51 Weeks

by Julia Myerscough

  There’s an awkward silence.

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry,” I sigh. “I take it you know about my Let the Dice Decide challenge, then?”

  “It’s fine, Amy. Let’s call it quits, eh?”

  “Moving on,” says Bea merrily, “You’re still burning a candle for one of Amy’s mates then, Jase?”

  “I sure am, but I don’t know how to snare her in my net.”

  “And you won’t tell us who it is, pet?”

  “No. I find this kind of thing difficult,” replies Jason. “I want to get to know her better. I think she’s gorgeous, but I need to do it in my own time and in my own way.”

  My mobile vibrates with a shouty text from Geoff. It’s definitely time to go. “Leave it with us, then,” I smile. One mystery solved and another begins, I chortle to myself. What a plan he had. Pure class.

  Sunday morning.

  “Not so many left now,” I reflect sadly, tossing the remaining slips of paper around the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity. I close my eyes and select one of them:

  BE A SECRET MILLIONNAIRE.

  “This is impossible. I’m not a millionaire,” I say harshly to the goldfish.

  “Who decided on this for me and why? What am I supposed to do? Rob a bank or fleece Geoff? The show is all about mega-wealthy people splashing their cash to help the disadvantaged. That’s laudable, and if I had a squillion pounds I would gladly do likewise, but I don’t, so I can’t.”

  I tear open a packet of crisps and feed them mechanically into my mouth, feeling desperate. Pippa wanders into the kitchen, singing along to music on her mobile. “Crisps. Yum.” She opens the family treat cupboard and scavenges inside.

  “Excuse me.” I pull her earphones from her ears and give her a stern look. “I don’t think so. You’ve just had breakfast.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she replies airily. “But can I take this for later?” She holds up a chocolate bar. “You’ll be a mum in a million and I’ll love you forever.” She skips out of the kitchen.

  “Pippa?”

  “Mum?”

  “Repeat what you just said.”

  “When?”

  “Just now, you muppet. You said something like ‘let me have this and I’ll be a mum in a million’.”

  “Don’t you like being complimented?” she replies indignantly.

  “Sit here a mo.” I show her my latest challenge slip. “It says here that I’m to be a Secret Millionaire, you know like on the TV show. Just now you said I was a mum in a million. What did you mean by that?”

  Pippa hugs me. “You are a mum in a million. You’re special because you are loving and generous and selfless and kind. You do so many wonderful things for us all. What about doing good turns and putting smiles on lots of faces? You don’t need to do big things. Remember when I lost my bus fare home and a stranger gave me the money? That’s the sort of thing I mean. It was really kind.”

  We’ve nailed it. It all makes perfect sense. My brain shoots off on a hundred tangents as I dissect my challenge, and my heart fills with elation as I mentally list some of the people I want to ‘treat’. This challenge is going to be awesome.

  1.30 p.m.

  The Secret Millionaire is ready to go.

  Now I really think about it, there’s not enough neighbourly love in this world, I reflect while brainstorming a list of good deeds to perform. Everyone is too damn suspicious of everyone else. When somebody does something nice for us, we wonder why. We can’t simply accept it’s because we’re being thanked or appreciated. We immediately jump to the conclusion that there’s an ulterior motive.

  I chew on my finger, deep in thought.

  And these days we’re all too busy to take time out of our chaotic lives to be nice to each other, except when we are made to do so, like at Christmas and for birthdays and other key events. I am going to change all that. In fact, if it goes well, this might become something I do more often.

  “Amy, can I run some ideas by you for this presentation?”

  “Ah – glad you’re back, Geoff. I’m just writing up this challenge and then I’ll start on dinner and vacuum the lounge. How was the Stag do last night? Hope the groom was well-behaved.”

  “Eh? Oh, it was great,” he replies casually. “Now, you can do that in a minute. I have to get this finished.” He pushes his laptop across to me.

  “How about I look at it properly in half an hour’s time?” I suggest. “Do you think we could have a chat about…”

  He doesn’t let me finish. “Amy, this is my work. It’s important. Just look at it and tell me what you think.”

