Chapter 11
‘IT COULDN’T BE BETTER,’ LORRAINE SAID.
Lorraine was the bride-to-be. She was short and curvaceous, with a head of salt and pepper curls and an olive green jersey dress that flowed almost to her ankles. Around her neck she wore a delicate gold chain on which hung a heart studded with a pair of stones that looked like diamonds.
Arthritis, she’d said, displaying a left hand to show Lydia her swollen finger joints. This is my ring, catching hold of the heart. I love it.
She was possessed of a warm gap-toothed smile and a deep, rich laugh, and on being introduced to Lydia she had taken her into her arms and pressed her close.
Susan told us, she’d said quietly. You poor, poor pet.
Lydia had been enveloped in a spicy scent, and when they’d drawn back Lorraine’s eyes were wet.
‘This is such a kindness,’ she said now. ‘Ian and I are both deeply grateful, especially considering your terrible tragedy. Aren’t we, Ian?’
‘Deeply grateful,’ Ian echoed. ‘You’re our saving grace, to be quite honest.’
They repeatedly declared themselves more than happy with the offered room – which had, it turned out, electricity and heat now, along with a proper wooden floor. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Lorraine said. ‘Just perfect – isn’t it, Ian?’
‘Perfect,’ he agreed. ‘Beautiful altogether. That high ceiling is magnificent.’
He was about a foot taller than Lorraine, with the shoulders of a rugby player and a mouthful of large white teeth. They held hands as unselfconsciously as teenagers, and every time Lorraine looked at him he beamed back at her.
Over tea in the apartment afterwards, they told Lydia that they’d known each other for years, due to their separate friendships with the other’s previous partner.
‘Myself and Anne were in the same book club,’ Lorraine said, ‘and Ian and Rory sang in a choir together. Ian is a tenor, Rory was baritone. Ian and Anne had two children and so had we, but they had boys and we had girls. We’ll be like the Irish Brady Bunch when we all get together. ’ A big laugh followed.
‘The two families used to go on holidays together,’ Ian added. ‘Lanzarote.’
‘And Tenerife.’
‘And the Lake District. We all liked walking.’
‘And Portugal. That was lovely. Remember the sardines?’
‘I do indeed remember the sardines.’
Both spouses, they told Lydia, had died of cancer within eleven months of each other. ‘We stayed friends,’ Lorraine said, ‘Ian and I. We supported each other. Neither of us liked being alone, did we?’
‘We did not, no.’
‘I popped the question,’ Lorraine said. ‘Remember, Ian?’
‘I do, of course.’
‘Mind you, I didn’t go down on one knee – my hips wouldn’t let me!’ Another rich laugh – and then she seemed to collect herself, maybe remembering Lydia’s situation, and her laughter died, and she grew quiet.
‘I’ll sort everything,’ Susan put in. She’d accompanied them to the house. ‘You won’t have to do a thing, Lydia. I’ll organise the furniture like before, and Marian’s going to give a hand to get the room ready.’
Also like before. ‘What about food?’ Lydia asked.
‘Our school secretary’s sister is a caterer: she’ll handle it. She does all the school functions – she’s great.’
‘And our children will provide the music,’ Lorraine said. ‘The girls will bring keyboards, and the boys have fiddles. Ian’s choir will sing in the church.’
It was surreal, like the present superimposing itself on the past. Lydia remembered Andrew arriving on the morning of the wedding with a van full of furniture, and Susan and Marian turning up later with their boxes.
Remembering brought pain with it – how could it not? – but having met Lorraine and Ian, having seen how happy they were to be marrying each other, and how delighted with the venue, Lydia knew she was doing the right thing.
‘We were wondering,’ Lorraine said, ‘if you would come too, Lydia. We’d really love you to be part of it, if you felt able.’
Lydia shook her head. ‘Thank you, I appreciate that, but . . . I think it would be too difficult. I’m planning to be out of the way on the day.’
Lorraine’s smile dimmed. ‘Of course you are – sorry, I can see it’s still so raw.’ She reached across to give Lydia’s arm a squeeze. ‘I really hope you can be happy again.’
‘Me too.’
Ian gripped her hand on leaving. ‘We can’t thank you enough,’ he said, ‘honest to God. We’ll never forget it.’
Lorraine gave her another hug, and so did Susan. ‘You’re the best,’ Susan whispered.
Lydia stood at the main door until the car turned on to the lane and disappeared. On her way back to the apartment she paused in the hall, whose floor was tiled now, and regarded the lovely curve of the stairs, complete with banister. Little by little, Brendan and his team were transforming it.
She took a step towards the stairs – and stopped. Going up alone was too sad. She’d wait until the work was finished, and then walk through every room with Brendan.
She turned to regard the door of the yoga studio. She crossed to open it, and stood for a minute on the threshold, lost in thought. Seeing in her mind’s eye what was not yet there, but what might be possible.
Yes.
Back in the apartment, she drafted a leaflet.
8-week yoga course with Lydia at Chance House studio
Tuesdays or Thursdays 7.00–8.00 p.m.
All levels catered for
Wear loose, comfortable clothing, mats provided
She added a price she thought was reasonable for the eight weeks – roughly two-thirds what her Dublin studio would have charged – and her phone number for booking, and set the start dates for the following week.
If she passed out the leaflets tomorrow, people would have six days to sign up for one class or another.
Time would tell.
