Future On Hold

Sometimes plans changed, but that didn’t have to be a bad thing . . .

TODAY was a mess. The cat was sick on my Persian rug, the washing line snapped and I had to retrieve knickers, a duvet cover and Alan’s work shirt from next door’s pond.

Then I forgot the lunch invitation. I’m not one of those ladies who lunch, and I’d forgotten that my Pilates group were meeting at the Sly Fox at one o’clock.

The fact I’m their Pilates teacher made it worse.

“Are you OK, Trudy? While we were waiting the waiter brought us another bottle of wine and we’re a bit sozzled.” Marjorie giggled on the phone.

That afternoon, I topped up the car with petrol after my supermarket dash. The children would be back from uni that day and my list was longer than usual.

Alan and I had just returned from a weekend in France to celebrate our silver wedding and our hire car had run on unleaded.

I was halfway through pumping unleaded into our diesel Golf when I realised my mistake.

I had to sit for an hour on the garage forecourt, car cordoned off with cones, until the AA man turned up.

The last straw to my day of fiascos was the family conference at supper.

It was good to see the children, even if the fridge emptied faster and they drank all our wine.

We lingered over supper, chatting while we caught up with news.

Emma, nineteen, dropped the first bombshell.

“I’ve been thinking about switching unis,” she began. “I hate the course. It’ll only mean one extra year of fees if I change.”

Alan and I exchanged a look, but we heard her out.

“I’m wasting a year of my life and missing out on what should be the best years.”

“Tell us about it!” I wanted to yell.

After years of bringing up our children, Alan and I had been counting down to early retirement, budgeting carefully for that day.

I listened to Emma, calm on the outside, whilst my internal calculator was assessing costs of another year’s tuition fees, rent, textbooks – all outside the contingencies we’d carefully computed for our future.

To cap it all, twenty-oneyear-old Jack announced he was going to be a father in six months’ time.

He and Amanda were over the moon, he said, and he’d decided to shelve his Master’s degree.

To say I was crestfallen is to put it politely.

What a waste of his career ambitions, I thought.

That night I tossed and turned, worries worming round my brain, whilst Alan snored for Britain.

To help ease future uncertainties, I thought of jobs I could do in the house. Perhaps I could replace our carpets and apply a lick of paint to the walls.

I forced myself to concentrate on a tranquil sea, only to be overcome by a tsunami of hot flushes.

Giving up, I slipped out of bed, pulled on jeans and a fleece and went downstairs to make myself a cuppa.

The debris of last night confronted me, together with a couple of bin liners overflowing with Emma and Jack’s dirty laundry.

There was nothing new in their bringing washing home, but today it touched nerves already raw, intensifying my black mood.

“What about the best years of our lives?” I wanted to shout upstairs.

I yanked the dog lead off its hook and our dachshund hurled himself at me, his tail thumping against the kitchen units, uncomplicated eyes looking up imploringly.

“Come on, Sammy,” I said.

I pulled on wellies and slammed the door. Why should they sleep, I thought, when they’d kept me awake all night?

Dew glistened on my boots as I trudged along the path behind our house.

I let Sammy off the lead and he bounded away. This walk to the reservoir was his favourite, with plenty of rabbits and pheasants to snuffle out, and I couldn’t help smiling at his pleasure.

After an hour’s brisk walk I stopped on the slope where the warden had let us position an oak bench.

Carved into the backrest were the words we had chosen: In Loving Memory Of Dorothy Black. 1940– 2017. A Place She Loved.

Mum died unexpectedly of a heart attack. This was a spot she came to often and the family had wanted her memorial to become part of the landscape.

I sat down as I sensed her presence. I pictured Mum,

observing me.

Since her death I’d been drawn to this peaceful place whenever I needed to sort out problems.

As the sun rose higher, bird song increased. The scene was comforting: a pattern of spring unfolding.

The insignificance of my problems began to dawn on me. It was too chilly to linger, but I felt comforted. Mum’s voice seemed to whisper in my head, “Don’t wish time away, my darling. Go with the flow.”

His explorations over, Sammy came over and I caressed his velvety ears before getting up to leave.

I thought about Mum’s sensible message. This idea of thinking the best years were yet to come was silly. Best years should be every year, warts and all.

I should make the most of now. We would manage financially. I could offer more Pilates lessons.

As for being grandparents, it would be fun to have little ones in the family before we grew too old to get down on hands and knees to be lions and tigers or tractors.

Back home, I was greeted by loud music from Radio 1 and the aroma of frying bacon. Emma was drying up last night’s pans.

She came over to hug me.

“Brilliant meal last night, Mum. I really miss your cooking. Thanks for being cool about the course. I’m so lucky to have you and Dad.”

Jack galloped downstairs three at a time and planted a kiss on top of my head.

“Dad and I have been up in the loft. The wooden highchair’s awesome, but we won’t manage the big pram on the stairs to our flat.”

How could I imagine a future without them? There would be time enough for Alan and me to enjoy our retirement plans, but not in splendid isolation, and we should stop trying to organise our lives like neat spreadsheets.

“Any tea left in that pot?” I asked as I started to lay the table, whispering a silent thank you to my mother.