve not exactly been jumping for joy. I need to, for her. Be there for her, whatever happens.

  “Does it take us to the summerhouse?”

  “Summerhouse?”

  “Tring Park, where Charles–”

  Izzy silently skim reads the main page. “Mmm… doesn’t say so specifically.” She turns the map over to the first third of the back which is headed ‘Tring Park’. “Nope. Just about the animals, slops and valley bottoms.” She pulls Elliott’s lead slightly and talks to him. “You have a valley bottom, don’t you, boy.” Elliott barks in agreement.

  We do the seven miles and it takes us nearly four hours rather than the ‘approximate time’ of three and a quarter hours but we probably meander more than the author anticipated. We don’t see any owls but plenty of other animals, including squirrels. Elliott’s in his element, especially when we’re clear of any roads – he has no road sense whatsoever – and he can be off lead. While he never catches anything, he certainly gives them a run for their pocket money.

  We do very little of the park itself so don’t see the summerhouse, which is fine. On leaving my aunt’s, I’d sent my mum a message to let her know what Izzy and I were doing, knowing full well that any walk over an hour, especially one that doesn’t involve shopping, isn’t going to be Mum’s thing. There’s no reply by the time we get to the park so I put my phone in my bag to listen out for the buzz or to check later.

  Although we had some bottled water, thanks to my aunt, two thirds of us are exhausted by the time we return to my aunt’s. Elliott could do it all again. I’ve taken him on some long walks, not quite as long as this one but hillier, and accompanied my uncle a few times, aunt and uncle a couple of times, and have never seen him – Elliott, not my uncle – tired. Whatever batteries Elliott uses, he should donate them to science. Every time I’m with Elliott, I wish Buddy was more outgoing. He’s very sweet, when not being naughty, but Elliott has way more personality. Poor Buddy.

  “The kettle’s on,” my uncle announces as he opens the door.

  “Lovely,” Izzy says as she bounces into the long lounge.

  I’m too tired to think, let alone speak. I can’t even nod. Removing my not-really-muddy-but-not-clean-enough-to-keep-on boots is an effort. My head’s thumping as I bend down to loosen the laces.

  Izzy’s already removed hers and realised that I’m struggling so is a pal and undoes my laces for me. “Sit,” she orders and I hobble round to one of a pair of chairs facing the television at the end of the room.

  I sit and she removes my boots. “I don’t think I can ever get up again,” I squeak.

  Izzy smiles and goes through to the kitchen where my uncle’s already gone and I hear a clinking of cups.

  Izzy returns almost immediately with a tray and some goodies. She likes her tea really weak so there’s a pot but the tea bags have been left to one side. I’m proud of my aunt for remembering. Izzy puts the tray on a small table between the chairs and offers to be ‘mum’, pouring the tea and distributing two brownies to two side plates.

  That reminds me of my phone, unchecked for quite a while. With some effort, I lean round the corner of my chair and pull my bag towards me. There’s a green notification.

  All good Charles and I will go tomrrow sorry for being lazy see your both latr lve you

  My mother speaks really good English, she picked me up on it often enough when I was younger, but when it comes to messaging, she seems all fingers and thumbs and never corrects, or probably even reads, what she’s written. I had hoped she’d be around for some of the time while Izzy’s staying but at least she was spared naked Charles this morning. The thought of that doesn’t help my head.

  I blow on the tea and take a sip. My aunt and uncle use Fairtrade tea and it tastes really nice, which gives me an idea for an article I’ve never done. I finally get out of the chair and shuffle through to the kitchen, to ask my aunt a question before it leaves my brain. “Hi.”

  “Hello.” She’s plating up what looks like a second batch of brownies which she covers with a glass dome. The wooden knob on top of it reminds me to get Duncan to fix a chest of drawers where one of the knobs seems too big for its screw. Now I’ve forgotten what I came through for.

  “Oh yes. Could I have one of the teabags please?”

  “Certainly.” She turns round and pulls forward a container marked ‘Tea’. “Not strong enough?”

  “It’s to remind me to do an article on different types of tea. What brand is this?”

  My aunt frowns. “Tesco, I think, or it might be Twinings.” She goes to the bottom of the stairs and shouts up to my uncle. “Pat!”

  I hear a distant, “Yes?”

  “The tea bags. Are these Tesco or Twinings?”

  Again a distant, “Are they plain or in bags?”

  “They are bags, dear.”

  I hear a thump of feet down the narrow staircase that adjoins the two halves of the house, and my uncle appears. “Hello, Donna.”

  “Hi, Uncle Pat.”

  My aunt’s holding up one of the corners of the teabags between two of her fingers as if it’s contaminated with something.

  “Those will be Tesco. Twinings come individually wrapped.”

  “Thank you,” I say and my uncle nods and disappears back upstairs.

  “There we go, dear.” My aunt goes to move the domed brownies when she points them at me. “Would you like another?”

  I shake my head. “But thank you.” I’m not sure I’ll even eat the first. I’m way too tired. By the time I’ve got back to my chair – with Izzy still there but engrossed in what’s probably a text message from William, I’m hungry again. My aunt’s brownies have that effect.

  Elliott’s been asleep in his bed the whole time, oblivious of me moving around, which usually garners him following, oblivious to the second batch of brownies, the smell of which reached us soon after we arrived but presumably after he’d gone to his bed, and now oblivious of me eating one of the first batch. It’s not warm anymore but it’s lovely and soft, sticky almost. Elliott’s missing a treat but I remember it’s got cocoa powder in it and don’t want a repeat of Buddy on my mum’s patio so am grateful Elliott’s elsewhere, in mind if not in body.

  Izzy and I finally make our way back to my mum’s. Her car’s gone so I know she won’t be there, which means Charles, naked or otherwise, won’t be either. I didn’t notice his car when Izzy and I left this morning so I assume Mum had driven them back late last night or first thing. The Range Rover is so huge it would have stuck out like the proverbial sore thu
mb; a very big, very black sore thumb.

  After such an extensive walk, we have another evening vegging out. It’s a bank holiday on Monday and with neither of us working, Izzy’s in no hurry to leave Sunday though she and William have plans, and of course want to spend some of the long weekend together.

  We choose two more DVDs she’s brought with her, a fabulous romantic double bill of Notting Hill then Love Actually. I don’t think it matters in which order they’re watched but we agree it feels natural to watch the earlier released first and we’re puddles of mush by the end of each one, more so the second because we were semi-mush when that started. But most of all, we’re missing our men. Izzy goes into the kitchen and I stay in the lounge and we’re each on the phone to our respective halves for at least half an hour.

  There’s been no sign of my mum but she did message to say she’d be around tomorrow, before she and Charles went to the museum, for the last day of the exhibition.

  The museum’s not open until two and then only for three hours so I send her a quick message back.

  I don’t know what we’re doing tomorrow, Mum, so please come early in case we go out for a coffee. If not, I can let you know where we go if we do, and you and Charles can join us.

  I take the Gret reply to be ‘Great’ rather than ‘Greta’ and send her a solitary x.

  It’s nice she’s found someone to be with but I’m a little annoyed that she’s been so elusive since Izzy arrived. It’s the first time she’s stayed over and while I’m more than happy to play host, they’re like sisters so they’re both missing out. “Priorities,” I mumble and click my phone to sleep.

  It’s nearly eleven so I think that’s a great thing to do, and am thinking that when Izzy comes back into the lounge.

  “You’ll be pleased to know that Northampton’s still there for us to return back to, some sooner than others. I bet you can’t wait.”

  She’s right, especially me having chatted to Duncan and both of us being on the verge of tears. Izzy’s face looks a little red. “You okay?”