Rainy Day Fund

The money was my insurance in case things got bad. And now they had . . .

WHAT happened?” the vet asked, hooking a stethoscope into his ears and pressing it to Timmy’s body.

Poor little cat; his chest rose and fell rapidly and his eyes were huge and dark with fear and pain.

I clutched Stuart’s hand, and could feel his fingers trembling. He loved Timmy as much as I did.

I tried to keep my voice steady as I answered the vet.

“He ran out into the road, and a car . . .”

The vet carefully felt Timmy’s limbs and spine.

“I’ll give him something for the pain and do some X-rays. Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”

Stuart and I huddled together in the waitingroom as other owners and their pets came and went. I barely saw them, cocooned in misery.

He was our little boy. Stuart and I were never blessed with children and instead, over the years, we’d had a succession of cats, of which Timmy was the latest.

We got him as a kitten not long after I retired, and soon my day and Timmy’s were intertwined so closely they couldn’t be untangled.

From making the bed each morning with Timmy playing hide and seek in the covers, to weeding the garden with Timmy supervising nearby in a patch of sunshine, the little cat was my shadow.

He was the same with Stuart, waiting on the mat to greet him when he came home from work, following him round the house, and even perching on the end of the bath when Stuart went for a soak!

“I hope he’s OK,” I whispered.

“Me, too, love,” Stuart said, his voice clotted with emotion.

The vet came out, his face grave.

“It’s not good news, I’m afraid,” he said. “He is insured?”

“Yes,” Stuart began. “No!” I wailed. “I forgot to renew it!”

“Ah,” the vet said. “Well, Timmy’s pelvis is broken and he’ll need an operation to pin it.” He paused. “It’s not cheap.”

He named a sum that made my jaw drop. Oh, why hadn’t I remembered to renew the wretched insurance?

Stuart turned to me, his face ashen. Eventually he squared his shoulders and turned to the vet.

“Thank you for all you’ve done, but we can’t afford it. It’s probably kindest to put Timmy to sleep.”

His voice broke on the final words and he swallowed loudly a few times.

“I can,” I said. “I’ve got the money. Please do the operation.”

Stuart started to protest. “Do you need some time to discuss this?” the vet offered. “Timmy’s not in any pain if you want a few minutes to decide what you want to do.”

That was when I broke a promise I’d kept for almost forty years.

“Every woman needs her running-away money,” Auntie Sylvie declared as she got me to twirl slowly in my wedding gown so she could check the hem was straight.

“Running-away money?” I glanced at Mam, who took the pins from her mouth with a grunt.

“She’s right, Linda. Every woman should have some money of her own, just in case.”

“In case of what?” Mam and Auntie Sylvie exchanged dark looks.

“In case the gilding comes off the gingerbread,” Auntie Sylvie said, “and you need to get away.”

“Stuart’s a good man!” I cried, upset that we were having this conversation only days before my wedding. “I won’t ever want to run away from him.”

“Every bride thinks that,” Auntie Sylvie argued. “There are some who are lucky, and some who thank their stars they had their running-away money to fall back on.”

I knew I’d be one of the lucky ones. I loved Stuart and he loved me. Surely that was enough?

“We’ve got a joint account,” I protested. We’d agreed to pay the same percentage of our takehome pay into it, and keep the rest so we could buy secret presents for each other without the cost appearing on the joint statement.

It was all very romantic, to my young mind.

“You need your own, too,” Mam insisted. “A savings account you pay into every week. Doesn’t matter if it’s only a tiny amount, it soon builds up.”

“And you must never tell him about it.”

“Why?”

Auntie Sylvie rolled her eyes.

“Because before you know it that money isn’t yours for just-in-case – it becomes a pot you dip into for a holiday, or when the children need new school shoes, or when the electricity bill is higher than you expected. Then all your carefully saved pennies are gone and the running-away money has all run away!”

She adjusted the hem and squinted at it for a moment.

“Promise me you’ll keep it under your hat.”

I promised. It made sense to put a bit away for a rainy day, as I knew I’d never need it for running away.

So, each week, I paid most of my wages into our joint account which covered the rent and bills.

Then I split whatever was left over: half for me to spend, and half into my secret savings account.

Some weeks it was just a few pence, but over time, as my wages increased and the interest built up, that pot turned into a tidy sum.