  “Waiting half an hour won’t make any real difference, and it’d really help me,” I reply assertively. “And it’s better if you leave something for a short time and come back to it. You see it through new eyes. We can talk things over while I prep the veg.”

  “Amy!” he cries, banging his fist on the table, “You used to enjoy doing this for me. You’ve got the rest of the day for all that other trivia. Stop being so contrary.”

  I shut up. I give in. I feel undermined again. The words ‘minion’ and ‘petulant child’ shout out to me, but I keep quiet and do as he asks because he has shocked me and although I want to do something about this, I still don’t quite know what that something is.

  3.00 p.m.

  An extra-large notice informing others to Keep out or be prepared to die a horrible death (with smiley face beneath) is stuck to the study door. I am completely focused on preparing for my challenge. I beaver away, singing along to Abba at full volume. I am happy.

  Geoff bangs on the door. I lower the volume. “Amy, come out. Are you still preoccupied with this bloody challenge?”

  “Yes – and it’s a good one, Geoff.”

  “Fucking hell,” he explodes for the second time today. “Aren’t you taking this just a bit too far? Your exploits are getting in the way of us and our lives. Come for a walk. I haven’t been out yet today and I could do with some exercise. If we go now, we’ll get the best of the weather, and we’ll be back for five, which’ll still give you plenty of time to do whatever you have to do in preparation for Monday. Your challenge can wait, can’t it?”

  My eyes narrow. I have picked up on the tell-tale personal pronoun ‘I’. This is not about us. It’s all about him again – his frustrations, wants and needs. Nice thought to get me back for five, I think angrily. That’s match kick-off time, and oh yes, that gives me plenty of time to get you organised for Monday…

  I open the door a crack, determined not to lose my rag. “Thank you, but no. I appreciate that you have decided to spend time with me right now, but as you know, if I don’t crack on, I won’t be ready for tomorrow. I haven’t even started on the fruit cake you said you’d like to take away with you – and I won’t be able to carry out my challenge either, because I won’t have finished what I’m doing. Once I get this all done, I’ll be able to relax. Why not ring Bob or one of your friends or go on your own or, even better, why not help me?” I remember Bea’s words. “You could make your cake for once?” I suggest.

  And, shutting the door purposefully, I sit with my back firmly pushed up against it so that he can’t possibly force his way in.

  “I’m not spending my valuable weekend baking. It’d take me hours, and it’s your job, Amy. Why can’t you all do what I want to do for a change? I’ve this bloody important course starting tomorrow and a few hours spare before I have to drive down south – which I’d like to spend with you, talking stuff through like we used to. You’re so wrapped up in yourself and these challenges. You never used to be like this. It’s you and the kids, you and your friends, you and a challenge. You have bucketfuls of spare time to indulge in all this other pointless crap. What’s happened to my wife?” The petulant child stomps off, muttering some rather unpleasant words under his breath.

  Two minutes later.r />
  My resolve to be strong weakens.

  He’s worried about his new job and wants to share with me, I think. Perhaps he’s right and my challenges have got in the way. There should have been a Buyer Beware clause for us to sign up to before this all began. Beware of the possible consequences before you delve into your Bowl of Chance and Opportunity. It’s more than a game; it’s life-changing in more ways than you might think. If I were to go with him it would make him happy. It would build bridges between us and I could use the time to tease out where he’s been and why he’s neglecting the children. It’s true that I don’t have half the time for him I used to have. That’s so selfish of me. I should be supportive and there for Geoff, especially now, while he’s finding his feet. I have failed Geoff. I’m even complaining about making his cake, and I never used to do that.

  I go to look for him, but he has already left. I have no way of contacting him either. He’s left his mobile behind.

  Monday, 4.30 a.m.

  I wake with a start, my phone alarm vibrating under my pillow, and dress quickly. Pippa sees me skulking around the kitchen.

  “Mum?”

  I spin around. “Oh, it’s you,” I whisper, shocked.

  “It’s challenge stuff, isn’t it? I want to come.”

