But he’s already halfway out of the door with his coat on.
‘Don’t worry about me, love. I’ll be fine.’
At which point the expression on Mum’s face changes from worried concern for her husband to a sudden realization. ‘Philip Stevens! Don’t you dare be getting a bacon buttie from The Walkers Cafe—’
The door slams behind him.
‘Honestly, your father!’ With an exasperated gasp, she puts the teapot on the table. ‘He’ll be the death of me.’
‘Not yet, we need you to babysit,’ quips Richard.
She brightens immediately and once again the conversation turns to the new baby. Now the shock has worn off, I couldn’t be happier for Rich. Nathalie is lovely and Mum is just so thrilled. It’s still very early days – the baby’s not due until November – but they couldn’t wait to share their news.
I sit and listen for a few moments, looking at their happy, excited expressions, but there’s only so long you can put a brave face on things and I make my excuses and leave. They don’t notice me go.
They say America has big skies, but the Lake District’s are as vast and spectacular as anything I’ve seen. Brooding with cloud, they form a dramatic canopy as I head out into the bracing wind blasting down from the fells.
Despite the freezing temperatures, it feels good to be outside. Wrapped up in several layers, I set off walking at a pace, Arthur scampering beside me, excited by the new smells. Along the way I pass several of the locals, many of whom I’ve known since I was a child, and I smile and nod and wave.
The village prides itself on being a community, but with summer fetes and bunting comes a total lack of anonymity. Everyone knows everyone’s business. I’m Carol and Philip’s weird daughter, the one who moved to London then to America and still isn’t married with children. Rumour has it she’s a vegan.
Dad’s allotment is down by the river, next to the twelfth-century church it officially belongs to. The vicar gave it to my dad years ago, in exchange for tidying it up. It used to be just a patch of land filled with junk, but now Dad grows vegetables and keeps his hives there. He took up beekeeping when he retired, saying he wanted to help with climate change and protect their species, though I have a suspicion it was less to do with climate change and more to do with getting out of Mum’s way.
‘I brought you your packed lunch from Mum.’
I find him sitting in a deckchair next to his potting shed, reading the paper. A bacon sandwich wrapper from the local cafe lies next to him. He looks up when he hears me.
‘Mum’d kill you if she knew.’
He smiles. ‘Let that be our little secret.’ Scrunching it up, he chucks it in the oil drum along with the rest of the garden waste, ready to be burned.
I grin and hand it over. He immediately unscrews the thermos. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
I sit down next to him on a deckchair, as he pours out two steaming mugs and hands me one. Then, for a few minutes, we just sit there, sipping the hot liquid, warming our hands on the mugs, and looking out over his allotment as Arthur lies at our feet. Nobody says anything. Nobody has to.
That’s one of the things I love most about my dad, the ability to just be in his presence and never feel the pressure to say anything at all. There’s never any awkwardness or need to explain, to talk about emotions, or to ask and answer questions. Ours is a comfortable silence and there’re so few people you can find that with. In relationships we’re taught to be afraid of what happens when there’s nothing left to say, like I was with Ethan. But the truth is, if you’re with the right person, you don’t need to say anything.
Several minutes go by. We drink more tea. Dad scratches Arthur’s ears. Several magpies dip and swoop. I try not to count them.
‘How are your bees?’ I say finally, my eyes falling on his hives at the bottom of the allotment.
‘Hibernating. They won’t be doing much until it gets a bit warmer. Bit like me really.’ He slips a KitKat out of his pocket and slides his thumbnail down the middle of the silver wrapper. ‘Though I’ve got a shed full of bulbs and seeds that need planting. Don’t suppose you fancy giving me a hand?’ He holds out a chocolate finger.
‘Are you trying to bribe me?’
‘Never,’ he says, his face poker straight.
Smiling, I accept his bribe and enjoy the combination of hot tea and melted chocolate as he disappears inside his shed. Several minutes later he reappears with an assortment of bulbs and packets of seeds, and sets off across his allotment.
