Читать книгу The Happiness List - Annie Lyons - Страница 10

The trees that lined Hope Street were heavy with blossom. There seemed to be no scheme to their planting – tall ones, short ones, all intermingled in a mishmash of cloud-like whites and pinks. It was that time of year when the sun shone by day but the heat soon disappeared as it got dark. There was a chilly snap to the air so that Fran wished she’d pulled on her cosy-but-smelly dog-walking coat instead of her tatty leather jacket.

She could see a glow of light pooling from the doorway to Hope Street Community Hall and a few people making their way inside. She paused just short of the pathway that led towards the door. If it wasn’t for her mother, she would have quite happily turned on her heel, gone home, change into her PJs and binge-watched Modern Family with the dog on her lap and a family bag of Doritos by her side.

But Angela Cooper had arrived that afternoon, struggling up the garden path with the ancient carpet bag that she called her ‘overnighter’ and a determined look on her face. Fran knew better than to challenge that look.

‘Here, Granny, let me take your bag,’ Charlie had said, smiling and reaching out to her.

‘Oh, thank you, Charlie dear. Gosh, I do feel old sometimes.’

‘You’re not old, Granny, you’re young and beautiful.’

‘Thank you, my treasure. Hello, Fran dear,’ she said, stepping over the threshold and kissing her daughter on the cheek, while the dog ran in excited circles around them and Jude appeared on the landing. ‘And who is this handsome young man I see before me?’

‘’llo Granny.’ Jude smiled as he plodded down the stairs, leaning in to give his grandmother an awkward teenage hug. Fran marvelled at how relaxed teenagers were with other teenagers, wrapping arms around one another in an almost possessive way, but present them with someone outside their immediate friendship circle and you were lucky if they made eye contact.

‘It’s pizza for tea, Mum. I hope that’s okay,’ said Fran, leading the way to the kitchen.

‘What would you say if I told you it wasn’t?’ retorted her mother.

Fran pursed her lips. ‘I don’t like to swear in front of the children.’

Charlie looked confused. ‘You’re always swearing, Mummy. That’s why I made you this,’ she said, holding up a jam jar wrapped in exercise paper with the words ‘Mummy’s Swear Pot’ written in large purple writing.

Angela raised her eyebrows at her daughter. Fran shrugged. ‘All the books on grief tell you that swearing can be a very useful form of self-expression. Plus, I’m putting the money towards a holiday.’

Angela took the jar from Charlie and weighed it in her hand. ‘I’d say you’ve got enough for a trip to Disneyworld.’

‘Hooray!’ cried Charlie. Alan barked in celebration. ‘Please can I go and watch TV before dinner?’

‘Sure,’ nodded Fran.

‘Thanks, Mum. Love you.’ Charlie stared at her mother, waiting for the response.

‘Love you too.’ Satisfied, Charlie leant over to kiss her mother and then her grandmother before disappearing to the lounge. ‘Glass of wine?’ asked Fran, hoping to distract her mother from Charlie’s mildly obsessive behaviour.

‘I was wondering when you were going to ask,’ said Angela. Fran rolled her eyes and fetched a bottle from the fridge. ‘So is Charlie still sleeping in your bed?’ she asked, accepting the wine glass and taking a sip.

‘Sometimes,’ said Fran, feeling immediately defensive. ‘But where’s the harm? If she needs reassurance, there’s nothing wrong with it – that’s what the counsellor said.’ After Andy died, Charlie had insisted on sleeping in Fran’s bed every night for about a year. It happened less often now. Fran would never tell her mother but she relished the nights when she woke to find her long-haired, still baby-faced girl snoring softly next to her. She knew this wasn’t ideal for either of them but she didn’t care – whatever got you through the day and encouraged you to carry on putting one foot in front of the other was fine by her.

‘It ties you down, Fran, and it’s not fair on Charlie.’

‘I’m not going anywhere and Charlie’s still young so whatever she needs is fine by me. Now can we please change the subject? How’s Dad?’

Even Angela knew when to let things go. She sniffed. ‘He’s got an in-grown toenail.’

‘Ouch.’

‘You’d think he’d broken his leg the way he goes on about it.’

