51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  Week Three. Saturday, 8.00 a.m.

  This is the weekend that I cherish in summer. I whisk my children away from the daily grind, and we step away from reality, put our insignificant stuff into perspective and unwind. Nothing and no one from our everyday lives is allowed to invade our space, and ensuring this includes having a total ban on electronic devices. Escaping into the open arms of a swanky hotel with spa in the city is a great tonic, and we always ensure that we have the best time ever.

  There is method in my madness, however. This is a treat with a purpose, for it’s how I try to keep us connected and close – to strengthen the sense of family and unity that was acutely lacking in my own childhood. And it kinda works. We always return feeling rejuvenated and much closer. Best of all, I get to learn a lot about my children and their lives; things that I would never usually find out.

  My Skype alert goes off. “Hi, Grandma.”

  “Amy, bubelah.” Her frail face appears on the PC monitor.

  I stare intently into her heavily lined eyes. “You don’t look so good, Grandma.”

  There’s a long pause. “Oh, don’t you worry about me,” she smiles. “Tell me about your challenges.”

  We return to familiar territory.

  “Well, last Thursday I buried a time capsule in the garden, which was fun. And this week, I’m going busking, which does not sound like fun.”

  “You’re doing what this week?”

  “Busking,” I shout down the computer. “Becoming a street entertainer. If people like me, they’ll give donations.”

  “Donations? Mrs Perkins gives donations of blood, and she gets a cup of tea and a biscuit afterwards. Most civilised.” Pippa stifles a giggle and gesticulates wildly. “I have to go, or I’ll be in trouble with your great-grandchildren. I’ll be in touch early next week.”

  Her face disappears.

  “Have fun,” says Geoff as we make to leave. “What time will you be back?”

  “Whenever we finish,” I laugh. “Why?”

  “Oh, no reason,” he replies airily. “I might be out. Don’t worry about cooking for me.”

  “Okay,” I reply. “Gotta go. See you.”

  Sunday.

  We have gossiped, laughed, pigged out and shopped until I literally did drop from exhaustion and had to revive myself with litres of coffee. We are spent up and blissfully happy – Zen-like, even. Such is the feeling when we have been away. It’s just heavenly.

  We meander through the crowds, taking in the atmosphere and marvelling at the talent of the street performers entertaining the masses. “Next challenge?” remarks Evie.

  Ah, I’d completely forgotten.

  “I’m not confident enough to sing or dance, and I don’t play a musical instrument. What on Earth could I do?” I snap.

  “Why don’t you ask that guy from the soup kitchen?” suggests Pippa, noticing my change of mood. “Didn’t you say he was a busker?”

  Of course. I sigh with relief. I’ll ask Pete.

  9.00 p.m.

  There’s no sign of Geoff as I pull up onto the driveway. I message him to let him know we’re home and chivvy the children into the house.

  11.45 p.m.

  Geoff shakes me awake, takes me into his arms and holds me close. Grandma has died.

  Monday afternoon.

  Geoff says he can’t get time off from work at such short notice, so I go to the funeral alone. I’m secretly relieved. He wasn’t close to Grandma and I don’t want to have to spend my time (a) looking after him and (b) stopping him from being rude to Jess and pissing me off. He’s never got on with my family, and I don’t trust him to hold back, not even at Grandma’s funeral.

  Upon my arrival, I awkwardly embrace my mother and Jess. We congregate in an oppressive, stark, whitewashed room, ready to mourn Grandma’s passing. As the service begins, my fingernails gradually dig deep into the palms of my hands; the discomfort of it stops me from breaking down. I have known you for all my life, I think. You are one of the few who knew me inside and out and loved me unconditionally – and now you are gone.

  My mum and Jess are stoic. However, before long, I cannot help but weep openly as I recall the special things that made Grandma who she was. I silently thank her for always being there for me. Unlike some, I think, shooting a dirty look at my mother, who visibly stiffens and sneers at me before averting her eyes.

