by Annie Lyons
‘You’re funny, Mummy,’ grinned Charlie, wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist.
‘Thank you,’ replied Fran, stroking her daughter’s hair and kissing the top of her head. She smelt of cherry-almond shampoo and sunshine. ‘Now where’s that brother of yours?’
‘In the bathroom,’ reported Charlie. ‘He’s been an awfully long time.’
Fran smiled at her daughter’s quaint turn of phrase. She had an occasional propensity to sound like a Thirties BBC announcer. ‘Jude!’ shouted Fran from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine!’ came the muffled response. ‘Just washing my hair.’
‘Washing his hair?’ frowned Fran. Fourteen-year-old boys generally needed to be told to wash their hair and also given the shampoo and towel in order to do the job.
‘He’s probably dyeing it,’ remarked Charlie casually. ‘He’s been watching loads of YouTube videos on how to do it.’
‘What?’ cried Fran, dashing up the stairs. ‘Jude! What are you doing?’
‘I told you, I’m washing my hair! I’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Let me in! I know you’re dyeing it. I’m not cross – just let me in.’
A muttering of expletives could be heard before the lock clicked open. Fran pushed the door and stared at her son. ‘Wow,’ breathed Charlie from behind her mother. ‘You look like your head’s on fire.’
Jude frowned. ‘I wanted a change. Something different.’
‘Well it’s certainly that. It’s very—’ she searched for the word ‘—orange.’ Fran stared at him for a second before something bubbled up inside her and she started to laugh. ‘You big wally – why didn’t you tell me? I would have taken you to the hairdresser’s to get it done properly.’
‘I wanted to do it myself, okay?’ snapped Jude.
‘Don’t be cross with Mummy,’ scolded Charlie.
‘Mer mer mer mer mer mer,’ mocked Jude in a squeaky voice. Charlie reached forwards and punched him on the arm. ‘Ow! You little bugger!’
‘Okay enough! Both of you,’ shouted Fran. ‘Jude, watch your language, get yourself tidied up and come downstairs. Can we at least sit down together for five minutes please?’
‘Fine,’ said Jude.
‘Fine,’ repeated Charlie.
Fran’s mind churned as she returned to the dining room and poured out glasses of iced tea. Why was her life always like this? She had wanted to sit down with the kids, like they always used to, to talk about stuff like they always had.
Whilst there’d been a lot of gnashing of teeth and fist-shaking associated with Andy’s death, it had also brought Fran closer to her children. Friends and family were there for support but she, Charlie and Jude had often preferred to stick together in the weeks and months afterwards. She remembered days when one of them would say that they couldn’t face the world so they didn’t. They stayed in their pyjamas, ate their body weight in ice cream and simply existed together. Sometimes they sat and talked about Andy and sometimes they didn’t.
Both the children had seen bereavement counsellors and one of the suggestions was to make a memory box so that they could each share thoughts, feelings and memories. They had all been enthusiastic about this to start with. Fran suggested they each put in one thing that brought back a happy memory of Andy – hers were the ticket stubs from the Crowded House concert at which he proposed, Charlie’s was a clay pipe that they had found during a mudlarking trip on the Thames and Jude’s was the guitar pick that his dad gave to him, which he claimed once belonged to Eric Clapton.
In the beginning, Fran and the kids would set aside time to sit and write messages or draw pictures for Andy to go in the box – little things that struck them, moments they recalled and didn’t want to forget. As time went on, the additions to the box became more ad hoc and they stopped sitting down together to write them.
Maybe it was the course or the fact that an attractive man had given her his number, which made Fran pick up the box again and look inside. It anchored her to Andy’s memory like a life raft in a stormy sea.
If I just cling on to this, I won’t need to consider the idea of another man who isn’t my husband.
She found half a dozen of her own messages as well as the odd one from Charlie. She decided that it was time to reinstate it. Keeping Andy’s memory alive was what kept them together as a family.
‘So,’ began Fran as Charlie and Jude joined her in the dining room, ‘I realized that it was a long time since we’d sat down together and added things to Dad’s memory box.’ She fetched it down from the top of the dresser. ‘And I thought we should make time together.’
