51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  Copyright © 2018 Julia Myerscough

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

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  ISBN 978 1788034 975

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For those who believed in me and inspired me

  to write this story.

  Contents

  January

  February

  March

  April

  May

  June

  July

  August

  September

  October

  November

  December

  I recently learned that we have fifty thousand thoughts a day. Just think: a fleeting thought that you or I might have at any point in a twenty-four-hour period has the potential to change our lives, transform the lives of others or affect the future.

  So, if enough people tell you that something you think is a really good idea is a seriously bad one, should you listen to the sceptics and let your good idea pass you by? If Dyson had listened to his critics and given up on his idea for a bagless vacuum cleaner, my life would be much less rewarding and meaningful (watching the amount of dust being sucked up from my lounge carpet is just the best…). However, I digress.

  We were on our family holiday when I had my good idea. You know, that much-longed-for yet often overrated event during our so-called summer? The occasion that the average person spends eleven months dreaming and romanticising over? Well, my husband Geoff, an incredibly busy accountant who simply can’t stomach the thought of being away from his desk for more than a week at a time, agreed for us to go away to the Isle of Wight for six nights in early September to mark the end of his fiftieth birthday celebrations.

  Reclining in a deckchair, a glass of wine in my hand and the sun beating down on my face, I was half-listening to him chuntering on about how wonderful his fiftieth celebrations had been when an innocuous question kick-started my thought process.

  “It’s not long until your fiftieth, Amy. What are you thinking of doing?”

  Those few words unlocked something within me. Of course, I’d been aware of the approaching landmark birthday for years, but right at that moment, something about the thought of turning fifty put me distinctly on edge, and I started to think about it – really think about it. I stared fixedly at the sea, tears pricking my eyes, no longer aware of anyone or anything around me. Subconsciously, I could hear chatter, laughter and screams, yet they made no impression. I shut my eyes, inhaled deeply and absorbed the salty sea air into my lungs as I sought clarity and focus. My breathing slowed. I became still and chewed on my finger with frustration.

  This milestone means something to me; it means much more than a piss-up that I’ll have to organise. I want more than that. I want… what exactly do I want? I don’t know.

  And it was on the way home from that holiday, when we took our daughters, Pippa and Evie (fifteen and ten years old respectively) to the Sir Frank Whittle Jet Heritage Centre, that it all became clear.

  A riveting short film describing Sir Frank’s life and achievements is playing. Emotion wells up inside me. “What a man,” I whisper to Evie, wiping my eyes. “He let his imagination run free, took on a challenge, came up against brick walls – but he had a go. Inventing the jet engine changed lives around the world.” It is my eureka moment.

  “Mr Whittle, you have inspired me,” I say aloud. Somebody to my right tuts disapprovingly. I know what to do, I scream internally. Oh my God – I think I’ve just had an epiphany. The room is suddenly unbearably hot. Muttering something to Geoff about runny noses and tissues, I somehow make it to the foyer. I must experiment and experience, I think to myself, pacing up and down. My thought process and my pacing synchronise and quicken. Yes, I hiss under my breath. I will challenge myself and get to know myself better. It’s time to break out of my comfort zone and try out new things – stuff I secretly dream of doing but never believe I can or should. When I am old, I must be able to shout “Je ne regrette rien!”

  Five minutes later, my family find me running wildly around the car park outside the entrance to the Heritage Centre. “Mum! Mum! What’s wrong with you?” shouts Pippa. “Have you gone mad? Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.” She turns and runs back inside the building. I stop. The initial adrenaline rush has passed. I lean against a bench, my lungs burning, and tear off my fleece jacket. As I regain my composure and cool down, I exhale so sharply that Evie and Geoff are concerned.

  “Mum?” Evie hugs me.

  “Oh yes, sweetie,” I reply calmly, hugging her back and smiling broadly. “I am absolutely fine.” And, for the first time in a very long time, I have uttered the absolute truth. I am fine.

  9.00 p.m.

  We have been home three hours. Geoff is somewhere on his laptop and I have the joyous post-holiday task of sorting piles of dirty clothing into organised molehills. I must get a wash on, and fast. It’s getting late, I have work tomorrow and I need some ‘me time’ before bed. I toil frenetically to clear the mess around me. There’s no time to lose. I simply have to harness this energy bubbling inside me. I laugh to myself. Goodness, if I were connected to the national grid right now, I’d be able to light up the whole of our town.

  By ten o’clock, Evie is in bed, Pippa is still unpacking (and will be for weeks to come) and Geoff is totally engrossed in a TV programme about Ancient Rome. Good. I won’t be missed. Time to start work. I sneak upstairs, throw on my PJs, jump into bed, snuggle down and prepare to brainstorm onto my laptop. Now then. I chew on my finger as I try to concentrate. Think, Amy. What is this about? Things to do when I’m fifty? Things to do before I’m fifty? Fifty Shades of Fifty? Ha ha! A bucket list for the fifty-year-old? Fine if I was planning my funeral, which I am not. I need inspiration. Sod it, I need wine.