‘Everyone needs a hobby.’

Angela smiled. ‘So are you looking forward to this course?’

Fran gave her mother an incredulous look. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you should go with an open mind.’

‘Says the woman who makes her mind up about people within seven seconds of meeting them,’ snorted Fran.

‘Except you’re not like me, are you? You’re younger and receptive to new ideas.’

Fran sighed. ‘I’m going tonight but if it’s all hygge and hot air, I won’t be going again.’

Her mother fixed her with a look. ‘Let’s hope it brings you something unexpected, shall we?’

Fran knocked her wine glass against her mother’s. ‘To eternal happiness.’

Fran glanced at her watch. Five to seven. She wondered what her friend Nat was up to. She had a feeling that Wednesday might be Dan’s night to have Woody so there was a chance that her friend was home alone, with a tempting bottle of wine in the fridge…

‘I’m not sure whether to go in either,’ said a voice behind her.

Fran turned. The woman was younger than her. Fran was terrible at guessing ages but she estimated her to be mid-twenties. She had dark brown hair, which was scraped up into a loose bun and an air of nervousness, which Fran put down to the prospect of baring her soul in front of a group of strangers. She understood completely and flashed a sympathetic smile.

‘I like your jacket,’ said the woman.

‘Thanks. My son says I’m too old for a leather jacket, which is exactly why I wear it,’ she smirked. ‘And while we’re on the subject, I like your scarf.’

‘Thanks.’ The woman grinned. ‘I’m Heather by the way.’

‘Fran,’ she said. ‘So now that we’re officially best mates, shall we forget this and naff off to the Goldfinch Tavern?’ She thumbed towards the direction of the local pub.

Heather laughed. ‘Could do.’

Fran dismissed the idea with a flick of her hand. ‘I’m just messing with you. My mother’s babysitting and if I don’t go home with the secrets to a happy life imprinted on my brain, she’ll never speak to me or help with the kids again.’

‘Shall we then?’ asked Heather.

‘After you,’ said Fran, gesturing towards the door. ‘But please be warned that I am using you as a human shield.’

Heather laughed as they walked inside.

The Happiness List

WEEK 1: Introduction

WEEK 2: Mindfulness

WEEK 3: Exercise

WEEK 4: Laughter

WEEKS 5 & 6: Keep Learning

WEEK 7: The World Outside Ourselves

WEEK 8: Resilience

WEEK 9: Contentment

WEEK 10: Review

Fran picked up the handout from one of the chairs and wondered if she could slip out now. She could probably just Google these and work it out for herself at home without the fuss of having to come along every week. She had a mindfulness colouring book somewhere, although Charlie had stolen her colouring pencils. In fact, she probably had a book covering most of these subjects. Fran bought a lot of books. It had always been her natural antidote to any life problem that arose. She loved that sense of hope when she came home with a shiny new book. Surely this would be the one to give her the answer to everything from how to tame your toddler to communicating with your monosyllabic teenager? She bought dozens of books after Andy died and friends and relatives had given her dozens more. Alas, she rarely found the time to actually read them beyond skimming the first few chapters. Now they sat abandoned and unread on her bookshelves – an archive of her failed attempts to get her life in order.

Fran sat down. The chairs had been set up in a semicircle. She nodded to Jim the postman and a couple of other people who were already seated. She identified the course leader in seconds – a tall man with George Clooney hair and an air of self-assurance and experience – he would definitely be one to encourage ‘show and tell’. The very thought made her shudder with dread.

‘He looks friendly enough,’ whispered Heather, taking her place next to Fran and nodding towards George Clooney. ‘Although of course he may have two horns underneath that magnificent hair.’ Fran laughed. ‘Do you know Pamela? And this is Georg,’ added Heather, gesturing to her left.

‘Hello.’ Georg wore a blank expression.

In complete contrast, Pamela looked as if she might burst with delight. ‘Hello! It’s lovely to meet you. Now forgive me but I feel as we’ve met before. Did you used to come to the toddler group?’

Fran nodded. ‘Yep, although that was a while back now. My oldest is at secondary and my youngest is in year five.’