I adored being married to Stuart, but it was also hard work at times.

Occasionally, when times were very bad, I’d pull out my savings book and check how much was in there, and think, “If it all gets too much, I can run away if I want.”

I confess there were some times when I teetered on the brink of packing a case and leaving a farewell note on the mantelpiece.

Like the time we lost our baby, and we both drifted in our own bubbles of sorrow, unable to grieve together.

Or the time I hit middle age and felt saggy and crumpled, afraid that life was passing me by, and I yearned to jet off to warm, carefree climes and reinvent myself before it was too late.

Or the time a shamefaced Stuart confessed to kissing a woman he worked with, and his words stabbed me to the core.

And there were times, too, when it simply seemed that our lives were dancing to different tunes, and I doubted we’d ever get in step again.

Yet, though I knew I had the funds and could run away if I really wanted to, I always decided to give it another go, and somehow the despair passed and we fell back in step again, woven more closely together than ever before.

Now, there was quite a bit in my running-away fund. More than enough to cover Timmy’s vet’s bills.

“You hid it all this time?” Stuart asked as I told him about Mam and Auntie Sylvie and their advice.

“I’m sorry. It was supposed to be a safety blanket, just in case.” He was silent for a while. “It was very sensible of your auntie Sylvie,” he said at last.

“You’re not cross?” “Surprised, but not cross.” He rubbed his eyes. “And thank goodness you can save Timmy.”

Love and relief coursed through me. Some husbands would have sulked about the hidden savings, but not Stuart, so sensible and kind. I squeezed his hand.

That night, I lay awake, thinking about the runningaway money. It was funny, but each time I’d considered using it, I’d always found a way round the problem. Sometimes it was simple actions, and sometimes it was gentle words.

A month after we’d lost our baby I discovered Stuart in the room we’d decorated as a nursery. He was sitting on the floor, clutching a tiny blue teddy bear, his cheeks wet with tears.

I’d hunkered down beside him, put my arms round him and whispered, “I know.”

We cried together for a long time and then talked about our grief and hollowness, and the end of all our dreams.

From then, we cried together often, and slowly but surely the grief lifted and the sun started to shine in our lives again.

After Stuart’s brief dalliance, I lived in an agony of jealousy and uncertainty, alternately seething with fury and cringing with insecurity.

Then I got myself a new hairstyle and booked a week away for us in a remote cottage. Time and space for us to thrash it all out, and recommit to each other and to our marriage.

The running-away money was my safety net. Knowing I had independence if I chose, I always chose to stay. But, now he knew about the running-away money, what should I do with it?

Timmy recovered from his accident, learning to walk again on wobbly legs, and building up his strength until he could happily run around the house.

The day came when he was allowed outside again. I opened the back door and he stuck his nose out, scenting the air.

One tentative paw, then another, then he was fully outside. I stood beside him. “Go on, I’m here,” I said. Timmy took a cautious circuit of the garden, reacquainting himself with all the borders and sharpening his claws on the apple tree at the bottom of the garden.

“He’s getting better,” Stuart said, coming out into the garden.

Suddenly Timmy bounded up the tree, along a branch, and disappeared over the fence.

“Timmy!” Stuart called. He rounded on me. “We shouldn’t have let him out!”

“He’ll be back,” I said. “We can’t keep him inside for ever.”

We stared at the fence, anxious.

“I’ve been thinking about my running-away money,” I said. “You retire soon, and it’ll be our fortieth wedding anniversary in a few months. I think we should blow the money on a cruise.”

Stuart took my hand. “No.”

As I opened my mouth to argue, he continued.

“We’ll go on holiday – maybe not a cruise, but somewhere special. And we’ll pay for it from our joint savings, not your running-away money.” “But . . .”

“Your auntie Sylvie was right: start dipping into it, and before you know it, it’s all gone,” Stuart said. “That money’s yours. Keep it, just in case.”

He looked deeply into my eyes and I knew we were both thinking of the times when I could have run away, but didn’t.

The times I decided that however bad things were, I would rather be with Stuart than not.

A sound at the fence made us turn. Timmy appeared on the top, looking pleased with himself.

He inched across the fence to the branch, scuttled down the trunk and ran to greet us, his tail in the air.

“He came back,” I said. “I knew he would.” n