The Saturday Morning Park Run: A gloriously uplifting and page-turning book that will make you feel happy!

by Jules Wake

  ‘You’re right but it…’ There was another long pause. ‘How did you feel when you were signed off with stress?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did you feel? What went wrong?’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of it,’ I snapped, feeling wrong-footed. This was supposed to be about him. I kept my eyes fixed on one of the blue motorway signs announcing the next junction.

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  He was right. I was deeply ashamed. Everyone at work must know by now. I probably wouldn’t be able to get a job anywhere else and at work they’d be constantly watching me. Could I be trusted with important work and decisions in the future? Would I crack again? Would everyone be watching for signs of weakness? I wouldn’t be the golden girl any more. The person people went to for a second opinion, the one they deferred to in strategy and planning meetings. Would anyone respect me anymore? I’d lost who I was – cool, calm-under-pressure Claire. There was no chance of making partner now if I couldn’t handle a bit of extra work.

  ‘People like me aren’t supposed to get stress.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ash quietly and I shot him a startled but appreciative glance. I preferred honesty to platitudes. ‘But you did… because you’re human. It’s the body’s way of saying, stop, slow down. Yes, everyone will know at work. You can’t escape that, but you can own it, be honest about it, accept it, and work out how you’ll do things differently from now on. People will respect that far more than if you try and pretend it didn’t happen or treat it like it’s a big secret. And isn’t that how you normally conduct yourself at work? Successful managers don’t shy away from difficult decisions; they own up to mistakes and put them right; they tackle difficult issues; they’re honest with their colleagues. That’s how you earn respect. Don’t hide from this Claire, learn from it.’

  ‘I never thought it would happen to me,’ I said quietly, but gosh, he was right. What he’d said was exactly what I would have advised to someone else in the same position when I was being clear sighted and thinking straight… and I hated hearing it from him of all people.

  ‘At least you’ve not been fired.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I was sacked. Although they called it redundancy.’ His voice was bitter. ‘And now I can’t get another job. No one wants someone who’s been sacked.’

  ‘Redundancy is very different from being sacked,’ I pointed out, still annoyed that he’d made me talk about my stress. ‘Haven’t you been offered outplacement services? Most decent companies provide them as part of the redundancy package.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it turned out I didn’t work for a decent company, which is why I was “made redundant”.’ With one hand he signified the speech marks around the words. ‘Turns out, doing the right thing is the wrong thing.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles. What did you do?’ Irritated, I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs in the footwell.

  He let out a mirthless laugh. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was a case going through the courts. A colleague of mine, Marine Barnier. She took the company to tribunal over unequal pay. She was paid £30k less than other colleagues who were all men. I was one of them. Her bonuses were also a fraction of ours.’

  ‘Ouch. That’s terrible and it shouldn’t be allowed to happen.’

  ‘Yeah. I liked her. Smart, tough cookie who deserved better. I said I’d back her when she said she was going to HR. I thought it would be a quick, easy win. Never dreamed it would go to tribunal. Even though they didn’t have a leg to stand on, the company dug its heels in. Wouldn’t play ball, so she had to go the whole hog.’ He paused and pulled a face. ‘I was called as a witness. All I had to do was describe the job I did. Which I did, under oath. I would have done it either way but I should have realised it was career suicide. My own dumb arrogance. I thought I was a valuable asset. Clearly not.’

  ‘But the company can’t get rid of you because of that.’

  ‘Technically, legally, morally, no… but the day after Marine won the case, there was a reorganisation. Next day, I was made redundant.’

  ‘But they can’t do that. They have to give you notice that your job is at risk and go through due process. There are procedures and policies that they have to follow.’

  ‘Not if you want a decent pay off and a reference. Basically, if I accepted the terms – a massive bribe, if you will – I had to walk that day.’

  ‘That’s so shitty.’ Although it still didn’t excuse him not texting.

