Chapter 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.
The doubts set in as I pulled onto the drive. For now, it might be better to leave the bags full of gloves, cloths, cleaning products and bin bags in the boot, along with my vacuum cleaner, mop and bucket.
It took a while for Marianne to answer the door and she looked surprised to see me there.
‘Happy New Year!’ I said. ‘How was it?’
‘Like every other day. Why are you here?’
The defensive tone – accompanied by defensive body language this time – burst my bubble. Why did I always expect more from my sister when I always received so much less? But I had to keep trying.
‘We didn’t spend much time together on Christmas Day so I thought we could rectify that.’
Marianne shook her head. ‘It’s not a good time. I’m busy.’
‘Busy tidying?’ It was a feeble attempt at a joke, and admittedly an inappropriate one.
She glared at me.
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that but even you admitted the cottage was messy. I thought I could help. I’ve got some stuff in the car.’
‘Did I ask for your help?’
‘No, but I just thought…’
‘It’s fine as it is.’
‘There’s barely anywhere for you to sit or cook or—’
Marianne’s eyes widened. ‘Are you judging me?’
‘No! It’s just that—’
But she cut me off once more. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘So tell me. Let me in. Please, Marianne. We’ve only got each other.’
‘Then I suggest you find yourself some friends.’
I winced. That was harsh when my visit today had been with the best intentions.
‘I’m worried about you,’ I said.
She stared at me for a moment and I wondered if my words had touched her, but then her expression darkened. ‘I’m not your responsibility.’
‘But you’re my sister.’
She sighed heavily. ‘Go away, Yvonne. I mean it. Leave me alone.’
Before I could say anything else, she slammed the door shut and locked it.
I knocked again and called her name through the letterbox but it was fruitless.
My sister had never wanted anything to do with me and it was time I stopped clinging on to the idea that we were family so we should be in each other’s lives.
Why bother when it caused discomfort on both sides?
And she was right about me. I had judged the mess and had assumed that a dozen bottles of anti-bacterial spray could sort out something that was clearly a mental health issue.
I knew that people didn’t live the way my sister did because they were too lazy or incapable of tidying up.
I drove back to Pippinthwaite, cursing myself for being so impulsive and, if I was honest, a bit selfish too.
My visit hadn’t purely been about good intentions so I had no right to feel upset by yet another rejection.
After seeing the state of the cottage on Christmas Day, Marianne had been in my thoughts way more than she’d ever been before and I hadn’t liked it.
I’d figured that I wouldn’t think about her or worry so much if I knew her home was hygienic.
But she’d made it clear from childhood that I wasn’t an important part of her life and the enforced Friday afternoon recaps of my week had been excruciating.
I didn’t need to continue that into adulthood.
Marianne was right that she wasn’t my responsibility and I needed to accept that. Or try to.