  I can tell she means business. “Alright then,” I say in a low voice. “Grab your slippers and dressing gown, madam, or you’ll miss it.”

  I put my fingers to my lips and, like Santa and his Elf on Christmas Eve, we slink from doorstep to doorstep, depositing bottles of wine and envelopes.

  “What are these for?” whispers Pippa as we wind our way around the close.

  “Gifts to thank people for being good neighbours,” I reply proudly. “I have written personalised messages, thanking them for being… well… it depends on who they are really. I wanted them to know that I’m not pranking them. My gesture is heartfelt.” I consult my list. “We need to hurry or it’ll be wake-up time, and I mustn’t be discovered.”

  7.10 a.m.

  I keep making silly excuses so that I can pop outside and check on who’s found their surprise and almost jump out of my skin when Mr Draper, my eccentric eighty-five-year-old next-door neighbour (and Neighbourhood Watcher extraordinaire) throws open his front door.

  “A very good morning, Mrs Richards. Why are you about at this fine hour? Catching the worm?” He notices his gift. “What’s this, then? A ration parcel?”

  I pretend to tie my shoelace.

  “Mrs Richards, come hither and see what some lovely person has left for me. I have been given a bottle of wine and a short message thanking me for being such a dedicated Neighbourhood Watch citizen.” He puffs out his chest and smiles broadly.

  “Now, this is quite something, Mrs Richards. Never in my whole time living here amongst you good people – and I have lived here for over twenty years, let me tell you – never have I been thanked for performing a job that I consider to be of vital importance in this cold and heartless world in which we live. Reminds me of the war.”

  He extracts a grubby handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wipes his eyes and blows his nose loudly. “Whoever has recognised my service to our community has cheered me up no end. It’s as if I have received the Légion d’Honneur. In fact, I shall write to our local newspaper and voice my grateful thanks to this inconnu.”

  He changes the subject. “While you are here, Mrs Richards, a thought has crossed my mind. Would you be so kind as to do me a small favour later this afternoon? My usual transportation befriender who assists with my weekly supermarket shop is unavailable today. Would you mind taking their place, please, and help me peruse the shelves? I will gladly treat you to an iced bun and beverage by way of recompense. They serve a superlative pensioners’ afternoon tea on a Monday. Say four-ish?”

  Now, normally at four on a Monday, I am just preparing to sit back and enjoy a quick ‘nana nap’. But this week, the Secret Millionaire is in town. “No problem at all,” I reply. “I’d be delighted.”

  “Affirmative, Mrs Richards. Oh, Santa Claus and Rudolph – I spy more packages. Were they parachuted in the night, per chance? This is so mysterious and such a delight.”

  I leave him ruminating on the subject and run back home. What a result. One small act by woman, one giant leap for mankind, I laugh, misquoting Neil Armstrong and feeling like I am floating along on a cloud of happiness.

  At four-thirty, I pick up Mr Draper and take him to the supermarket. As an avid people-watcher, I can’t wait to observe his shopping habits. Mr Draper is smartly dressed in a double-breasted slate grey woollen suit complete with waistcoat and black satin bow tie. His hair is slicked back, and a distinct smell of aftershave wafts in the air. “We’re only going shopping, Mr Draper. I never dress up, let alone spray on perfume to delight the sales assistants,” I laugh as I unlock a shopping trolley from the bay.

  His eyes twinkle. “Thank you for complimenting me on my attire and scent, Mrs Richards,” he replies, studying a silver pocket watch. He stuffs his handwritten shopping list into his trouser pocket. “We’ll shop later. Come on, come on,” he says, suddenly agitated, “it’s time for tea.” He hurries off in the direction of the café and I follow.

  By the time I have parked the trolley, Mr Draper is nowhere to be seen. I scan the queue at the café and gasp. The place is crammed with smartly dressed pensioners.

  I hear Mr Draper calling me over. “This way. Listen out for the whistle. My hearing aid is a bit dicky.”

  “Whistle? Why is a whistle going to sound?” I ask in astonishment. Right on cue, there is a loud blast and a tannoy announcement.

