‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ I called, crossing the room the next morning to draw back the curtains. ‘I can’t believe you’ve slept at the table. You’ll have such a crick in your neck.’
No answer.
‘Cliff?’
Heart thudding, I rushed over to him and gave him a gentle shake. Something fell from his hand onto the wooden floor – the white queen – and my stomach lurched. My fingers grappled for his wrist, desperately searching for a pulse, but I already knew I was too late. The room was eerily quiet, he was too still, too cold.
They told me later that the massive cardiac arrest which took him away from me would have been instant and he wouldn’t have felt anything. It was a tiny sliver of comfort as I couldn’t bear the thought that he could have been alone and scared, unable to call out for help as his life slowly ebbed away.
The wind hurling another twig at the window made me jump and I pulled the duvet tighter around me, wishing I could stay in bed all day. But the longer I lay there, the more thoughts circled round my head about the two major crossroads I’d encountered in my life and whether I’d made the right decision. The first one – accepting Cliff’s proposal and leaving home – still felt right, but the decision I’d made at the second crossroads when I turned forty remained shrouded with doubt. If I’d taken the other route, would it have worked? Would I be in a different house with Will by my side right now? Would Cliff and I have been able to stay friends or would me leaving have destroyed him? A million what ifs and maybes clawed at me and I threw back the duvet, gasping for air. Why did I start off every New Year torturing myself in this way? It wasn’t as though Cliff and I hadn’t been happy together. It was just that things could have been so very different.
I stood in the shower for several minutes with my eyes closed as the hot water cascaded over me, seeking comfort from the warmth. A strong tea and a chat with Trevor helped me feel more like myself but it didn’t take long before the restlessness set in. Maybe I should start a new crafting project? Or decide on the new skill I’d learn this year as I hadn’t yet done that. I went back upstairs into my craft room to seek inspiration but found myself staring blankly at the shelves.
The rain had stopped and, although it was still windy, the sun had put in an appearance. I checked the weather app on my phone to see whether it was temporary, but it indicated sun and cloud for the rest of the day. I’d go for a walk instead, blowing off the proverbial cobwebs.
* * *
Pippinthwaite wasn’t quite as picturesque as Willowdale with its enviable position between Derwent Water and the fells, but it was still a pretty village. It was bigger than Willowdale thanks to the two housing estates stretching the borders to the east and west, but it had fewer amenities – one pub compared to Willowdale’s two and a small café which wasn’t a patch on The White Willow in terms of space or food range. The butcher was excellent and Betsy had said the hairdresser was superb, but I hadn’t tried her. Going to the hairdresser wasn’t my thing. I’d only ever coloured my hair from a box dye and Cliff had always cut it for me – something I attempted myself these days although a cut was now long overdue.
I set off from our estate in the east. It was late morning and there were a fair few folk about. Young children in colourful wellington boots splashed through the puddles and couples linked arms or held hands, love and contentment radiating from them as they faced a fresh year together. Watching two dogs chasing each other on the village green, I wondered for the umpteenth time whether a dog might take the edge off the long days by myself, but I couldn’t have one because of Trevor. Dogs and parrots didn’t mix.
As I approached The Fox and Rabbit which overlooked the village green, the door opened and a young man emerged holding an A-board which he secured to the wall with some chains.Happy New Year to our wonderful customers!We used to be customers. Cliff and I had enjoyed Sunday lunch in there every few weeks followed by a walk around the village to burn off the pudding. I’d booked the function room for his wake but had never stepped inside since. Cliff would be disappointed in me for not supporting our local business. Not that I supported a chain instead – I just didn’t go out at all.
I continued past the pub. The houses all around the green were the oldest and, in my opinion, the prettiest in the village. Milly had said she lived in an old cottage near the pub, but I wasn’t sure which one. I imagined she’d have a beautifully presented home but, as they all looked good, that didn’t help me narrow it down. I glanced back towards The Fox and Rabbit. When Cake & Craft Club resumed, could I be bold and ask Milly if she fancied meeting me in the pub for lunch one day or for an evening drink? Perhaps we could extend the invitation to the others? I shook my head and tutted to myself. I was getting carried away. One step at a time. I’d see if Paulette held me to that raincheck for a Chinese and take it from there.
I’d reached the far end of the village. Wandering aimlessly around the other estate didn’t appeal so I headed for a tree-flanked track which skirted the top of Pippinthwaite and emerged near the village green. It was a lovely walk with rays of sunlight dancing between the branches, making the puddles shine.
‘Will!’ a woman called and I stopped dead, my breath held, my heart pounding.
