Chapter 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 say pretty 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.’
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 2–4 p.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:
2–4 p.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?