Pamela shook her head in disbelief. ‘Time flies and I’ve got a brain like a sieve. What was your name, lovey?’

‘It’s Fran,’ she replied, holding her breath, ready for the moment of dreadful recognition.

It was as if a cloud descended over Pamela. She patted Fran’s arm. ‘Of course, Fran. How could I forget? I’m so sorry. How are you?’

Heather frowned with confusion.

‘My husband died a couple of years ago,’ explained Fran. That’s my cover blown then.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Heather. ‘That’s terrible.’

Fran nodded because that was all you could do. It was terrible – everyone’s worst fear. Over the past couple of years, she had become practised at dealing with the way people reacted when she told them – the fear in their eyes as they desperately scanned their brains for the right thing to say. It was down to her to console their shock and reassure them that they didn’t need to be sorry – it was really shit but it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. And that was the worst thing of all.

‘Heather’s mum and dad passed away a few years ago,’ said Pamela brightly. Fran shot a surprised glance at Heather and realized that she was trying to swallow down her mirth at this inappropriately cheerful remark.

‘Best friends for life then,’ said Fran with a wink. Heather chuckled.

They sat up straighter in their chairs as George Clooney clapped his hands together and called them to attention.

‘Okay, everyone, let’s make a start. Welcome. My name is Nikolaj Pedersen but everyone calls me Nik. So no doubt you are wondering what to expect, you may be thinking, why am I here? You may be doubting why you have come or thinking, what can this Scandinavian weirdo teach me?’ The assembled group gave a nervous laugh and Nik smiled. ‘That is okay. Don’t worry. The point is that you are here – something has brought you here and for that you should be grateful. I don’t need to know what that thing is – no one needs to know. You can share your stories of course but it is by no means obligatory. Everyone’s story is different, just as everyone’s version of happiness is different. My aim is to help you reframe your lives so that you can find your version. The handouts in front of you contain the list of what I see as the fundamental steps towards achieving this – it’s my happiness list.’ He smiled. ‘These are the things I will try to teach you over the next ten weeks in order for you to find whatever it is you seek. After each session, I will set you homework based on that list item so that you can practise what we have discussed and learnt but I’ll tell you more about that later.’

‘Blimey, he’ll be giving out detentions next,’ mused Fran under her breath. Heather smirked.

Nik continued. ‘I cannot promise that you will find exactly what you need but if you come to each session with an open mind, it will be possible. So, I want you to think of this hall as a drama-free space, where you leave behind your problems of everyday life – take a moment to depart from day-to-day competition and stress, a moment to be open and to open yourself up to possibility. That is all I ask. If you find this isn’t for you, that is okay but I would say that you need to give yourself time – give yourself a chance.’

Fran shifted in her chair as Nik continued.

‘This is also not an individual activity. We are in this together as part of a team. We will help and support one another without judgement or prejudice. We will do all we can to help others find the happiness they seek. Are we in agreement?’

There were hesitant murmurs around the room.

Nik seemed satisfied. ‘Good. So, with that in mind, I am going to put you into groups.’ Fran found herself in a three with Pamela and Heather. ‘These are your official course buddies,’ Nik told them. ‘You will undertake your exercises and challenges alongside them – think of them as family.’

‘Not sure that’s necessarily a good thing,’ murmured Fran to Heather. She laughed.

‘This is going to be fun,’ declared Pamela, grinning at them both.

Fun? thought Fran. Really? Was it realistic to expect people over the age of ten to have actual fun?

She used to watch the kids on the trampoline, bouncing with joy, laughing their heads off. One day last week, Charlie was on there so Fran decided to go out and join her because it had been a shit day and she thought, why not? Fran winced as she recalled bouncing higher and higher, encouraged by her giggling daughter, before realizing with horror that women her age really need to empty their bladders before they tried it.

Fran admired Pamela’s child-like wonder but she reserved the right to remain deeply cynical about the next ten weeks being any kind of fun. She got the feeling that she might have an ally in Heather in this respect. Fran focused her attention back on Nik.

‘After tea, I would like us to try a simple meditation, but, before that, I think it would be helpful if we introduced ourselves and gave one piece of information that we are happy to share – it can be anything, not necessarily to do with happiness. Something that we don’t mind the world knowing – it can be funny or sad or just a fact. I’ll go first to give you an idea. My name is Nik and I play the euphonium.’

