‘I heard them up and about at about six. Making tea, I think. But they disappeared back into Jodie’s room and there’s not a noise coming from there. I’m just going to let them sleep. They’ve had a fright, and they’ve heard their baby’s heartbeat. That’s a lot to process.’
‘It definitely is,’ I say.
‘Right!’ Niamh says, and I can hear the creak of a chair as she stands up. ‘Look, Becs, I’m going to go because I want to call the doctors and get an appointment for myself about myHRTand my godawful mood. I don’t have to keep dealing with that.’
‘You’re right. You absolutely don’t. There will be other options. Other doses. You won’t know yourself when the urge to murder your nearest and dearest dies down a bit.’
‘And you have to get on with your work! Enough chitter chatter, Ms Burnside. There are articles for glossy magazines to write. Let’s show Ms Carrie Bradshaw how it’s really done,Derry Girlsstyle.’
She’s right, of course, I cannot put it off. I need it to be fresh in my mind, and I want to impress the socks clean off Grace. However, Daniel is looking up at me, his head cocked to one side, as if he can read my thoughts and thinks nothing of offering a dog-focused solution.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let me get some shoes on.’
If there is one thing I have learned in all my years on this earth it is that one way to jolt myself back into a creative mindset is to take the dog out for a walk – preferably somewhere with a minimal amount of other people around and a maximum amount of nature in whatever form it chooses to take. Even if that involves the aforementioned persistent, dirty fat fall of rain.
I can hear my mother’s voice echoing in my ear. ‘You’re not made of sugar and you won’t melt.’ I’ve always thought that to be quite a nonsense phrase. I have never suggested that I am made of sugar and my fear is not melting. It’s getting drenched from the top of my head to the soggy tips of my toes. That the rain battering down on me will not be as relaxing as a nice, hot shower is what makes it even less appealing. But still, my mother’s voice, and her ability to be right in almost every situation, has me putting on a pair of thick woolly socks over my tights before forcing my now fatter feet into my welly boots. I tell myself they’re cool welly boots because they have a leopard-print design, but there is something about wearing wellies that always makes me feel as if I’m six and about to tramp through the snow to school.
Spotting the boots, Daniel takes a mad dose of the zoomies and darts around the downstairs of the house with more energy than the average ten-year-old dog has. There’s no backing out of this now. Not when I’ve already given Daniel more than enough reasons to huff with me over the past few days.
Soon I am doing my very best not to slip on the carpeting of leaves and mud that covers the woods close to our home, while Daniel is break-necking it through the trees and bushes like an all-terrain vehicle.
Trying not to fall flat on my arse is at least distracting me from replaying that almost epic snog to end all snogs, or remembering how deep Conal’s voice had sounded as he moved close to me, or how dark his eyes were.
I feel the key turn in the ignition of what was my libido again. It is definitely, without a doubt, coming back to life.
My phone rings and I delve into my pocket, trying to get a grip of it even though I am wearing my thickest, warmest mittens. It’s not an easy task but I manage to see that it is Adam calling before it slips from my hands and lands face down in a puddle of very muddy water.
‘Fuck,’ I say, all ability to replace the bad F word with fudge instead gone. ‘Fuckity fuck!’ I say again, immediately reaching for my phone, which of course completely saturates my heavy woollen mittens but ultimately does nothing to actually retrieve the phone because these mittens clearly repel anything with a smooth surface. At least, I think, at least it is still ringing, but no sooner has the thought left my head than it stops and I don’t think it’s because Adam has hung up.
I pull the mittens off, thrusting my hands into the icy, murky water and retrieving one very wet, very dead iPhone. I think this might just be beyond the help of a bowl of rice and twelve hours in the airing cupboard.
Damn it. I don’t want Adam to think I’m ignoring him but obviously I have no way of getting hold of him, here and now, and the rain is still coming down in merciless sheets. ‘Daniel!’ I yell, hoping that he will sense the urgency in my voice and get his furry arse back so we can get back to the car and I can drive directly to Niamh’s – and to Adam.
But this is the first walk I have taken Daniel on in three days and so he sees this as an absolute green light to run as far and as fast as his furry little legs can carry him. That there is added mud, squirrels, rabbits and no doubt assorted hallucinogenic fungi is all just a bonus. I should have known this was a bad idea, today of all days.
‘Daniel!’ I call again, my call now definitely more high-pitched fishwife-like than before. ‘Daniel! Come here now! Come on! Be a good boy!’
I just want to get him back on the lead and get out of here but Mister the Spaniel clearly has other ideas. I will myself to keep my cool. I will not become the mad woman of the woods who wanders around in the rain screaming at animals.
Then again, maybe it would just be another step on my path to becoming a fully feral crone and embracing my witchy powers.
If only, I think, I really could embrace witchy powers. If only I had the power to perform spells that could make a real difference. That could summon Daniel to my side. Or un-fudge my phone. Or make Niamh feel less all at sea.
I call Daniel again, willing him to just come when called. I don’t like that Adam has called me and I haven’t been able to answer. The doctor’s words from last night are still in my mind. We’re not out of the woods yet.
Which is ironic because neither am I and I don’t want to walk further into them, but I know that’s the direction in which Daniel ran. I chide myself for not keeping him on his lead, but this is one of a handful of places where he can actually run free and not have to be on his very, very best behaviour. This is one of the few places where he can go ‘full dog’ and do the things dogs are meant to do, and I can hardly blame him for wanting to enjoy every last second of it and then some. I know this is what he does when we come here. I know that he runs off and explores until he gets rid of that initial burst of energy born of total freedom and returns to tramp by my side, absolutely delighted with himself.
I just have to have patience, I think. He will come back. And I will get to Adam as quickly as I possibly can. No amount of anxiety or getting stressed about it is going to make it happen any quicker. I need to realise that I am not always in control of how life plays out but only how I react to it.
I breathe in, remembering Peggy’s calming words at the retreat, and I re-centre myself. What good will I be showing up for Adam soaked to the skin, covered in mud and with no voice from screeching my way through the woods? Okay, I tell myself, as I turn and start retracing my steps, calling in a calm voice for Daniel. You know how these things go. Adam is fine. Jodie is fine. The baby is fine. Daniel will show up. Everything will work out because it always does. Maybe not in the way we initially hoped – hasn’t my entire life proved that beyond a reasonable doubt – but it still works out and we learn to cope with it.
If, I think, I could write a letter to sixteen-year-old Becki (with an ‘i’) I’d tell her just that. If only time capsules were really multi-dimensional, time-travelling tools, I’d write all this down and pop it back in the shoebox that’s currently in my sideboard, and tell her that no matter our plans, or dreams, life will do its own damn thing.
That, I realise, as I hear four muddy paws splashing and sploshing towards me along with the heavy panting of a deliriously happy dog, is how I need to write this piece for Grace. It’s how I can absolutely hook her, because I know – or suspect at least – that I am not the only person to think and feel this way.
The retreat has taught me that. Last night has taught me that. Conal has too. None of us can really expect to reach our forties unscarred by life. That’s not how the world works. So instead, we have to try and figure out how to navigate it all – and especially how to navigate the detours and plot twists.
‘Let’s go and get Adam,’ I say, and Daniel trots very nicely alongside me as we head back to the car.
