Читать книгу Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List - Cathy Hopkins, Cathy Hopkins - Страница 10

Cait brought a cup of tea through to me in the sitting room. She was dressed in a summery coral dress and had done her make-up ready to go out. She was a good-looker, my missus, always was, though she never thought of herself as attractive. She’d inherited her mother’s delicate features and high cheekbones and was still slim, with an open, friendly face and those cat-like green eyes I’d fallen for so many years ago.

‘What are you up to today?’ she asked as she glanced at the TV screen, which was showing a rerun of a Star Trek episode. She was trying to sound upbeat, but I knew the subtext was: ‘Are you going to go out today? You’ve lain around for almost two weeks now. Do something useful and get out from under my feet, you good-for-nothing bastard.’

I shrugged a shoulder by way of reply, then hit the TV pause button.

Cait sighed so I sighed. There was a lot of sighing going on round here lately.

‘Why not call one of your friends? Might do you good to get out.’

Hah. I knew it, I thought. ‘What friends? All my friends are, or rather were, in the business, at work.’ I used to have other friends, Tony, Steve and Pete, good mates from university days, but over the years we’d drifted apart as marriage, kids, work took over. Plus, as Cait would say, I’m a lazy arse when it comes to actually making contact and picking up the phone, and so are they. I had made an effort last week though, not that I told Cait. I’d gone into Bristol and met Mike from my old office. He wasn’t someone I’d call a close friend, but I’d shared a building with him for the last twelve years. I’d wanted to hear what was going on there since I’d left, but he wasn’t forthcoming. I had the scent of loser on me: redundant, no longer of use or need, so no longer privy to the gossip or changes. It was a short lunch – he had to get back for a meeting, which made me feel all the more pathetic, left sitting there in the restaurant with nothing urgent to do. I’d had a second glass of wine then wandered out into the late spring sunshine, not knowing where to go and not wanting to go home to The House of Sighs. So no, Cait, I thought, I won’t be contacting any of my ‘friends’ soon. When Jed and Sam were living at home, I had no need of friends. My family was everything. The house was always full of the boys’ friends and my time was taken up with giving lifts here and there; attending sports events, football or rugby matches, helping with homework and projects. It was only when they’d gone that I realized the hole that they’d left and no one to fill it.

Cait sighed again. I out-sighed her. This was a competition I could win.

‘Matt, talk to me, tell me how you’re feeling.’

‘To be honest, bad, really bad.’

‘So tell me. If I know what’s going on inside you I can help.’

‘Doubt it. Arsenal lost to Man United in the last game. Disaster. Not a lot you can do about that.’

‘Football? We’re talking football?’

‘Yes. You asked how I was feeling.’

Cait’s shoulders drooped. ‘I give up.’

‘Me too. If they carry on playing like this, they’re going to be out before the final.’

‘Matt, if you don’t let me in, I—’

‘Let you in to what? There’s nothing to be let in to if you’re not familiar with the players.’

Cait left the room. I felt bad. I knew she didn’t want to hear about football, but what was there to say? Or do? Let her in to? How could I when I hadn’t a clue what was going on myself. I glanced at my watch. Eight forty-five. When I’d been working, I’d look at my watch and it would be four in the afternoon and I wouldn’t have known where the day had gone. Now I didn’t know how to fill the long hours, the eternal minutes.

I got up, went into the kitchen and over to the dresser where I collected up my retirement cards, all sent by well-meaning friends. I sat at the table and began to flick through them.

‘Retirement is not the end of the road, it’s the start of the open highway. Debs.’ The lyrics to the song, ‘Highway to Nowhere’ sprang to mind.

‘Retirement means twice the husband and half the income. John and Marie.’ Ouch.

‘How many days in a week? Six Saturdays, one Sunday. Sue and Charles.’ Thanks Sue and Charles.

‘How many retirees does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but it might take all day. Live it, love it, Duncan.’ My brother. At least he’d attempted humour.

‘When is a retiree’s bedtime? Two hours after he falls asleep on the couch. Rosie and Anth.’ Well, they got that right. Now I’m doing nothing, I do feel exhausted.

‘Goodbye tension, hello pension. Love Arthur and Mary.’ Well Arthur and Mary, that’s all very well, but I don’t have a pension and any savings were used to buy the house and subsequently into seeing Sam and Jed through university. I won’t get the state pension just yet and, even when I do, it won’t be enough to get by on. Our house is our pension. Cait and I agreed that property would earn us more than any savings account which is why we took the leap and bought this house. It was a stretch but we agreed: live somewhere we like while we can and downsize when we have to. Problem is, we never thought ‘have to’ would come around so soon. Cait’s already had the estate agents in to value the place, but I don’t think either of us really wants to move, so I see that as our last option and only if I can’t get another job.