Fran snorted with laughter. Nik turned to Jim, who was sitting to his left.

He looked embarrassed, running a hand over his bald head as he spoke. ‘My name is Jim and I used to sing in a Take That tribute band.’

‘Bravo, Jim, and welcome,’ said Nik with an encouraging smile.

Fran felt her mouth go dry as Nik made his way around the circle. Among the group was Sue, who once appeared on Britain’s Got Talent playing the washboard, Georg, who had won awards for his latte art and Pamela, who was a star baker. Even Heather had won a Blue Peter badge. When it was Fran’s turn, she decided to play it for laughs.

‘I’m Fran,’ she began. ‘And I have a dog called Alan.’ Everyone laughed. ‘Yep,’ she went on. ‘I thought it would be funny too but you try calling that name in the park on a Sunday afternoon. You get a lot of attention from middle-aged men and not in a good way.’

More laughter. Fran felt herself relax.

Got away with that one, Fran. You could have announced that you had a dog called Alan who saved you from the brink of insanity but maybe keep that for another time.

It was true. When her brother had turned up on the doorstep six months after Andy died, carrying a spaniel puppy under his arm, she’d wept until she felt weak. Then she punched her brother on the arm for being so bloody irresponsible. Then she hugged him and said he was the best brother ever. The children were over the moon but worried that Fran wouldn’t let him stay.

‘Please, Mum,’ Charlie begged. ‘We’ll help look after him.’

Jude looked at her from behind that floppy fringe, a peppering of spots just visible on his forehead above a pair of huge blue eyes. His father’s eyes.

Fran felt a wave of grief – the widow’s version of a hot flush she called it. It came and went and made you feel bloody terrible. The puppy waddled over and sat on her feet. Her slippers suddenly felt warm. She stared down at him in horror. He stared back at her, eyebrows raised in amazement at his own audacity.

Fran threw back her head and roared with laughter. Her brother and the kids gaped at one other with alarm. Fran knew why. It was the first time she had laughed since Andy’s death and they were worried that this was the sign of her losing it properly. Ranting and raving was understandable but hysterical laughter? Not so much.

‘What’s so funny?’ smirked Charlie, who loved a shared joke.

Fran picked up the puppy. ‘Any animal who has the gall to wee on my slippers in order to gain affection, gets my vote.’

‘So we can keep him?’ asked Charlie, who was sometimes slow on the uptake.

‘We can keep him,’ laughed Fran.

‘Can we call him Alan?’ suggested Charlie. ‘I’ve always liked that name. It’s friendly.’

‘Alan?’ Fran frowned.

Jude shrugged. ‘S’good name. Better than calling him something stupid like Daniel.’

Fran’s brother snorted with laughter. ‘Daniel the spaniel. Good one.’

Fran held up the puppy and squinted into his eyes. The puppy stared back. ‘Alan,’ she said. The puppy gave a cheerful bark of agreement. Fran shook her head with a grin. ‘Alan it is then.’

I wish Alan was here right now, thought Fran as Nik instructed them to find a comfortable seated position after the tea break. She felt nervous and, for some reason, her daft dog always calmed her down.

‘Next week we shall be focusing on mindfulness properly but today by way of an introduction, I would like us to try a simple exercise to give you an example of what it feels like to be mindful – a basic meditation based on breathing. I believe that it is a good skill to learn on the path to a happier existence and we shall be doing our best to practise it as much as possible. It can be tricky to start with so don’t worry if you don’t get it straight away. Now. Close your eyes and place your hands softly in your lap. Be aware of the sensations in your body as you breathe in and out. Focus on nothing but the breathing in and out.’

Fran heard a nervous fart and felt Heather’s body shake with laughter next to her so that she had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing too.

‘If your thoughts start to wander, do not worry. Simply bring your mind back to your breathing. In and out. In and out.’