‘This way,’ he calls, as Arthur and I follow him, picking our way between the neat rows of canes. ‘Right, this’ll do.’ He hands me a trowel and a handful of bulbs. ‘Make sure to place them with their nose facing upwards.’
‘Nose?’ I look at him doubtfully, but he’s already dropped to his knees.
‘You know, their shoots.’
Truthfully, no, I don’t know anything about their shoots, or noses, or planting bulbs. Dad’s gardened his whole life, but when I was in my teens and twenties I never took any interest. I used to think gardening was for old people. Only now I am that old person. I look at the damp soil beneath my feet. I’m wearing my only clean pair of trousers. I hesitate, then drop down next to him.
‘Plant them about eight inches deep and six inches apart, like this.’
‘What are they?’
‘Gladioli. Your mother’s favourite. They bloom just in time for her birthday.’
‘But that’s not until August.’
‘Everybody wants things to happen yesterday – nature’s not like that.’
Side by side, we start to plant them. His hands are dirty with the soil, and we work together silently, methodically. When we’re finished, we move over to an empty vegetable patch and he hands me various packets of seeds.
‘Courgettes, peas and beetroot . . . sow them in rows. Make sure they’re buried nice and deep.’
I shake the seeds out into my palm. ‘It’s hard to believe these will go from this – to this,’ I marvel, looking at the tiny, dried-up specks in my hand and the photo of a large, plump courgette on the packet. ‘It seems impossible.’
‘Nature teaches you to have patience and faith. Life’s just a cycle, you know. Things might seem dead, but they always come back to life . . .’
My eyes meet Dad’s pale grey ones, half hidden under his shaggy eyebrows. We’re not talking about gardening any more.
‘Remember that, love. When life buries us under all its heartache and disappointment, think about a seed. It needs to be buried in order for it to grow. That’s how the magic happens. But you have to have faith. Remember that. Patience and faith.’
I’m grateful for:
The local vet, for saving Arthur after he went on his own Easter egg hunt this evening and wolfed down all the chocolate that the local kids in the village didn’t find.
Celebrities, for sharing photos of their much-needed Easter breaks in the Maldives and telling us that to be happy we need to #stopscrolling and buy their new products #linkinbio, which reminded me to order the microphone for my new podcast and #tellitlikeitis.
Dad, for being the one man I can always rely on to be there for me.
Being a seed.
My First Confession
Back in London and my microphone arrived today. Feeling very BBC newsreader, I set it up on my desk and do a bit of testing, testing, one-two-three.
So, after doing some research, it turns out starting your own podcast is really simple, even for someone like me who still hasn’t figured out how to use Siri, and steadfastly ignores all those software update notifications that nag me even more than my own mother. I just had to download a free app, choose a name, then record my first episode. Easy!
Now I just have to think of a name. I frown at my screen. This is the hardest bit. I’ve been sitting here for ages trying to think of something really clever and witty, and I can’t think of anything. I need to come up with a title that’s cool, stylish, confident, hip
–
Basically everything that I am completely not.
Oh Sod This, I’m just going to call it what it is.
Clearing my throat, I take a swig from my can of G&T to steady my nerves. I suddenly feel absurdly nervous. Which is ridiculous. It’s not as if anyone is ever really going to listen to this. It’s just me getting things off my chest.
I tap the microphone.
OK, well here goes. I’m not sure where to start so I’m just going to dive straight in . . . I press Record.
‘Hi and welcome to Confessions of a Forty-something F##k Up, the podcast for any woman who wonders how the hell she got here, and why life isn’t quite how she imagined it was going to be.’
Nervously, I clear my throat.
‘It’s for anyone who has ever looked around at their life and thought this was never part of The Plan. Who has ever felt like they dropped a ball, or missed a boat, and is still desperately trying to figure it all out while everyone around them is making gluten-free brownies.’
Or maybe I’m the only one that feels this way? Maybe this is just my truth? I break off, suddenly plagued by doubts, but carry on.