  Thankfully, the service is short, and Grandma’s casket is prepared for burial. As tradition dictates, I follow the coffin to the graveside, stand in respect as prayers are said and watch as she is lowered into her final resting place alongside her husband.

  Seminal moments from my childhood flood back. I hear her voice comforting me after Dad walked out on us. “Don’t cry, bubelah – have a bagel.” My tears fall once more.

  Jess comes over to comfort me. “Amy,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “One of the last things Grandma said to me before she passed away was about your challenges and adventures.” She takes a scrap of paper from her pocket and reads from it. “She asked me to tell you not to give up on them, to keep an eye on some frenemy of yours – whatever that means – and said that you must donate blood this week, even though you would be sad. She was insistent that you demand a cup of tea and a biscuit afterwards. Who is this ‘so-called friend’ that Grandma referred to, Ames?”

  “I think she means Claire, but she must be muddling her up with somebody else. Claire’s the perfect friend.”

  “Oh yeah,” cackles Jess. “She’s definitely one to watch.”

  “Stop taking the piss out of Grandma. Get in the car, Jess. Mum’s waiting. I won’t have you wind me up today about her or Claire or Geoff,” I snap.

  “Sorry, Amy,” she retaliates. “You’ve always been such a good judge of character.”

  “NO MORE.” I cover my ears with my hands and running to the waiting car.

  Tuesday, 5.00 p.m.

  Pete spots me hovering in the doorway at the soup kitchen. “Hey, you!” he cries delightedly, giving me a bear hug. “Fancy a brew?” He makes the tea and pushes a biscuit into my hand.

  “What’s up?” he asks, concerned. “You look bushed.”

  “It’s been a tough week,” I reply. I fill him in about Grandma.

  “Ah, I know what it’s like to lose somebody you love,” he empathises. “When I lost my wife, my world fell apart.” He looks at me, his eyes dulled. “Amy, do you ever wonder why I’m here and why I busk?”

  “It has crossed my mind. You don’t really look as if you, well, belong here,” I reply, blushing.

  “My wife had an affair and left me. Before that, I had a good career, we shared a wide circle of friends, we lived comfortably – you get the picture – and we were great together. But when our lifestyle changed, it tested us. Through no fault of my own, I lost my job and took temporary positions to keep us solvent. I was no quitter, but we were forced to downsize and eventually defaulted on our mortgage. We lost our house because we couldn’t sell. It was in negative equity. Cara became depressed. She decided she couldn’t cope with the changes, so she cheated on me.”

  His light, matter-of-fact tone turns brusque, and he picks angrily at a scab on the back of his hand. “I didn’t see the warning signs. I trusted her. There I was, working my butt off, and all the while she was lying and scheming. Eventually she cut her losses and ran off with some dick ’cos he could give her all the fucking inconsequential stuff – the status and bling and security – that I could no longer provide, Amy.”

  He bangs the table with his fist in frustration. “We live in a country where it’s acceptable to throw out and replace our stuff without a second thought. When did it become okay to dispose of people so casually too? It’s not alright to bail out when things get tough or don’t go the way we want them to. Doing something purely for personal gain is not justifiable in my boo
k. Cara wasn’t happy so she disposed of me, legitimised it and moved on. It wasn’t like that in my parents’ day. They worked through the ups and downs of life. Isn’t that where the phrase ‘make do and mend’ came from?”

  What a bitch, hurting Pete like that. I’d never cheat, I affirm silently. It’s not worth it. All that secrecy and guilt and the constant fear of being discovered, not to mention the risk of picking up a nasty disease – and the gossip. I shudder. No man’s worth that. I tune back into Pete, who is still ranting.

  “Anyway, I dealt with the crap by blocking out the past with drink and doing some terrible things. I simply existed, and I didn’t care, Amy. Now I understand that I needed time to grieve before I could move on, but back then I pushed the self-destruct button.” He looks me squarely in the eye. “I busk to make ends meet. It makes me happy to play my guitar, sing and give others pleasure. I live in a caravan on a mate’s farm. I don’t see my kids because they won’t see me, and I work here to make amends; to help others going through bad times and to stop them taking the same road I took.”