  ‘Super shitty as they also put the word out. Everyone knows everyone. I worked there twelve years. Not one arse contacted me. They were all too scared of it being catching. And it’s all about contacts.’ With a quick turn of the steering wheel, he pulled out into the fast lane to overtake, the sudden rush of acceleration pinning me back into my seat. ‘I’ve applied for dozens of jobs. Most of the time I don’t even get a response, let alone an interview. I’ve contacted a score of people on LinkedIn and guess what, I’m suddenly a social pariah.’

  ‘That’s crap,’ I said, horrified. ‘Surely something will come up.’ But that was a hopeless platitude. What did I know? I’d not been out in the job market for years. How would I feel? It was bad enough being signed off at the moment. I might be unemployable myself.

  ‘Easy for you to say that.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’ I flicked a glance at the overgrown beard and long hair. And then I really was sorry because I understood exactly how he felt.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I paused, tentative because I knew that if it hadn’t been for the cut on my arm, I’d have had to be dragged to the doctors. ‘Perhaps… you ought to see a doctor.’

  The sudden tightening of his eyes told me everything.

  ‘I can’t see how that will help unless they’re doubling as recruitment consultants these days?’ he asked with a low buzz of menace in his voice. Menace was good. Emotion was good. I’d got a bit too used to him being a lifeless husk. Maybe he needed goading to actually feel something.

  I risked being burned. ‘Well maybe you are… a bit down. I didn’t realise how on edge I was until I went to see a doctor.’ And in that moment I realised that it had been a relief to be told there was something wrong with me, that I wasn’t going quietly mad in my own head.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock. Of course I’m down. I lost my job. But a doctor isn’t going to fix that.’

  ‘Maybe it’s worth talking to one, though. What about your sister? Maybe she could help.’

  ‘What, get me a job as a hospital porter? Now there’s an idea.’

  ‘It’s called being practical and trying to provide a solution. But it’s fine; you carry on feeling sorry for yourself instead.’

  For a moment, I thought maybe I’d gone too far but then he spat out a humourless laugh.

  ‘We’re a right pair. They could probably name some trendy jeans brand after us, Stressed and Depressed. And yes, before you jump on it, I was depressed. I’m starting to feel better now. The running helps. And bloody Hilda poking me in the stomach. I was determined to sort myself out then. Probably the six cans of lager I was drinking every night didn’t help.’

  I smiled. ‘She can be rather direct.’

  ‘Bloody rude, you mean, but it’s very entertaining. I am sorry I never texted. It was nothing to do with the date and everything to do with me feeling sorry for myself. I treated you badly and I do regret it.’ He shot me a small, sad smile.

  And where did that leave us now, I wondered. Still very much in the wrong place and time.

  ‘And ironically, you’re the last person to deserve it. You’re the only person who’s asked how I’m feeling since I was made redundant.’

  ‘I can’t be. What about friends and family?’

  I saw him wrinkle his nose. ‘I haven’t actually told my family. Remember, high achievers all round. I was already the loser because I don’t have a “proper” profession. Luckily my folks are away in I
ndia for a few months. My sister works such long hours that I get away with the odd text and my brother is far too busy and important to bother with me.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Funny, they tend to melt away when you can’t afford to dish out for overpriced continental lager. Splashing the cash loses its appeal when you don’t know if you’ll still be able to pay your mortgage in a year’s time. I got a good pay off… but with jobs not forthcoming, I realised I needed to be careful and that they weren’t such great mates after all.’

  I rubbed a finger back and forth along the line of my eyebrow. I could relate to that.

  Was it any easier if friendships died slowly through neglect or overnight when the rug was pulled out?

  ‘At least we’ve got Hilda,’ I said.

  ‘Pitiful isn’t it, two thirty-somethings reliant on a septuagenarian.’

  Ash tossed his hair, making me smile. I really did prefer his longer hair and the way it softened the sharp angles of his face.

  ‘Or something to be celebrated.’ Hilda had certainly brought some fun and light into my life in the last week. ‘Saturday was fun. Better than eating pizza on your own. Who says friends have to be of the same generation?’