A Lakeland terrier ran past me and a woman appeared round the bend, a dog lead in her hand, gasping for breath. She grimaced at me before calling, ‘Will!’ once more and resuming her chase.
Every. Single. Time. Will was a common name and every time I heard it, I had the exact same reaction. How was it that I still thought about him after twenty years? Still dreamed. Still hoped.
When I got back home, my cheeks red from the cold and my hair in knots from where the wind had whipped it, I made a mug of tea before removing the old slimline calendar from the wall and turning over my new one to January. I didn’t want every month to be blank like it had been for most of last year and I didn’t want the only entries to be my weekly Cake & Craft Club either. Cliff and I had always gone out together for coffee, meals, walks, trips to the cinema or theatre and on holiday. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel comfortable enough in my own skin to go out for a meal or on holiday on my own, but what was stopping me going for walks or to the cinema or theatre? I’d done that on my own loads of times before I lost Cliff.
And what was stopping me asking any of my new Cake & Craft Club friends if they wanted to join me for any of those things? Me! I was stopping me. It was that little voice in my head that told me that when you started spending time with people, you had to talk to them about more than the weather and everyday life. You needed to exchange stories about the past and that was where things became tricky. Would they understand? Would they judge? Would they walk away? I couldn’t bear the thought of that, but fear of rejection had controlled my life for far too long and I didn’t want it to anymore. I’d had enough of keeping my distance from people so they didn’t get a chance to push me away. I had a milestone birthday coming up on the 18th of the month and I was damned if I was going to let fear control my sixties. I was in charge. I was going to make this year special and the first step had to be letting my new friends in.
11
The following day the wind had blown over, leaving a clear blue sky. Standing on the back doorstep with a mug of tea cradled between my hands and looking towards the distant fells, I breathed in the freshness of a new day. It was so quiet and peaceful and I closed my eyes, feeling determination running through my veins along with hope for better days ahead. Could I really do it this year? Could I finally step out of the shadows of widowhood and create a life for myself without Cliff in it?
A loud wail punctuated the silence and I opened my eyes, my stomach clenching as next door’s baby continued to cry. I didn’t know whether they’d had a boy or a girl. I didn’t even know their names and it wasn’t like I hadn’t tried. I’d seen them move into Betsy’s home back in November and, after giving them a couple of days to settle in, I’d decided to say hello because it seemed the right thing to do. With the age gap placing us at such different stages of our lives, I hadn’t expected to become great friends but I had expected to be on speaking terms, building a polite neighbourly relationship of taking in parcels or putting out the bins for each other.
I’d decided to give them some flowers and had even purchased them from a florist’s in Keswick rather than the supermarket so I could ask for advice on the most suitable blooms for pregnant women. The florist told me that flowers with strong fragrances and high pollen counts like lilies should be avoided and she’d created me a beautiful bouquet of white blooms and foliage. I’d swallowed my nerves and went next door with my flowers and a big smile. The woman answered the door but she had earbuds in and was clearly in the midst of a telephone conversation. She took the flowers from me and closed the door in my face before I had a chance to give my name.
A few days later, I’d been going out in my car and she happened to be leaving her house at the same time. Our drives ran alongside each other so I smiled and said, ‘Hi, I’m Yvonne. I’m not sure if you realised the flowers were?—’
‘I’m in a rush,’ she said, getting into her car, starting the engine and reversing off her drive with a screech.
‘From me,’ I muttered, staring after her. ‘Welcome to the street.’
Since then, I’d seen them on several occasions including returning from hospital with their newborn, but they’d never acknowledged me and I couldn’t have felt more invisible. More rejection. But as I closed the back door to mute the baby’s cries now, I realised I didn’t care about my neighbours rejecting me. Why would I want such a rude couple to be part of my life? I had far more respect for myself than that.
As I finished my drink, I looked around the kitchen, wondering what to do next. Nothing needed cleaning. The whole house was spotless but I knew somewhere that was far from that. No matter what I did, I couldn’t shake Marianne out of my mind. Something wasn’t right with her and I was going to have to try again.
* * *
It was stupidly impulsive and not like me at all but, as I drove across to Hayscroft Lane, I managed to convince myself that Marianne would be pleased to see me. She’d apologise for her behaviour on Christmas Day and share that her New Year’s resolution was for us to get to know each other – something which we could achieve as we cleared the cottage together. I refused to listen to the voice in my head which told me that living on my own for too long had evidently sent me a bit doolally for thinking my sister would not only be delighted to see me but she’d be happy for me to start cleaning her cottage.
