repeatedly in the eye.
You’re not really taking this seriously, are you?
When did I last take anything seriously?
True. But you need to, Fran. You know that, don’t you? You can’t hide behind the humour all the time.
Funny but that’s pretty much what my mother said.
Well, maybe it’s time to listen.
Traitor. Anyway, can’t you see? My sardonic humour is all I’ve got to stop me from standing in the garden and howling at the moon.
You’ve got the kids. And Alan.
I know. And I love them.
I know you do. But you need something more, don’t you? Something beyond the cynical humour and pretence that everything’s okay.
So you’re saying that I can’t just keep hiding behind the jokes?
You know the answer to that.
Spoilsport.
Later that afternoon, Fran sat at her kitchen table staring down at the page in her notebook where she had written ‘Happiness List Thing’ in careless, barely legible handwriting. She had been sitting there for half an hour now, during which time she had underlined the words with a decorative curly line, drawn a doodle of some flowers and was contemplating adding a cartoon picture of Alan. She smiled down at the dog, who was, as per usual, sitting underneath the table by her feet.
‘Who’s a good dog, eh?’ she cooed, reaching down to stroke his head. Alan stared up at her with mournful eyes. He really was the most beautiful dog – all caramel fur and velvet ears. You couldn’t help smiling at him. Or giving him a treat. Alan knew this, of course, and milked it to perfection. ‘You’re a good dog. Yes, you are.’ Alan gave a gentle bark of agreement. ‘Right, well you have to help me with this,’ she told him, holding up the notebook, ‘because I need to exceed my mother’s rock-bottom expectations somehow but I don’t know what to put. I am on the verge of writing “more walks with Alan”, even though that would pretty much turn my life into one long dog walk.’
Alan jumped up, barking with excitement, and then to further illustrate the point, ran to the hall and began a charming chasing-his-tail dance in front of the coat rack.
‘Bugger. Rookie mistake. I said the “w” word out loud, didn’t I?’ Another bark of affirmation. ‘Right, okay. I guess we may as well head out because I’m not getting very far here.’ Fran pulled on her dog-walking coat, trainers and clipped on Alan’s lead. ‘After you, doggy.’
They trotted along the street in the sunshine. Fran felt its warmth on her face and a sense of calm descend. Maybe this was what mindfulness felt like and she’d simply never realized. Fran wouldn’t call it happiness as such but she wasn’t unhappy. It was just that grief had that annoying habit of being there all the time so that these small moments of joy were a bit like licking the icing off a cupcake and finding that the cake was made of shit. Yeah. Even two years on.
Fran didn’t honestly believe that people got over grief. How could they? Someone you loved more than anything was gone. For ever. How could you ever reach a point where you blithely said, ‘Yeah, I’m fine with that? I’m happy again.’
Never. Gonna. Happen.
The problem was that after two years, people sort of expected you to have moved on. They weren’t being unkind. She would probably do the same. You couldn’t keep doing the sympathy thing for ever, the ‘how are you?’ voice.
Still, just because the rest of the world had moved on, it didn’t mean that she had. In the days immediately after Andy’s death, she had found herself thinking, This time two days ago, he was here, having dinner at home with us, and then, This time three weeks ago, we were watching an episode of The Sopranos and drinking that delicious wine Sam bought us. It then became, This time three months ago he was here. He was alive. But now it was ridiculous. She couldn’t say to herself, This time one hundred and four weeks ago, he was still breathing. She knew something had to change but at this moment in time, she had no idea what it was.
As she returned home from their walk, she let Alan off his lead and made her way to the kitchen. She spied her notebook sitting on the table, open, the blank page taunting her. She grabbed her pen and started to write.
‘There,’ she said to Alan. ‘Done.’ She flicked on the kettle and gazed out at the overgrown mess of a garden. She glanced back at the book. Alan gave a quizzical whine. She stared at him. ‘You’re right. It is too soon. I’ll think of something else.’ She grabbed the pen and put a neat cross through what she had just written.
Pamela
My Happiness List
1. Just bake
‘Observe the soured cream as you gently pour it into the chocolate mixture. See how it changes the consistency of your batter. Look at the way it alters as you stir, creating swirling patterns and a light tinge to the colour.’
‘Do we have any Jeyes Fluid, Pammy? That bloody fox has done his business on the front path again.’
Pamela pressed pause on the iPad. ‘Barry. I am trying to do some baking here. I don’t know if we’ve got any Jeyes. Why don’t you look in the shed?’
‘So-rree,’ he huffed. ‘I was only asking.’
Pamela closed her eyes and sighed. Three deep breaths and bring yourself back to the moment. That’s what the nice American lady said. Satisfied that Barry was safely foraging around in the shed, she pressed ‘play’ on the recording.
‘And now we add the vanilla essence. I recommend Madagascan for the ultimate aromatherapy experience. Open the bottle and allow the sweet scent of vanilla to fill your nostrils.’ Pamela wrestled with the cap – it was an unopened bottle, stubbornly sealed. ‘Pour one teaspoon into the mixture.’
‘Hang on a second, ducks,’ she said, gripping at the cap and trying without success to unscrew it.
‘Now mix it all together, allowing the mingled aromas of chocolate and vanilla to waft into your senses.’
Pamela tried to gnaw at the bottle top with her teeth. A loose crown flew from her mouth into the mixture. ‘Bother,’ she declared, fishing it out with a spoon.
‘Take a moment to admire what you’re creating.’
Pamela frowned at the resolutely sealed bottle of vanilla essence. ‘Never mind,’ she told the batter. ‘You look lovely as you are.’
‘Now observe the sensations in your arms and body as you mix.’
Pamela