  “You seem content, Pete?”

  “It’s all an act, Amy baby,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m happy, safe and valued when I’m here – but away from all this?” Pete motions around himself. “I feel worthless, without purpose, direction and love. Thanks to her, I can’t get close to anyone anymore. Not surprisingly, I have mega trust issues, you know? Without trust, you have nothing. However,” Pete smiles, “on a more positive note, I’ve taken the first step and acknowledged my problems. I’m in counselling and I’ve cut down on my drinking. I’m no longer that ostrich ignoring my issues. So, that’s all good. Excuse me, my scab is bleeding.” He goes to find the first aid box. I follow him into the kitchen. “Pete, I came here to ask you for assistance with my next challenge. I can’t do this on my own, and I think it’ll be good for you too.”

  I explain.

  “So, will you busk with us? It’d be nice if we could learn some of Grandma’s favourite songs and sing in her memory? The only thing is that we need to do it by Friday or I’ll fail, and I can’t afford to do that – for Grandma.”

  Wednesday, 4.30 p.m.

  Pippa, Evie, Pete and I are at the soup kitchen amicably planning my challenge with Bianca and her mum. A number of tracks are now downloaded onto my MP3 player. The girls have borrowed tambourines from school and successfully blagged Eastern-European-style character skirts, gypsy-style blouses and character shoes from their local dance school.

  We practise singing and dance routines until the soup kitchen opens. We aren’t perfect, but that isn’t what matters. As Pete says, if we make an effort, the crowds will love us.

  Thursday afternoon.

  We meet in town at Pete’s regular busking spot. “I never knew you busked here, Pete,” I say in amazement. “I walk past all the time, and I’ve never noticed you.”

  Pete laughs. “Lots of people don’t notice us, Amy baby. They look anywhere but at us. It doesn’t matter.”

  We set up our equipment. Luckily, it is a dry afternoon. Pete picks up his guitar. “Ready, Amy?” asks Pete kindly, strumming his guitar.

  “I think so,” I grimace.

  “Okay – let’s rock for Grandma!” he cries, and off we go.

  A small crowd gathers to listen to our catchy tunes. We encourage everybody to join in with our dance moves. By the end, we’re all breathless, as is the audience. As they applaud and shower us with coins, I look to the heavens and smile. “Hope you enjoyed the show, Grandma.”

  Afterwards, we decamp to a local café and order the obligatory tea and biscuits. Pete counts up our takings. We’ve made just over a hundred pounds. “It’s all for you, Pete,” I say, pushing the pile of cash towards him. “Accept it with love and use it unwisely – but not on alcohol,” I giggle.

  “What will you buy with it all, Mr Pete?” asks Evie.

  Pete thinks for a minute. “I am going to put it all away and use it to buy a suit, shirt and tie,” he says carefully. “For when I start looking to get back into more regular employment.” We whoop with joy, applaud and toast his bravery with cups of tea.

  “Do the toast now, Mum!” shouts Evie.

  “Okay, guys – raise your tea cups,” I smile. “Here’s to Grandma. Sleep tight, bubelah.”

  When I get home, I find a text from Pete:

  Amy baby, don’t be an ostrich.

  Face your fears, don’t run from them.

  You have friends to support you.

  Your challenges are there to guide you.

  Listen to the messages they send.

  Do what is right, not what is easy.

  Week Four. Friday, 9.30 a.m.

  Family Richards leaves for Cyprus tomorrow, and today is about packing, cleaning and managing meltdowns. I am feverishly writing to-do lists in preparation for today’s annual guaranteed day of woe when Cate pops round. “How’d you get Geoff to agree to Cyprus?” she asks in amazement. “I thought his heart was set on Austria?”

