‘It’s all going to go through quickly then?’
‘That’s the plan.’
There was a pause and I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach about what was coming.
‘Caroline’s worried about me having another fall so she’s suggested I stay with her in the meantime. When we have a moving-in date, we’ll all come back and do some sorting and packing, but that means…’
‘We won’t see much of each other,’ I finished for her when she tailed off, forcing the words over the lump in my throat. ‘I’ll really miss you, Betsy, but Caroline’s right. You’re better staying with her. When you come back, perhaps we can find time for tea and cake between packing.’
‘I’ll make sure we do. And I’ll miss you too, Yvonne. You’ve been a good friend to me and such a comfort after losing Eric. I’ll never forget your kindness.’
‘I’ll never forget yours either. Take care of yourself and let me know when you’re coming back. I’ll keep watering your plants in the meantime.’
We discussed some practicalities around me forwarding her mail before saying our goodbyes. When the call disconnected, I sank back in the armchair and released a heavy sigh. Anything could happen to derail a house sale but a chain-free couple with a baby on the way didn’t sound like the riskiest of purchasers. So Mallard Close would be welcoming another family and Christian and I would be the only ones of advancing years. I wasn’t looking forward to becoming even more isolated, to life without Betsy next door, to being all alone.
2
Late the following morning, Trevor announced, ‘Visitor!’ once more. ‘Come in!’
‘Just some kids delivering leaflets,’ I said, spotting a couple of teenaged girls making their way round Mallard Close. Moments later, my letterbox rattled. I expected to find a takeaway menu lying on the mat in the hall but it was a newsletter from Willowdale and Pippinthwaite Village Halls outlining the events until the end of the year and the clubs starting next month.
My initial instinct was to dispose of it in the recycling bin but an article on the front page about a new wood-turning club caught my eye so I placed the newsletter on the radiator cover as a reminder to flag it up to Christian next time I saw him. As a joiner, Cliff had spent his lifetime working with wood and, even though he’d been ready to retire five years ago, he hadn’t wanted to stop working with his hands. He’d been steadily acquiring the tools and equipment needed for wood turning and other wood-related crafts as well as building up a supply of suitable wood and logs, intending to learn some new skills as a hobby. But just a couple of months later, he was gone and I had a garage packed full of tools, equipment and wood which I was never going to use.
I managed to ignore it for a long time but in the spring a couple of years after Cliff died, I’d had enough. I didn’t use my car very often as I had nowhere to go but, when I did, I was sick of it being covered in blossom from the large tree in the front garden of my other next-door neighbour. My car needed to be housed in the garage during blossom season but, when I opened the garage door, it was more packed than I’d remembered and I felt completely overwhelmed as to where to start. Christian had spotted me standing there for ages and, thinking the door might be stuck, had come over to see if I needed any help. I explained my problem and that I didn’t know what to do with all the tools and equipment, most of which were brand new. Christian had been retired for a year and had found himself floundering, unsure what to do with all his spare time. He was a DIY enthusiast who loved working with his hands and this could be the perfect hobby for him. He’d ended up taking most of it and had kindly helped me dispose of the rest. He wanted to pay me but I wouldn’t hear of it. All I cared about was that everything went to someone who’d make good use of it and Christian had certainly done that, finding a passion for creating chainsaw carvings. He’d asked me what my favourite animal was and I’d told him I adored red squirrels so he’d presented me with the most stunning pair of squirrel carvings as a thank you. The smaller one had pride of place on my doorstep and the larger squirrel was on the patio out the back.
I’d seen some of his other carvings including an impressive alpaca he’d made for his daughter, Emma, who ran an alpaca-walking business in the grounds of Willowdale Hall. Emma was lovely. She’d moved in with her dad about a year ago after a relationship break-up, and she always stopped to say hello and have a quick chat if our paths crossed. I hadn’t seen her around much lately and wondered whether she might have moved in with the groundskeeper at Willowdale Hall who she’d been dating. I’d never met him but I’d spotted him picking her up and dropping her off and they looked really happy together so I wished them well.
Trevor called out, ‘Visitor!’ again and, moments later, the letterbox rattled and a few envelopes landed by my feet. I riffled through them but nothing shouted out as urgent so I left them on the radiator cover with the newsletter and returned to the dining table with a heavy sigh.
Most of the time, I could lose myself in my sewing, but there were days like today when I struggled to concentrate, feeling restless and fidgety. I hated those days and they’d been far too frequent lately. I managed thirty minutes at the table before pausing to make a mug of tea, sipping on it while watching birds on the feeder in the back garden.
When I took my mug into the kitchen, I cleaned the sink and taps, even though they really didn’t need it. I looked around the kitchen for something else to do but it was immaculate. In the lounge, I plumped the scatter cushions and tweaked the position of the patchwork quilt draped over the back of the sofa.
‘I’m so bored,’ I told Trevor.
‘Bored!’ he repeated. ‘Sing!’
I usually indulged his request, loving the way he whistled alongside me, but my unsettled brain couldn’t even muster a song. Desperate for something to do, I retrieved the post from the radiator cover, slit open the envelopes and tutted – all unsolicited circulars. As I returned the letter opener to its home in a drawer in the lounge, my eyes rested on the slimline calendar hanging on the wall. The only entry for August was the date Betsy had gone to Caroline’s. With only three more days of the month left after today, each of them blank, I turned the page over to September. There were no entries at all for the forthcoming month and I didn’t need to turn further pages to know that October, November and December were just as blank. Why did I even bother buying a calendar anymore? I went nowhere and did nothing.
I scrunched my hands, a feeling of anxiety welling inside me. Was this it? At the age of fifty-nine, was I already living a sorry template for how the rest of my life was going to pan out? No people to see and nothing to do except cook, clean, sew, watch television and talk to a parrot. It couldn’t be! My heart pounded and I swayed, feeling lightheaded. I grabbed for the nearby chair arm and closed my eyes, taking several deep, shaky breaths as I attempted to quash the rising panic.
‘Pretty bird!’ Trevor squawked, followed by a wolf whistle. ‘Pretty Vonnie.’
My eyes snapped open. The only person who’d ever called me Vonnie had been Cliff and I’d never heard Trevor saying it.
‘What did you say?’ I asked, feeling steady enough on my feet to cross the room towards his cage.
‘Pretty bird!’
‘I heard that, but you said something after. Did you saypretty Vonnie?’
‘Pretty bird!’
‘Pretty Vonnie?’ I could hear the desperation in my tone.
‘Pretty bird!’
My shoulders slumped. I must have imagined it. ‘Yes, you are. Pretty bird. Pretty Trevor.’