‘But first a disclaimer: I don’t pretend to be an expert in anything. I’m not a lifestyle guru, or an influencer, whatever that is. I’m not here to sell a brand. Or flog a product. Or tell you what you should be doing, because frankly, I haven’t a clue either. I’m just someone struggling to recognize their messy life in a world of perfect Instagram ones and feeling like a bit of a fuck-up. Even worse, a forty-something fuck-up. Someone who reads a life-affirming quote and feels exhausted, not inspired. Who isn’t trying to achieve new goals, or set more challenges, because life is enough of a challenge as it is. And who does not feel #blessed and #winningatlife but mostly #noideawhatthefuckIamdoing and #canIgoogleit?’
I swallow hard, feeling my confidence growing. Sod This. If I’m the only one that feels like this, so be it. I’m getting it out there.
‘Which is why I started this podcast . . . to tell it like it is, for me anyway. Because Confessions is a show about the daily trials and tribulations of what it feels like to find yourself on the wrong side of forty, only to discover things haven’t worked out how you expected. It’s about what happens when shit happens and still being able to laugh in the face of it all. It’s about being honest and telling the truth. About friendship and love and disappointment. About asking the big questions and not getting any of the answers. About starting over, when you thought you would be finished already.’
I’m on a bit of a roll now.
‘In these episodes, which will take the form of confessions, I’ll be sharing with you all the sad bits and the funny bits. I’ll be talking about feeling flawed and confused and lonely and scared, about finding hope and joy in the unlikeliest of places, and how no amount of celebrity cookbooks and smashed avocados are going to save you. Because feeling like a fuck-up isn’t about being a failure, it’s about being made to feel like one. It’s the pressure and the panic to tick all the boxes and reach all the goals . . . and what happens when you don’t. When you find yourself on the outside. Because on some level, in some aspect of your life, it’s so easy to feel like you’re failing when everyone around you appears to be succeeding.’
I pause, my heart thumping.
‘So if there’s anyone out there that feels any of this too, this podcast will hopefully make you feel less alone.’
I take a deep breath.
‘Because now there’s two of us. And two of us makes a tribe.’
Let It Snow
Nature is a lot like life. Just when I was thinking we’d finally seen off the worst of winter and I could retire my bobbly sweaters (which are now more bobble and less sweater) and we were plain sailing into spring, it throws you a curveball.
It snows.
I wake up a few days after returning from the Lake District and pull up the blinds to discover that the street is covered in a fluffy blanket of white. Thick, heavy snowflakes are cartwheeling past the windowpane and landing softly on the pavement, and for a few moments I stand transfixed at the window, feeling a surge of childish delight.
After shoving in some burnt toast and a few gulps of coffee, I head outside with Arthur, who immediately bounds excitedly into the powder snow. There’s something so magical about a city when it first snows. So romantic, I reflect wistfully, as a couple stop to take a selfie, like two figures in a snow globe.
As we cross the village green, which has now turned to white, I hear squeals of delight, and see children in wellies and bobble hats being pulled on sledges and throwing snowballs. School must be cancelled. As Arthur stops to sniff, I notice a little girl making a snow angel. She is flapping her arms delightedly while her mum is taking a photo.
I look down at Arthur. ‘Shall we take a snow selfie?’
Cocking his leg, he turns the snow yellow. On second thoughts, perhaps not.
We head towards the park and I stick in my headphones to listen to a podcast – I’m doing research for my own and have discovered some I really enjoy – when suddenly I feel like Arthur when he sees a squirrel. I stop dead in my tracks and my whole body goes tense. HOT DAD ALERT. I spot him across the street. Johnny. He’s wearing a beanie and drinking a takeout coffee. He looks cute.
Meanwhile I’m wearing Edward’s creosote-covered wellies, my garden-bin-liner jacket and one glove. I do not look cute. OK, just keep walking. Hopefully he won’t see me. I put my head down and focus on Arthur, tugging on his lead as he slows down to sniff someone’s gatepost. I don’t want another episode of shit-gate. Which reminds me, I never went back for my other glove—
‘Hello again.’