Shake it all about, thought Fran. Oh dear. This wasn’t going very well. She tried to focus on her breathing but her overall thought was how ridiculous this was. A group of grown people sitting around in a draughty community hall waiting for it to be over. She opened one eye and looked furtively left and right. Jim’s eyes were tightly shut as he mouthed the words ‘in and out’ to himself. Fran dared a glance at Heather and realized that she was peeking too. They both suppressed giggles as Pamela started to snore peacefully. Nik had his eyes closed so Fran pulled a face at Heather, who had to stuff a fist in her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

‘Okay,’ said Nik, his eyes still closed. ‘Allow yourself to come back to the moment and if it didn’t work for you this time…’ he opened his eyes and looked directly at Fran and Heather, who exchanged sheepish smirks ‘…please be aware that the realization that your mind has wandered is actually an integral part of meditation.’

‘Gold stars for us then,’ whispered Fran to Heather, who chuckled.

‘Ooh, I feel so refreshed,’ declared Pamela, stretching out her arms.

‘That is because you sleep,’ pointed out Georg with a frown. ‘That is not meditation or mindfulness. That is sleep.’

‘Oh. Right,’ said Pamela looking disappointed.

‘Don’t worry, this is all good practice,’ said Nik reassuringly. ‘And an excellent start – well done. So, now I will set your homework. Firstly, I want you to practise mindfulness in your everyday life, find something that works for you. It could be mindful baking, Pamela or mindful dog-walking, Fran.’

‘Yeah, I’m not sure Alan will go for that,’ she retorted.

‘Well, try things out and we can discuss it next week, when we will focus on mindfulness properly. You also have my happiness list and as you can see it is generic. I would therefore like you to come up with your own list. This week, write down one thing, relating to your happiness, that you would like to work on or achieve by the end of the course. It could be “get fitter” or “learn to paint” or something more emotional like “stop feeling guilty”.’ Fran felt her skin prickle. ‘Try to be honest. You don’t have to share it, unless you want to. I would like you to add to your list after every week as we learn together so that by the end of the course you have your own happiness list. Does this make sense?’

There were enthusiastic murmurs and nods from everyone in the room apart from Heather and Fran. They shared a knowing smile, which gave Fran an unexpected feeling of hope.

‘Okay, that’s enough from me,’ nodded Nik. ‘Feel free to ask me questions afterwards or email me in the week if you need to. Good luck and I look forward to seeing you next week.’

‘A happiness list, eh?’ said Fran as she followed Pamela and Heather onto the street. ‘Well I don’t know what Mads Mikkelsen in there is going to make of me listing “eat more KitKat Chunkies, go on a date with Idris Elba and finally clear out the loft”, because that would definitely make me happy.’

Pamela chuckled before turning to Heather. ‘I bet I can guess what the first item on your list is,’ she said with glee before humming the tune to ‘Here Comes the Bride’.

Heather shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

Fran got the feeling that Heather wanted to rein in Pamela’s enthusiasm. ‘Any idea what you’re going to focus on then, Pamela?’ she asked, changing the subject.

Heather gave her a grateful smile.

Pamela sighed. ‘I don’t know. Try to stop my Barry and Matthew arguing all the time probably.’

‘That doesn’t sound much fun,’ said Fran. ‘I refuse to referee my kids’ disagreements. Let them sort out their own arguments – make sure you do something for yourself,’ she added kindly.

Pamela patted her arm and nodded. ‘I’m definitely going to give that mindful baking a try. I do love my baking and I think it would calm me down if I was a bit more, you know, in the moment.’ She smiled, making inverted commas in the air.

‘Good for you,’ declared Fran, keen to draw the conversation to a close before Pamela started to grill her. ‘Right, I’d better get back home to Mum. Good luck,’ she added, giving a hasty wave before heading off along the street.

‘How was it then?’ asked Angela as Fran flopped onto the sofa a while later and took a large sip of wine.

‘Yeah, it was great. I’ve learnt all the happiness and everything is fine.’

Angela regarded her daughter for a second before shaking her head. ‘Oh Fran,’ she said. ‘Please at least try to make some effort.’

The next day Fran lay back on the uncomfortable sofa and stared up at the crack in the ceiling that seemed to get bigger every week.

So are you going to give the mindfulness a go? he asked.

I think I’d rather poke myself 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.