  “Odd numbers move ’round one place as usual, please. You have five minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t forget to ask your carers to help you fill out your feedback card. Happy dating.”

  “I’m an even, so I may stay put,” he says. “This is your place, Mrs Richards. Have a bun. Shall I pour?” Mr Draper motions for me to sit down and hands me a mug of tea. I take it without speaking, completely overawed. He pushes a card and pen into my hands. “Please put a tick against number twelve and comment, ‘yes please, nice eyes’.”

  “Are you alright, deary?” An elderly lady to my right, sporting a baby pink fascinator topped with silk flowers and embellishment, touches my arm. She looks as if she is off to a wedding reception.

  “Oh… yes… I wasn’t expecting…” I stop.

  “He hadn’t told you, had he?” She nudges Mr Draper. “Oh Dickie, you are a one. You hadn’t told this young lady about our special afternoons, had you?”

  Mr Draper grins. “Never too old to meet the ladies. Keeps us young and active, eh, Mrs Barker – and this is the modern way, isn’t it?”

  Mrs Barker’s fascinator wobbles as she giggles. “You are a card, Richard Draper,” she gushes.

  “You come here to engage in speed-dating, Mrs Barker?” I ask.

  “Yes, although we call it ‘not-so-speedy-dating’,” she smiles.

  The whistle blows again. “You have ten minutes to get to know your new partner. Best of British.”

  I watch enthralled as Mr Draper and his new partner, number thirteen, begin chatting. It’s charming, really, I think to myself. Everyone is having fun, and it’s miles better than sitting at home alone with the TV and radio for company.

  Afterwards, everyone mills around aimlessly. It’s obvious that nobody wants to go home. “Where will you go with your dates, Mrs Barker?” I ask.

  “That is a problem, my dear. We can’t do anything exciting. Most of us rely on others to take us around, and the bus service is poor.”

  “What would you like to do?” I sense the Secret Millionaire coming out of hiding.

  “Oh, go to a tea dance like I used to during the war,” she replies dreamily. “And I haven’t visited the pictures in years. That would be a lovely treat too.”

  �
��I used to take my ladies to the pictures and buy them ices. That film about Alan Turing would really cut the mustard,” interjects Mr Draper.

  The two of them giggle together like teenagers. My brain begins whirring. Amy Richards, you are about to make dreams come true… I bang my glass with my fork.

  “Quiet everybody, please.”

  The room falls silent. Thirty pairs of elderly eyes are on me. “I have had a wonderful time here this afternoon. I never knew that speed-dating was so popular with more mature folk, and it’s awesome that you are obviously having fun meeting new people. Mr Draper and Mrs Barker have expressed an interest in going to the cinema to see The Imitation Game, you know, the film about World War II and Alan Turing. I have been informed that you don’t have many places to go and socialise, and so tomorrow night, I will lay on a bus and take you to the local cinema in town. Please see me now if you are interested, and I’ll arrange pick-up and drop-off points along the way so that everyone can come along.”

  “What about the cost?” whispers Mr Draper.

  “I will pay for the bus and negotiate a special rate with the cinema. It depends on how many of you want to come, of course, but I don’t think it’ll be too much of an issue.”

  Thursday evening.

  Geoff won’t be back until tomorrow, and my girls are on sleepovers, so I’m free to indulge in an early night snuggled up in bed with the radio for company and writing up my diary. I read a thank you note from Mr Draper. The cinema trip was such a success that he has taken it upon himself to organise monthly film nights in the future.

  I smile to myself as I remember the palpable excitement on the bus, the raucous sing-song on the way home and how happy everyone was. Grandma would have loved it! What a great experience, I reflect. Highly rewarding.

  I go to bed feeling blessed.

  Week Three. Saturday, 1.00 p.m.

  A cathartic heart-to-heart with Claire (about everything that’s been going on in my family life of late), has resulted in her kindly organising lunch at a local child-friendly gastro pub that offers an incredible range of mocktails and ice creams aimed unashamedly at the tween and teen markets.