There was a small pile of books on the table, also sent by well-wishers – How to Survive Retirement manuals with cartoons depicting bald old men bent over with a walking stick. I’m not like that. I have all my hair and my teeth. I can walk unaided. Oh yes. And I still wake at seven, geared to get up and go, only there is nowhere to go to. Cait’s getting irritated with me, I think; no, not think, I know she is and I know she’s trying to help in her own way, but I wish she’d back off and give me some time and space to adjust. Losing my job, my identity, my routine had hurt. Cait had always been the leader in our private life, always coming up with suggestions which I had, in the main, gone along with. She’d research our holidays, I’d book them and take care of the travel arrangements. She’d arrange our social life, organize a dinner or lunch party, I’d go out and buy the wine, do the clearing up, be the back-up. We’d known our roles and what was expected of one another but of course all that has changed now.

Oops. Cait was back. Look cheerful, Matt. I knew I was bugging her. The house was her territory when I was out at work all day and I felt as if I was now in her way, but she needed to cut me some slack. What had just happened was life-changing. I needed time to adjust and, for once, didn’t want to do everything her way or in her time frame.

‘New lot of brochures for me to look at?’ I asked as she placed a magazine on the side table. So far, she’d brought home reading material about the u3a (that’s the University of the Third Age to those in the know), the rugby club – ‘You can watch the matches up there with company and they do a nice lunch,’ she had said, and the gym, ‘Got to keep fit going into our next stage of life.’ But I was not ready to venture out in my cloth cap yet. I wanted to stay home and lick my wounds for a while, least until I could make sense of what had just taken place. Lunch in my business had been a wonderfully social affair with a bottle, maybe two, of fine wine. I was not ready for a casserole and pint of beer to nurse in a corner of a club full of lonely old men.

‘I’m trying to help.’

‘Who said I needed help?’

‘You don’t seem happy – and I don’t mean just about your team not winning.’

‘I’m fine, Cait. I don’t need you to tell me what to do.’

‘Fine. I’m off then.’

‘Where to?’

‘Work. It’s Monday. I work at the surgery. Remember?’

‘Course.’

‘Then I’m going to pop in to see Lorna.’

‘What for?’

‘I said I’d drop off a book.’

‘What is it?’

‘A House Full of Daughters.’

‘What’s it about?’

She looked at her watch. ‘Matt, when have you ever shown any interest in what I’m reading?’

‘So what was it about?’

‘I’m late. I’ll tell you when I get back.’

‘What time will that be?’

I could see her grit her teeth. ‘Not sure.’

‘What’s for lunch?’

I knew I was being annoying, I couldn’t stop myself. You always hurt the one you love, so the saying goes, and I did love Cait, but I’d let her down and that was hard to live with. Although we’d both worked in our lives, I’d always been the main breadwinner and had been happy to be so. I’d liked being able to provide, prided myself on being someone who could be depended upon. Plus, for decades, I’d been Matt Langham, programme-maker, a man with an interesting job, somebody. Now what was I? Who was I? Matt Langham. Who was he now? What had he got to contribute? I felt as if I’d gone back to the boy I was when fifteen years old, unsure of where he wanted to go or what he wanted to be. I was rudderless. Just Matt Langham, and it scared the crap out of me.

‘Fridge is full. Take your pick.’

‘Just wanted to know if you’d be joining me, that’s all, no need to get pissed off.’

‘I’m not pissed off. I … oh never mind.’

‘Never mind? You don’t seem happy, Cait, never mind me. What are you feeling?’ As if she’d like to throttle me, by the look on her face.

‘I’m feeling I’ve got to get going, Matt, thanks for your concern. Er … don’t you think you ought to get dressed?’

‘Why?’

‘In case someone comes to the door later.’

‘Who cares? I don’t. I’m retired, a free man,’ I said as I indicated the pile of cards I’d put back on the dresser, ‘free to choose what I want to do; least that’s what they all say. So I can wear what I want when I want, and if I choose to wear my dressing gown all day then I can.’

‘OK. Right. Fine. See you later.’

‘Probably. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Maybe you could go and get some new paint brochures. If we’re going to sell up, we’ll need to bring the house into this century.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ I said. ‘If we do have to sell, people will only paint over in their own choices.’

Cait sighed. ‘That may well be, but I wouldn’t want estate agents saying “in need of modernization” on our house description. It doesn’t sound good. A lick of paint will make it look more attractive – lighter, brighter. We have been meaning to do it for years. Besides, it will give you—’

‘Give me what? Go on, say it – something to do, that’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? Well, I don’t need anything to do, thank you very much.’

Cait was about to speak, but stopped herself and left. I heard the front door slam a moment later. I’d been mean, goaded her. Why? I hadn’t planned to. If pushed, I could tell her I felt like a failure, but what good would that do? None, I know she thinks I’m a miserable old prick who ought to have a shave then get out and do something useful. Should I tell her how sorry I felt? No, in my business, you never admitted failure, you kept smiling through and talked it up, up up. Media work is all about good PR. Maybe Cait and I should have a huge row, let it all out, clear the air. No, best not, best we try and weather the storm, sigh a lot. This too will pass. So what to do? Look up nose- and ear-trimmers on Amazon?

I gathered the small pile of How to Survive Retirement books and went to sit back on the sofa in the sitting room to read or throw them out the window.

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