Next morning she cycled into the village for her second infant yoga class, with an envelope of leaflets and a heart full of trepidation. No fear about the children’s yoga this time: now it was all about the adults.
She met the same three in the staffroom, Cara on duty in the yard again. ‘Yes please,’ she said, when Lydia showed her a leaflet on her way in. ‘Thursday would suit me.’
‘I’ll take two leaflets for the windows,’ Susan said, ‘and put me down for Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday for me too,’ Josephine said.
‘Thursday’s better for me,’ Marian said, ‘and I know two more who’ll definitely be interested. This is so great, Lydia.’
Despite the success of her first infant yoga class, the second began just as chaotically, and again Lydia had to work hard at gaining her little students’ attention – but once she had them, they stayed with her. It looked like they would always keep her on her toes, which was no bad thing.
After the class, she brought the remainder of her leaflets around the village.
‘I’ll take one for the window,’ Marge said in the hair salon. ‘And can I sign up for Tuesday? I’ve always wanted to try yoga.’
‘I’ll put one in the church porch,’ Father Phil promised, ‘and I’ll say it off the pulpit on Sunday too.’
Lydia made a silent vow to show up more often for Mass. She was still angry with God, but Father Phil was innocent. ‘I hope I won’t get you into trouble. You know Hinduism and Buddhism both claim yoga, don’t you?’
He laughed. ‘I’d say the pope has better things to worry about – and I doubt I’ll upset anyone around here. I suspect you’ll be inundated. I’m happy you’re doing this, Lydia.’
‘No bother,’ Andrew said in his shop a few minutes later, reaching into a drawer for a roll of Sellotape and sticking up the leaflet there and then, next to a sign that read 4 lamb chops €7.
‘Best of luck. And Susan tells me you’re letting Lorraine and Ian have their reception at Chance House. That’s very good of you.’
In the supermarket she pinned one to the noticeboard. She gave another to the girl behind the counter in the chemist, whose name she kept forgetting, and another to a man in the hardware shop she didn’t remember meeting before.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘Chance House,’ and looked up from the leaflet to regard Lydia over the top of his glasses.
‘Very sorry for your trouble. I had great time for Damien. He was at school with my lads. My wife and I were away for the funeral – we spend our winters in the Canaries – but the boys went. Jerry McCormack is my name, happy to make your acquaintance.’
Her phone began to ring before she got home.
By six o’clock both courses were fully subscribed, along with two more she created to meet the demand, one on Monday, another on Wednesday.
Four classes a week for eight weeks, a dozen signed up for each class.
Forty-eight people in total, and five more who’d asked her to let them know if she had any cancellations.
Were they doing it out of pity, wanting to support the grieving widow? Maybe some were. Did it matter, as long as they came? She told herself to call it kindness, rather than pity. She’d wait and see how many lasted the course.
The day was cold and bright. She pulled on a fleece and went out to the garden, where Gareth’s stolen primroses were all blooming prettily, and the camomile lawn he’d sown was just beginning to send tiny green needles up.
The bee- and butterfly-friendly patch – buddleia, sedum, salvia, catmint, verbena – was coming along. She’d been concerned that they were planting everything too far apart: he’d assured her they’d spread.
The wildflowers – poppies, ox-eye daisies, cornflowers, foxgloves, sea asters – that he’d started from seed in his greenhouse were all going into the earth tomorrow, in the area they’d prepared.
The sea grasses he’d got in pots from the garden centre in town were already long enough to wave in the breeze.
The slate pathway now curved its way down the length of the garden, branching off to access the shed, which had a rambling rose bush beginning to inch its way up one side, and a seating area further along, within the shelter of a hazel.
Lydia followed the path down to the end. The rusted railing was gone, the new hedging not yet planted, but the old steps had been replaced with a set of sturdy ones.
She sat on the top step. She hugged her knees and closed her eyes – and there was the blue sky and the sunshine, and Damien on one knee, offering her a box with a ring in it, and the rest of his life.
She remembered the joy of that day, their happiness as they’d splashed in the water and danced to their own music on the sand.
‘You were right,’ she told him softly. ‘You said they’d come to yoga, and you were right.’ She opened her eyes and watched the sparks of light hitting the sea. ‘I miss you so much, my darling,’ she whispered, feeling her throat clog, her eyes burn. An ocean of tears cried since she’d lost him.
On her way back up the garden she felt a presence behind her.
She turned to see the ginger cat padding along in her wake.
She hadn’t given him a name. He no longer streaked away when she appeared but he still didn’t allow her to get close enough to touch him.
She’d never heard him mew, or make a sound of any kind.
The only time she saw him was when he wanted food.
Not old, she thought. Not much out of kittenhood, to judge by the balletic way she’d seen him leap at anything that moved – a leaf caught by the breeze, a stray feather, a small flying creature. The bald patches on his coat were filling in, and she figured she could take the credit for that.
Maybe she could ask Gareth to drop by now and again with food after she’d left, just until the house was sold. And maybe the new owners would continue to nourish him.
Back in the kitchen she found an empty cardboard box, destined for recycling but not yet broken up.
She lined it with newspaper and brought it out with his food, and while he was eating she deposited it in a corner of the shed and pushed the window open wide enough for him to leap in and out.
She must ask Gareth not to close it. He’d probably think her foolish to be indulging a wild cat.
He might be wild, but he needed her, like the growing life in her womb needed her. It was good to feel needed.