  I grin sheepishly and fess up. “I booked it without telling him the day after we got back from my challenge at Blackpool, where I had to ride The Big One. I was so mad with him and his conniving ways and pig-headedness. I knew that he would have talked me round and I would have regretted it. However, seven sun-filled days away from the pressures of everyday life will do us good. It’ll help us to bond as a family, and Geoff and I will have time to talk and become more appreciative of each other.”

  “Will you go – to Austria, I mean?”

  “One day. It’s the focus on walking I’m not sure about. I like walking – just not Geoff’s walks. However, now that I have newly acquired knowledge and skills in assertiveness, when the conversation comes round again, I’ll be better able to stand my ground and turn it into a win-win,” I chuckle, feeling smug.

  “How?” laughs Cate.

  “We were told to begin with the end in mind, and I have a very clear image in my head of what the end is.”

  I reel off my list of conditions:

  “No remarks about drinking responsibly. That guilt-trips me. No commenting on what we eat – all holiday. His healthy eating obsession has to go on hold. And finally, one complete day off for me. I always ask for time to myself on holiday and never seem to get more than half an hour. I will have one full day where I get up when I want, I do what I want and I meet my family at an agreed time in the evening. The thought of being able to sit and read a book from cover to cover in peace without constant pestering or feeling guilty for doing so is the one thing that I miss most about holidays before children.”

  I notice the time. “Sorry, I have to go. I just know that if we leave home without diarrhoea tablets, one of us is sure to come down with the runs.” I smile. “And I can’t rely on Geoff to remember.”

  4.45 p.m.

  Evie and Pippa have been tasked with putting their holiday clothes into neat piles, ready for packing. The tears and tantrums begin.

  7.30 p.m.

  I am using wine therapy to keep calm. The girls are each building a tower of totally unnecessary stuff to take away. I haven’t even started packing.

  7.45 p.m.

  A difficult conversation results in a rapid prioritisation of their mountains of stuff. The pile shrinks by a third. I have almost finished the bottle of wine and have still not started packing.

  “Suitcases?” requests Pippa.

  “As usual, poppet, I am waiting for your father to discuss this. He’s told me that we have a weight limit and so packing in the right way is very important. This year, we can only take two cases. He’s bringing them down in a minute.”

  I eye the amount of stuff waiting to be packed. At this rate, I’ll be taking next to nothing, as there’ll be no room in the case. I just know what’s coming next.

  Geoff ceremoniously wheels a perfectly packed
suitcase into the spare bedroom, complete with neatly rolled shirts. As I predicted, there isn’t room for anything else in his. I observe the case that he has selected for us. My stressometer spikes, and the fact that I have been drinking empowers me to speak up.

  “Don’t tell me that we have to try and cram all our stuff into this, while you gloat that you’re ready to go and that your shirts will arrive in pristine condition?”

  Pippa and Evie start to complain. Geoff bites back and orders them to halve the amount of stuff they want to take. His Pointy Finger comes out to play. I sit there and watch. The scene is typical. I drink more wine.

  Five minutes later.

  The situation is escalating out of control. Geoff is throwing our clothes around and making inappropriate comments. I am about to get mad when I stop and remember my assertiveness training.

  “Darling,” I rest my hand on Geoff’s arm. He stops talking and pointing. “You’ve packed your clothes so well and in good time,” I gush. “However, we have three other people’s clothes to somehow pack, plus a lot of other family essentials. I don’t think that the case you have given us is big enough – and perhaps your case is designed for one person only? You said yourself that we can only take two cases and we have a weight limit, and I am sure that we could do this differently?”

  I pause. Geoff looks okay so far. “I feel upset that you have sorted yourself out and left everything else to me. We have spent a long time organising what we should take.” I mentally tick off the stages of the four-stage ‘How to be Assertive in Conversation’ framework from the training course. “This frustrates me and makes me feel like you don’t understand or appreciate us,” I continue. “So, do you think that we should, no, we could sit down together, discuss our holiday organisation and share the load?” I show him the lists of jobs that still have to be done before I can go to bed.