  Geoff catches me scuttling back upstairs with my second large glass of Pinot Grigio and fires a stern laser-beam look in my direction. We’ve made a pact to be alcohol-free during the week, and I have now broken it. What he doesn’t know, however, is that having a drink in my hand helps my creativity. At work, I always have a cup of something (non-alcoholic, of course) close by. Without a drink, I feel bereft.

  Two glasses of wine later, my mental block clears when I Google ‘Things to do before you are 50’ and ‘Bucket lists for the over-50s’. I think I’ve got it. I am going to take on a number of challenges and adventures, falling into four categories:

  Face my Fears.

  Se
lf-Improvement.

  Good Deeds.

  Bad Stuff.

  I lie back and smile to myself. I am on my way.

  “Do you know?” I remark to Geoff over dinner a fortnight later. “It’s interesting how many people have tried to put me off doing this. They look at me as if I’m off my head. D’you secretly think that too? Geoff, are you listening?”

  Geoff is busy checking out the bran cake I bake exclusively for him every weekend.

  “Mmm. This effort looks interesting. Fig and apple? I don’t think you’re mad.” He pokes the cake with his index finger. “It’s a sensible project, Amy. We both know the value of continuous self-improvement and personal development, don’t we? We have personal development plans at work, so why not have one at home too? How many challenge ideas did you say you have?”

  “Six. I’m not good at this sort of thing. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Ask around and try the web.”

  “Can you think of any challenges, Geoff?”

  “Encourage Pippa to put her crap away instead of leaving it here,” he says, pointing to her school bag and shoes that are lying under the kitchen table.

  “That’s not quite what I meant.”

  “Leave your list with me, Amy. I’ll have a think.”

  I take Geoff’s advice and bravely hijack my work colleagues in meetings, corridors and even the toilets. I slowly but surely develop an eclectic range of challenge ideas. The list becomes my best friend and goes everywhere with me. “I can’t stop looking at it,” I say to Pippa, holding it to my chest. “It’s like it’s my new baby.”

  “That’s just stupid, Mum,” she replies curtly. “Get a grip.”

  But I can’t ‘get a grip’, and every time I steal a look at my beloved list, I am filled with excitement, trepidation and resolve.

  3.00 a.m.

  I wake up in a cold sweat. I have had another brilliant idea. I sit up in bed as slowly and carefully as I can so as not to disturb Geoff, attempt to pull open my bedside cabinet drawer in the darkness, and delve around for paper and a pen. I am not quiet enough. He hears me scrabbling about.

  “Amy, what are you doing?” I hear him tearing open a strip of tablets and swallowing one with water. “Won’t get my seven hours now,” he mutters, “I’ll have a bad head.” I don’t speak. I have done enough damage for tonight but I simply cannot let this idea go. I have to write it down – right now. I slip out of bed, go downstairs and turn on the kitchen light, blinking at the sudden brightness. I hunt out my laptop, sit at the kitchen table and tap furiously.

  “My final task will be to write a book, magazine article or blog describing the challenges and adventures I experience. It will motivate and inspire all those reaching fifty and beyond. I will provide invaluable information and guidance to the discerning reader contemplating a similar journey.” I smile to myself. I like that.

  Adriano’s Restaurant. Friday, 8.00 p.m.

  ‘The Girls’ are a band of sisters united by our families and a love of wine, spa days, coffee and gossip. We’ve known each other for years and get together on the final Friday of every month. Our catchphrase is: ‘Never forget the six degrees of separation’. In our small North Cumbrian town, instead of six degrees of separation, however, it is only two or three – and we know never to divulge any information outside our perfectly formed ring of friendship that may be considered of ‘value’ to others. For example, three years ago, Geoff hired a decorator. Within a day, I learned that he knew Evie’s swimming teacher, whose son dated my boss. And everybody knew about that scandal. The number of secrets we share is incalculable. Our objective is to never become the subject of mindless tittle-tattle ourselves, thank you very much.

  After the usual cathartic dump about work, partners, children, school and all the other important stuff we need to get off our chests since we last met – oh, and after the consumption of a bottle or two of Pinot Grigio, conversation turns to the list. With bated breath, I unveil my ‘good idea’, present my long list of potential challenges and ask my dear friends – Bea, Claire and Cate – for their honest opinion. To my delight, they really like the idea.

  “Oooh – I never knew you had such a dark side, pet. It’s bloody brilliant. Can we join in with some of them?” enthuses Bea.

  I take a sip of wine and consider Bea’s request. Oh, I’d love The Girls to share my year with me; we’d have so much fun. However, deep down I know that this is something I must do on my own.