I look up and he’s right there, on the pavement in front of me.
‘Er, hi . . . hello!’ I smile cheerfully, yanking out my headphones.
Why is it you always bump into someone when you look terrible and never when you’ve had a blow-dry? It’s like some horrible cosmic law.
‘I didn’t know if you’d recognize me with my clothes on.’
I can’t think of a single witty thing to say.
‘I’m joking,’ he laughs.
‘Oh right, yes, of course.’
You’d think by my age I’d be a flirting pro. After all, I’ve had a lifetime of experience when it comes to men. Good and bad. Yet, faced with a man I find very attractive, I don’t feel much different to how I did at thirteen when I had a crush on the paper boy.
‘Hi, Arthur.’
Arthur wags his tail as Hot Dad bends down to pat him. I take the opportunity to glance at his hands and play ring detective, but he’s got his gloves on again.
‘So how did you enjoy the class?’
In hindsight, I had the perfect opportunity to look at his hands in the art class, but let’s just say I was too distracted by other things.
‘It was great!’
Was that a bit too enthusiastic? He was naked, remember.
‘Really interesting,’ I try to clarify, ‘the stuff about perspective . . .’
And now I can feel myself veering off into dangerous territory. There must be some rule for never talking about perspective when it’s a man’s penis in question.
‘That’s good. I know some people get really embarrassed.’
‘Really?’ I feign surprise.
‘Yeah, you know, some people.’ He pulls a face.
I tut and roll my eyes. ‘Oh, I know. Honestly, some people. They can be so immature.’
‘And narrow-minded,’ he nods.
‘I know, right?’ I say, agreeing. ‘Not me. I’m so open-minded. When you get to my age you’ve seen it all.’
‘So nothing shocks you, huh?’ He smiles and does this sort of wink that would have made my younger self think he was flirting, and my forty-something self wonder if it’s less of a wink and more of a squint as his eyes ‘are going’. A phrase that my whole life I’ve never really paid attention to, but in recent years has entered the vocabulary of my girlfr
iends and is now bandied about with a certain resigned dread.
‘Not much,’ I laugh, though I’m not quite sure how this image of me fits with one of me at home with my electric blanket on a Friday night watching Netflix.
‘Anyway, I was hoping I’d see you—’
‘You were?’ My stomach leaps a little.
‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘You have?’ My mind flashes back and forth. What on earth can it be?
He begins fishing around in the pocket of his jacket. ‘I’ve been carrying it around for a while now . . .’ He pulls something out. It’s black and sparkly.
Abruptly it dawns on me with horror. Please don’t let him be holding what I think he’s holding.
‘I noticed the last time I saw you, that you were wearing just one . . . so when I recognized this, I put two and two together . . . and made a pair.’ He holds it out towards me, smiling.
‘My glove,’ I say weakly.
‘Don’t worry, it’s been washed.’
My glittery shittery glove.
‘Thanks.’ Mortified, I take it from him hurriedly. ‘I wondered where I’d lost it . . .’ Forcing a cheerful smile, I put it on and give him a little jazz hands wave. ‘I can’t imagine where it went.’
‘It was on my sister’s driveway.’
Kill. Me. Now.
‘Wow, that was lucky!’
‘I know, right? I was dropping my nephew off and I spotted it behind the recycling bins.’
‘Your nephew?’
‘Oliver. You met him in the pub – he fell in love with King Arthur.’
‘That’s your nephew?’ Suddenly, all thoughts of my glove are forgotten. ‘But I thought—’
‘He was my son?’ He laughs. ‘I know. It’s the McCreary genes. No, I’m just the fun uncle.’
‘I see,’ I smile, but I’m still taking in this new turn of events.
‘So, anyway . . .’ He trails off and for a moment the conversation stalls. ‘Glad you got your glove back.’
‘Oh . . . yes, thanks.’ I don’t even want to begin to think who washed it. Or that it must have been his brother-in-law watching me from the window. ‘Well, I’d better be going.’
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 11