  Ash didn’t say anything for a second or two, giving the impression he was carefully weighing up what I’d said.

  ‘But would we have given her the time of day in the park if we were our previous busy, fulfilled, career-driven high-flying selves?’ He took his eyes off the road to dart a sharp glance at me.

  ‘That doesn’t make either of us sound particularly nice, does it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. And there are thousands of lonely old people out there. Not even old, in some cases. Just lonely.’

  Both of us lapsed into thought. He was right. Despite work, I’d been lonely for a long time. Moving to Churchstone, I realised, had been a subconscious effort to do something about it, even if it had been totally unrealistic. You had to put some effort in to make and keep friends. Not having a job or going to work certainly brought the flaws in one’s life into sharp relief.

  Is he as lonely as I am?

  ‘I’ve been worrying about recruiting volunteers to help with the parkrun, but maybe that’s an angle we can tap into. Invite people to get involved. They don’t have to run; they can be marshals and all sorts of other things. We’re going to need quite a few people and a hardcore, committed team if we’re going to sustain it.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been reading up.’

  ‘Hilda has. She’s the original silver surfer. Keeps sending me links. Yesterday it was to a blog post entitled, How to Start a Park Run. It was quite helpful. Did I tell you I spoke to the council guy?’

  I relayed my conversation with Neil Blenkinsop.

  ‘And the Harriers chap is really interested and keen to meet up as soon as possible. Sascha at The Friendly Bean has said we can use the café as our headquarters, if we like.’

  ‘You’ve made good progress in a week.’

  ‘Hmm, I seem to have been caught up in Hilda’s tidal wave. And…’ I shrugged, I was enjoying getting involved in something. Once the girls had gone, life was going to be very quiet. I’d got used to them filling a hole in my big, empty house. To my sudden disquiet I realised I wasn’t looking forward to them going home at all. I was going to miss them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tring was a pretty place nestled high up on the Chilterns, although at that point we were yet to appreciate just how high up on the Chilterns it was. Darren’s house was an end-of-terrace tucked away in one of the narrow streets in the conservation area.

  ‘Hey man,’ he greeted Ash at the door. ‘What’s this?’ He tugged at Ash’s beard. ‘Hipster.’

  I kept my laugh to myself; a Hipster channelling Grizzly Adams, perhaps.

  ‘Daz, man.’ They clasped hands in typical manly fashion before clapping each other on the back. ‘This is Claire.’

  ‘Hi, welcome. Come on in.’ He had the lean, lanky build of a runner with pale skin and a rash of freckles running across almost skeletal cheekbones but he also a broad, open smile as he ushered us into the house with friendly ease. The difference between the two cousins was marked. Darren was as open and approachable as Ash was closed off and self-sufficient.

  We stepped immediately from the threshold into an open-plan living room and kitchen. It was surprisingly bright and modern with polished wooden floors, the sort of bachelor-sized TV screen you’d expect, a pair of Scandi retro-style two-seater sofas and a breakfast bar with three stools which created a divide between the modern, glossy burgundy kitchen cabinets. On a table tucked under the stairs was an open laptop and the sort of detritus signifying someone working from home.

  ‘I’ve got a few things to finish up and then I’ll be right with you. Tea? Coffee?’ he asked over his shoulder as he skirted the breakfast bar. ‘And I thought we’d go to the pub for dinner. It’s just around the corner; they do good food and great beer.’ He grinned. ‘Although I stick to one pint on a Friday night these days.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Whatever happened?’

  ‘Parkrun, mate. It’s hard enough without six pints sloshing around in your belly. Why don’t you take your bags up while I put the kettle on? You’re at the top of the stairs on the right. You can’t get lost. Oh, and when you use the loo, you have to take the lid off the cistern to fiddle with the ballcock; it’s not working properly.’

  Ash rolled his eyes and muttered something uncomplimentary about his cousin.