‘I love Daddy’s memory box,’ said Charlie, through a mouthful of doughnut. ‘It makes me feel like he’s here.’
Jude rolled his eyes from behind a damp curtain of orange hair. ‘Fine. What do you want me to write?’
Fran felt a twitch of irritation. ‘Whatever you want, Jude. Or don’t you want to?’
Charlie was staring at her brother now, eyes pleading. ‘Just write something for Daddy. Please Jude.’
He gave a heavy sigh. Jude found his little sister endlessly annoying but he’d also cut off his right arm and possibly his leg too if she needed it. ‘Fine.’
Fran gave Charlie a reassuring smile. She grinned back at her mother through a moustache of custard and sugar. ‘I’m going to draw a picture of me with Daddy at the seaside – remember when that seagull stole his ice cream?’
‘I do,’ laughed Fran.
‘That was the day I learnt the word “bastard”,’ remarked Jude, his serious expression lifting at the memory.
Fran’s heart soared on recalling Andy’s indignant face, swearing up at the scurrilous thief and then his broad beaming smile as he caught her eye and the whole family dissolved into helpless laughter. She felt almost breathless with longing – a sharp desire to go back there, right now. To experience the four of them together laughing. Was that too much to ask?
She was snapped back to reality as the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go,’ said Jude, standing up.
‘Sit,’ commanded Fran. Alan, who had been standing close to the table, hoping that someone might forget that doughnuts were bad for dogs and gift him one, sat down. Fran held out a pen to her son. ‘Write.’
‘This is worse than being at school!’ declared Jude as Fran made her way down the hall.
‘Deal with it,’ said Fran. She stopped in her tracks when she spotted the broad frame of a man who almost certainly worked out, standing behind the glass. She considered retreating to the living room and hiding until Charlie shouted, ‘Who is it, Mum?’ and the man peered through the glass towards the sound of her voice.
Fran opened the door wearing a polite smile, doing her best to ignore the fact that Gary’s face was really quite attractive. It wasn’t perfect but that held its own appeal for Fran – she’d never had much truck with flawlessly chiselled men. ‘Hi’ she said, noticing how nervous he looked and feeling an unexpected dip of affection in the centre of her chest.
‘Hi.’ He smiled. ‘Erm, sorry to drop round unannounced but you left this at the session.’ He held out her navy-blue hoody.
‘Oh. Thanks,’ said Fran, accepting it. ‘Kind of you to drop it back – above and beyond the call of duty.’ She wondered if she was supposed to ask him in. She didn’t want to. She wanted to go back to her children, to the memory box, to her oddly comforting sadness. Gary standing on her doorstep with his impossibly bulging biceps and charming smile was too real – too alive. She just wanted him to go.
He put a hand on his heart. ‘The team at Left Right Fitness like to offer our clients the very best service.’
‘You do this for all your clients, do you?’ asked Fran, arching a brow.
‘Of course! Although I’ll admit, I was glad of the excuse to pop round.’ He grinned. Fran noticed a dimple appear on his cheek and looked away. She’d always been a sucker for a dimple.
‘Well
, thank you,’ she said, backing inside.
‘Fran, listen,’ he began.
Oh no, please don’t do this. Please don’t ask me out. You seem lovely and I’m going to feel bad turning you down face to face.
Gary continued. ‘I know you told me about losing your husband and that you weren’t ready to date. That’s fine. I understand completely. I just felt a connection when we met and I would love to take you out some time. No strings. No pressure.’
No pressure from you maybe, thought Fran, but the internal cogs of my mind say otherwise.
This guy is bloody gorgeous and he likes you. What are you waiting for? Because I hate to break it to you but that dream of Idris Elba whisking you off to a Caribbean island isn’t going to happen. Sorry. Harsh but true.
See what I mean? Those cogs are very opinionated.
‘Mum?’ called Charlie, appearing in the hall and stopping in her tracks at the sight of Gary. ‘Oh hello. Who are you?’
He smiled. ‘I’m Gary. Your mum came to one of my fitness classes.’
‘Cool. Wow, your hands are massive!’ she declared. ‘I’m Charlie by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Charlie. I won’t hold you up, Fran. I’ll text you so you’ve got my number and then just let me know, okay? No pressure.’
