I misted him and watched him for a while as my heart rate returned to normal and the feelings of panic subsided. I was still holding the post and needed to take it to the recycling crate. As I passed the mantelpiece, I paused to look at the two matching silver frames on it – one containing a photo of Cliff and me on our wedding day and the other of us in Madeira during our last holiday in the spring before he died.
‘They say it’s meant to get easier,’ I said, shaking my head as I lifted up the holiday photo. ‘It feels like it’s getting worse instead. Betsy’s leaving and I’m already feeling lost. What if the only real person I speak to all week is the cashier at the supermarket? What am I going to do?’
I stared at Cliff’s smiling face and repeated the question over and over in my head, hoping something would come to mind, but I had nothing.
‘I’m so sorry, Cliff,’ I muttered, returning the frame to the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve let you down. You were all about living life to the full and I’m not doing that. Far from it. All my strength and optimism came from you and, without you, I’m floundering.’ I sighed heavily. ‘Lost, lonely, sad… pathetic, eh? And now I’m talking to a photo and expecting a response. Honestly!’
I took the post into the kitchen and ripped it into quarters but, as the pieces fluttered down into the recycling crate, my stomach sank. I’d planned to keep the newsletter for Christian in case he’d binned his without spotting the article about the wood-turning class. It might be the only conversation I had all week. I needed it! I rummaged in the crate, retrieved the pieces, and spread them out on the worktop before shaking my head. This was ridiculous behaviour. Who in their right mind toddled across the road and presented their neighbour with a taped-together newsletter which he’d already had through his own letterbox? It would look like I was nagging him to put the wood-turning equipment to use and we could end up having an awkward conversation where he tried to pay me again, which certainly wasn’t the point.
I pushed the pieces back into a pile, intending to drop them into the recycling crate, but my eyes were drawn to some words in a box.
Do you love crafts?
Do you love cake?
Then you’ll love Cake & Craft Club!
Willowdale Village Hall at 2–4p.m. every Wednesday
All crafts and all abilities welcome
New term starts 3 September
‘Yes to both questions,’ I whispered, excitement bubbling inside me. I rushed through to the lounge, lifted my calendar from the hook, my hands shaking as I added the first entry for September:
2–4p.m. – Cake & Craft Club at Willowdale Village Hall
I glanced over to the photos on the mantelpiece. ‘Was that a sign from you?’
‘Pretty bird!’ Trevor squawked. ‘Pretty Vonnie!’
Hanging the calendar back on the hook, I smiled. September was no longer blank. And if that first meeting went well, there’d be several more entries I could make. Two hours a week wasn’t much of a social life but it was two hours more than I had at the moment. It was a chance to get out of the house and talk to real people. It was a ray of hope and, my goodness, did I need one of those right now?
3
A week later, I parked on the approach road to Willowdale Village Hall ready for my very first Cake & Craft Club. I was a bit early so I decided to leave the engine ticking over, the radio on low, and give it a few minutes.
The Hardy Herdwick – one of two pubs in the village – was on the corner on the right. Ahead of me was the village hall after which the road curved round into Daffodil Mews – a small development of modern whitewashed dormer bungalows with slate roofs and tidy front gardens. Cliff and I had come very close to putting in an offer on one of them – the second one along from the village hall – but the single garage hadn’t been big enough for his workshop. We’d both been bitterly disappointed as Willowdale had been our preferred location and the house by far our favourite. We’d have loved to be the first owners, picking out the perfect kitchen and bathroom from the outset, but we had to be practical and the house in Pippinthwaite ticked that box. Was Daffodil Mews a vibrant, friendly community or were they all strangers like in Mallard Close?
A few minutes waiting in the car turned into ten during which time several women and a couple of men passed through the village hall’s doors carrying a mixture of crafting bags, sewing boxes and sewing machines. With each passing minute, I became steadily more nervous and, by the time the dashboard clock turned to 14.00, my stomach was in knots. I wanted this – needed it – but I was terrified too. What if I was the only newcomer? What if they were cliquey? What if nobody spoke to me?
I imagined having this conversation with Cliff and what he’d say:Then you eat some cake, do some sewing, and never go back again. But what if they’re all really friendly? What if they welcome you with open arms? What if walking through those doors turns out to be the best thing you’ve ever done?I missed his optimism so much. I missed him.
As the clock changed to 14.02, my stomach lurched.
‘It’s now or never,’ I murmured, switching off the ignition and trying to ignore the voice inside me that suggestednevermight be the best strategy. I could do this. I was a grown adult joining a craft club – not a young girl moving school in the middle of term. If it was awful, it was only for two hours and I need never return.
But as I walked up the front steps with my sewing machine in one hand and a crafting bag slung over my shoulder, my resolve weakened and I couldn’t seem to make myself reach out for the door handle.
‘Are you okay there?’
I turned at the question and came face to face with a tall woman maybe in her early seventies with voluminous grey hair. She was wearing a long orange, cream and turquoise jacket over a red top and jeans, with a chunky bead necklace, several bangles and huge earrings. Her smile was as bright as her attire.
‘I was, erm…’ My throat had gone very dry.
‘Walking into a room of strangers is daunting, isn’t it? And I personally think it gets harder rather than easier with age. I’m Paulette.’
‘Yvonne. And you’re right. I’ve been trying to psyche myself up for about twenty minutes.’ I wasn’t sure why I’d shared that, but there was something immediately engaging about Paulette.