  “Right,” I say. “I’ve just made a decision. I’d like you three to decide on my challenges. These,” I say, waving my list in the air, “are suggestions only. Perhaps you’ve other ideas? What I do will be entirely up to you. My final challenge will be to write a book or whatever about my experiences, but you can choose the rest. Write them down on these slips of paper. Decide which category they fall into, fold them up so they can’t be read and put them into this bowl. Don’t, under any circumstance, tell me anything about them. Okay?”

  “You can rely on us to give you something to remember,” smiles Bea. “Lots of – what’s that last category again? Ah yes, Bad Stuff.”

  “Hmmm, that concerns me slightly,” I chuckle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Twenty minutes later, we count up the number of slips in the bowl. “Blimey, we have fifty challenges,” I say in surprise. “Plus the one I’ve already decided on, of course.” We look at each other in silence and then it all falls into place.

  “Well,” says Claire, “it’s obvious, isn’t it? That means there’s one challenge a week for your fiftieth year and a week off for Christmas.”

  Sorted.

  January

  New Year’s Day, 7.00 p.m

  Randomly picking out:

  FUNDRAISE FOR A GOOD CAUSE

  as the first of the challenges had felt like the perfect opportunity to throw an impromptu party and welcome the start of my fiftieth year – my Year of Adventure and Self-Discovery – and to launch the list and nail challenge one. I have decided that the money raised will go to our local branch of Age UK, an apt choice considering that, all too soon, I’ll be a fully fledged member of the ‘third age’.

  The party has been in full swing for a couple of hours. The list, now entitled ‘51 Weeks, 51 Challenges’, is proudly displayed on the wall, and a huge ‘Good luck, Amy’ banner swings across the windows. A donations bucket is rapidly filling with loose change and the bar is doing a roaring trade. The raffle tickets have sold well at £1 a strip, with the winner – my boss (of all people) – having the honour of pulling the second week’s challenge from the now officially named ‘Bowl of Chance and Opportunity’, which has pride of place on the kitchen table.

  I stand amongst my guests, chewing absentmindedly on my finger and staring intently at the fifty folded slips of paper sitting in the bowl. I take a mental photo of the scene before me: the familiar – my family, my friends and my neighbours, and the unfamiliar – the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity. I pick it up. A frisson of panic runs down my spine. Oh, my Lord, I think. It’s nearly time to plunge into the unknown. Although I am super-excited, for some inexplicable reason I cannot shake a feeling of dread. I’m pretty sure that many of the challenges will test me in ways I can barely imagine. I turn to Bea for a confidence boost. “Why am I scared, Bea? I badly want to do this but I have absolutely no idea what’s coming next. What if I don’t like it?” I trail off.

  “What you’re feeling is completely normal, pet,” laughs Bea, hugging me close. “Why are you so down? It’s going to be an exciting year for you, and if you really don’t think it’s working, you can always drop out. No one will mind. It’s just a bit of fun, really, isn’t it? Something to spice up our boring and predictable old lives?” She takes my hand and drops her voice. “Although, pet, I hope you don’t bail,” she says seriously, her hazel eyes flicking around the room before settling back on me. “I thi
nk you might regret it if you do. There’s a lot of interesting adventures waiting for you in that bowl. You’re going to have the time of your life and learn a lot – as long as you want to. Your grandma will be proud.” Her tone lightens. “Hey, it’s your fiftieth year!” Snatching up the bottle of Pinot Grigio from the table, she tops up our glasses. “Stop gnawing on your finger,” she giggles. “Get this down you, turn up the music… and let’s boogie.”

  Midnight.

  I have drunk rather more than my limit of three alcoholic drinks and have seamlessly progressed into the ‘I don’t care how much I consume because I feel really good, and it tastes nice’ phase.

  Geoff makes his obligatory ‘good luck’ speech and proudly announces that the evening has raised a whopping £200. He stands on the kitchen table, praises me for my courage and ingenuity, kisses me on the cheek and wishes me lots of luck. Everybody cheers and Pippa takes snaps for posterity on her mobile – her permanent appendage. I hear somebody whisper, “Let’s hope Geoff doesn’t regret the chaos that this might cause,” and I snigger uncontrollably. I’m so damn nervous, yet I just can’t wait to get started and find out what this year will bring.

  I straighten my glasses and watch in a drunken haze as my boss is ceremoniously presented with the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity by Evie, who fiddles nervously with the toggle on her yellow hoodie. In slow motion, he pulls out the second challenge. It is:

  GET A SET OF HD BROWS.

  Week Two. Friday.

  What the hell are HD brows, exactly? All I know is that every time I suffer an eyebrow wax, Harmony, my beautician, remarks on my beautifully shaped brows and says that they would so benefit from the HD experience. Pippa looks over my shoulder and takes a photo of the challenge in my hand. “Mum, you are going to look great with HDs,” she snorts. “Do you realise that your and my credibility will be zero if you get them done? No one your age should have them.”