‘Yep, okay, bye,’ she said, waving him off and putting an arm round Charlie’s shoulders, grateful to be saved from further awkwardness.
‘He seemed nice,’ remarked Charlie as they walked back to the dining room.
‘Mmmm.’
‘Who’s nice?’ asked Jude, folding his piece of paper and placing it in the memory box.
‘A man called Gary,’ reported Charlie.
‘Who’s Gary?’ asked Jude.
‘A man who just asked Mummy out,’ declared Charlie.
Fran was incredulous. ‘Were you listening at the door?’ She kept a close eye on their faces. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. A flicker of anger? A hint of confusion? A sense of outrage that someone apart from their father was interested in her? She felt vague irritation that they displayed nothing of the sort.
Charlie shook her head. ‘Not really. He had a big booming voice so it was difficult not to hear.’
‘She was listening,’ reported Jude. ‘She’s nosier than you.’
‘I so am not!’ retorted Charlie.
‘Okay!’ said Fran, holding up her hands. ‘Okay. I’m not saying that I am but, hypothetically, how would you two feel if I did go out for dinner with someone at some stage?’
‘Fine.’ Jude shrugged. Charlie gave an enthusiastic nod.
Fran was stunned. ‘Right. Okay. Thank you. That’s interesting. Thank you. Good.’
Jude stood up. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Fran, feeling dazed. She heard the sound of him stomping upstairs and the strumming of his guitar as he picked out an Ed Sheeran tune. Orange hair. Of course.
She stood watching Charlie colour her picture, her brow fixed in a frown of concentration. She peered into the memory box and lifted out Jude’s folded note. Charlie glanced up at her. ‘Are you going to read that?’
‘Jude won’t mind,’ fibbed Fran with a wink. Charlie nodded and went back to her colouring. Fran unfolded the note. He had written the words in ornate arty type and clearly spent quite a bit of time on it.
Gotcha, Mother!
‘Little bugger,’ laughed Fran.
She stared up at the ceiling a while later. Was it her or was that crack getting bigger? How big did cracks have to be before you did something about them? Oh, never mind, it didn’t matter. She shifted her weight – this sofa really was the pits.
He asked you out for dinner?
Yup.
Are you going to go? he asked.
I doubt it. Even though, rather bizarrely the kids have given me the thumbs-up.
So if they’re okay with it then why aren’t you?
You know why.
Guilt?
She nodded. My oldest and most reliable friend.
What do you feel guilty about?
I think it might be quicker to list all the things I don’t feel guilty about.
That’s quite a burden.
What can I say? I’m a regular guilt mule.
And what’s the biggest cause of your guilt? The thing you can’t get past?
A deep sigh. The fact that I get to live, to carry on. And that makes me angry too because I don’t want to do this on my own. We still had a life to live together. I do not want this version of my life.
What do you want?
Another sigh. I don’t know. That’s the problem. Some things in life can be fixed but this can’t. And that’s all there is to it.
Hope Street Hall seemed very dark as Fran arrived for the course on Wednesday. She peered in through the door and was surprised but cheered to see a film projector set up in the middle of the room, shining its light onto a large white bed sheet which was hung from the ceiling.
‘Good evening, Fran,’ said Nik with a smile. ‘Can I interest you in some popcorn?’
‘Thank you,’ said Fran, taking a box. ‘Is it movie night?’
‘Take a seat and I’ll explain once everyone has arrived.’
The chairs had been set up in rows. Fran took a seat next to Georg, who was holding his popcorn as if he was afraid it might explode. ‘Evening, Georg,’ said Fran cheerfully. ‘How are you?’
‘Good. Although I do not understand what is happening.’
‘Me neither,’ said Fran. ‘I think we have to just go with it.’ She sat back in her chair and stared up at the screen. She loved the cinema but rarely went these days, unless it was to see something with Charlie. The last film had been a brightly animated, over-chirpy cartoon which Charlie had loved whilst Fran had fallen asleep halfway through.
‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ declared Pamela, sliding into the chair next to Fran. ‘I hope he shows something with Cary Grant in it. I do love him.’