  After putting in our respective drinks orders, I carefully avoided looking at Ash as we picked up our bags and went up the staircase leading from the lounge.

  There was no missing the layout upstairs. One bathroom and two bedrooms.

  Ash pushed open the door to a bedroom into which a double bed had just about been squeezed. A small double bed at that. One side was tucked into the wall under a window, while the other boasted a cardboard box with an Anglepoise light on it. Safe to say, Darren didn’t entertain that often.

  We both stared at the bed.

  ‘Romcom moment,’ said Ash. ‘Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the sofa.’

  Closing my eyes, I sighed. ‘Did you see the size of them? For goodness’ sake, we’re grown adults. It’s hardly going to kill us sharing a bed.’ I was not going to be the one to point out that we’d done it before. ‘And don’t you dare do the eyebrow thing.’

  ‘What eyebrow thing?’

  ‘The one where you’re all cocky and superior. If you want to sleep on the sofa, be my guest. If you want to sleep here, I’m not some Victorian miss who’s going to have the vapours. Sharing the bed is practical.’

  ‘It is… and it’s not as if we haven’t done it before.’ Sure enough, that flipping eyebrow cocked.

  ‘You just had to bring it up, didn’t you?’ I shot him a withering glare. Annoyingly, he just grinned at me.

  ‘Just checking you hadn’t forgotten. Sure you can keep your hands off me?’

  ‘Forgotten?’ I tried to be cool while inside I was heating up at the very memory of what he could do with a well-placed kiss. ‘Forgotten what?’

  He grinned. ‘Need a reminder?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said primly. ‘Once was quite enough and that beard is a contraceptive in its own right. No one is going to get close enough to kiss you with that thing.’

  He ducked his head but not before I saw the sudden tightening of his face and I wished I could take the words back. I’d meant them to be funny but I’d clearly struck a nerve.

  The cocky attitude dropped and he scowled at me.

  I felt a little ashamed of myself, especially now I realised that the loss of his job had affected him the same way as me being diagnosed with stress had affected me. The beard was as much a symbol of neglect as it was a lack of self-worth, and having listened to him in the car, I should have had a lot more sympathy.

  ‘Sorry, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.’ He turned away and I gripped his arm. ‘A
sh, I’m sorry. The beard bugs me. You’re a good-looking guy; you shouldn’t hide behind it. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Harrison. Is this amateur-psychology half-hour?’

  ‘Why do you push people away all the time? I’m trying to be nice.’

  He pushed a hand through his unruly hair but didn’t meet my steady gaze ‘Sorry. Which side do you want?’

  ‘I’ll take the right-hand side.’ I didn’t want to be squashed up against the wall.

  ‘Right.’

  It was as much of a peace offering as I was going to get.

  He wheeled round and went into the bathroom and when I went out into the tiny hallway, I saw he had taken the lid of the cistern off and was fiddling with the inside workings.

  He glanced up. ‘Could you go and ask Darren for a tool box?’

  ‘Sure. Can you fix it?’

  ‘Just needs a small adjustment. He’s an idiot.’

  ‘Shall I tell him that?’

  I returned a minute later with a tatty Sainsbury’s carrier bag which held a pitiful collection of assorted screwdrivers, two hammers, a pair of pliers and a spanner and handed it over with a rueful grimace.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ I held up my hands and he pursed his mouth, removing a screwdriver. I’ve no idea what he was doing but for some reason I stayed to watch as his hands deftly worked and within ten minutes he sat back on his heels.

  ‘That should do the trick.’

  ‘You’ve fixed it?’ Admiration bubbled beneath the surface of my words.

  ‘It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘No, it’s plumbing and I always leave it to the experts.’

  In our house we’d always had to call in a man-who-can. My Dad’s DIY skills stopped at painting and decorating and even then my mother complained about the wonky wallpaper in the spare bedroom.

  He shrugged and closed the cistern lid. ‘Darren needs a decent set of tools. Could do with a new washer in there but I’ve cleaned the limescale off the old one; it’ll do for the time being.’