‘Speaking of heart-throbs, I had a visit from your friend Gary the other day.’
‘Aww, lovely Gary! What did he want?’
‘He was returning the hoody I left behind on Friday. And he also asked me out to dinner.’
‘Ooh, are you going to go?’
‘Go where?’ asked Heather, taking a seat next to Pamela.
‘Little Gary Walters asked her on a date!’ cried Pamela with delight.
Heather smiled. ‘Are you going to go?’
‘My kids think I should,’ admitted Fran.
‘Then why not?’ said Heather. ‘You don’t have to marry the guy – just go and have a laugh.’
Fran sighed. Heather was right of course, but was it really that simple? But then again, why did she have to make it so complicated? Plus, the endless guilt and angst was exhausting. Wouldn’t it be nice to just kick up her heels and go for dinner with a charming man? No strings. No ties. Just a lovely evening out. She grinned at her friends. ‘If I do go, it won’t be a date – just dinner.’
‘Just dinner,’ repeated Heather, winking at Pamela.
Fran folded her arms. ‘I’m not promising – I’m still thinking about it. Right. That’s enough about that. Heather, how did the babysitting go?’
‘It was eye-opening,’ admitted Heather, flashing a grin at Pamela.
‘Spill the beans. Did Luke weep with joyful hope at the thought of becoming a father one day?’
Heather pulled a face. ‘Not exactly. I ended up de-camping to Pamela’s for part of the evening because Freddy wouldn’t settle and Luke had to work.’
‘On a Friday night? He needs to get his priorities sorted,’ declared Fran.
‘Tell me about it. I don’t know what I would have done without my fairy godmother,’ she said, gesturing at Pamela.
‘It was a pleasure.’ Pamela beamed.
‘Anyway, the whole thing made me realize that Luke and I aren’t exactly on the same page when it comes to parenthood.’
‘I think
that’s probably more common than you think,’ offered Fran. ‘For the first two years of our marriage it was Andy who wanted kids and me who needed persuading. People change.’
‘Yeah. Maybe you’re right,’ said Heather, looking reassured.
Pamela put an arm round her shoulder. ‘You’ll make a lovely mum when the time comes.’
‘Okay, my friends,’ said Nik, standing before them. ‘You are probably wondering why we are having a cinema night.’
‘Yes,’ frowned Georg.
Nik smiled. ‘This week, we are going to consider humour and laughter and how important it is if we want to be happy. So, to illustrate my point, I thought I would present a piece of the finest comedy ever made.’
‘Oh, is it the dead parrot sketch?’ asked Jim. ‘I love that.’
‘Two soups for me,’ said Sue. ‘Julie Walters is brilliant.
‘No,’ said Nik. ‘It’s a little older than those and, I must confess, that it’s the film I watch whenever I need a lift in life. I hope you enjoy it.’
There was a flicker before the old-fashioned five-four-three-two-one flashed by and the titles and theme music for Laurel and Hardy’s film, The Music Box, appeared on the screen.
‘Oh, I love Laurel and Hardy!’ cried Pamela.
‘Who is Laurel and Hardy?’ asked Georg.
‘These two blokes,’ whispered Fran. ‘The one with the moustache is Oliver Hardy and the little guy is Stan Laurel.’
Georg frowned and nodded as he watched.
‘I used to watch this with my mum,’ whispered Heather. Pamela patted her hand and smiled.
Fran sat back and felt her mind relax as they watched. She had forgotten how funny they were – all the visual gags, Laurel and Hardy’s nods and foibles. It was like old, forgotten treasure – something wonderful, which you never realized you’d missed until you found it again. They laughed as the two men tried time and time again to transport the piano up the mountainous flights of steps.
Fran became aware then of how natural laughter was, almost like a reflex. If you found something funny, you couldn’t help but chuckle, and as this group of very different people watched the same film, they all found different aspects amusing. Jim gave a deep booming laugh at every slapstick moment, Pamela giggled sweetly whenever they dropped the piano and Heather chuckled along with the enjoyment of everyone else’s laughter. Fran wanted to hug herself with delight. Laughter really was medicine and shared laughter was like a cure for all woes.