The Happiness List: A wonderfully feel-good story to make you smile this summer!. Annie Lyons
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eye obscured by the hood of his raincoat. ‘Shall we go to the park and feed the ducks then, Matty?’ ‘Ducks! Ducks!’ he cries gleefully, kicking his legs again. They reach the deserted park and head straight to the lake. There is a flock of nesting herons making a dreadful racket on the island in the middle. ‘Dinosaurs!’ declares Matthew happily. ‘Arrrck! Arrrck!’ Pamela laughs. ‘Yes, Matty – they’re just like dinosaurs. Now do you want to feed the ducks?’ she asks, releasing him from the pushchair and holding out a slice of bread. He joyfully accepts it, pushing himself to a standing position and tottering towards the railings. He tears pieces of bread with clumsy little fingers and flings them towards the grateful ducks now gathering in front of him. Pamela smiles through the drizzle, placing a hand on her pregnant belly. She feels a surge of pure happiness as she watches her sweet little boy. How perfect life is. ‘Ducks, Mummy. Quack! Quack!’ he cries. ‘Quack, quack, Matty,’ she laughs. ‘Quack, quack.’
‘Mum? Are you okay? I think there might be something burning in the oven.’
‘And gently come back to the moment. Open your eyes and focus on something beautiful, like a flower or a tree in the garden.’
Pamela opened her eyes and stared into her son’s confused face. ‘Oh bother! I must have dropped off or set the oven too high,’ she cried, leaping to her feet and flinging open the oven. Twelve charred buns belched out a wave of black smoke.
‘Allow the delicious aroma of your cupcakes to infuse you with positivity as you bring them out of the oven.’
‘Oh, shut up you!’ snapped Pamela, reaching forward to stab at the ‘stop’ button.
She rescued the buns and threw them straight into the bin. She never burnt her cakes. Never.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ asked Matthew again with concern.
She gazed up into his worried face and felt a little restored. ‘I’m fine, lovey. I must have been tired.’ She noticed that he was dressed and she smelt aftershave too. That was a good sign. ‘Are you off out somewhere?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to make you some breakfast?’
Matthew leant forward to plant a kiss on her forehead, like a blessing. ‘You’re an angel, Mum, but I’m meeting someone in an hour, so thanks but I’m good.’ She smiled at him. He hesitated for a second, fixing her with a troubled little-boy-lost look. Pamela knew that look. It tugged at her heart and said, This is your child – help him. She reached for her purse.
‘Here,’ she said, fishing out a twenty-pound note. ‘Take this, get yourself something to eat.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, but his fingers were already closing around it.
‘Of course. I know you haven’t got much work at the moment so this is to help you out until you find a job.’
He hugged her then, kissing her cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum. I’ll pay you back – every last penny. I promise. See you later, ’kay?’
‘Okay, Matty. Will you be home for tea? I’m planning sausage toad.’
Matthew grinned. ‘You said the magic words – that’ll be great. Thanks, Mum. Love you.’
‘I love you too,’ said Pamela as the door slammed shut. She felt a dip of sadness at the silence, the empty space where her son had been until a second ago. ‘Sausages,’ she said, rousing herself, moving towards the fridge freezer to retrieve them. She glanced at the time. Eleven o’clock. Coffee time. She flicked on the kettle and opened the fridge, frowning at the space where the milk should have been.
Unfortunately, Barry chose that moment to stick his head around the back door. ‘Is it coffee time, Pammy? And will there be one of your baked goodies to go with it too?’
Pamela slammed the fridge shut. ‘No! There won’t be coffee or cake, Barry, because someone has used up all the milk!’
Barry frowned. ‘Don’t look at me – it’s Matthew who eats all those night-time bowls of cereal.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I saw him the other night. He was downstairs eating cereal and fiddling about on his laptop – he’s up to something, mark my words.’
Pamela folded her arms. ‘He’s probably working on a new book so why don’t you give him a chance, Barry!’
Barry shook his head. ‘You just can’t see it, can you? He takes you for a mug, Pammy. A complete mug.’
Pamela’s face flushed with indignant rage. She grabbed her handbag and made for the front door.
‘Where are you going?’ he cried after her.
‘To buy milk!’ she shouted, realizing how ridiculous this sounded. She wanted to make a stand. To show Barry that she was cross. She pulled on her coat and shoes and was steeling herself to slam the door on her way out, hoping he’d get the message. Pamela wasn’t really a door-slammer. She tried hard not to let life fluster her. But there was something about Barry and his attitude towards their middle son that made her blood boil. Where was the man she married? That charming, twinkly man always so full of fun and love – he used to look at her as if she were the only girl in the world and now all he cared about was Jeyes Fluid and his blessed roses.
She pulled open the door and stopped. Fran stood on the doorstep and Pamela could tell from her wincing expression that she’d heard every word.
‘Fran, what a lovely surprise,’ she said. ‘I was just on my way out…’
‘For milk?’ asked Fran, pulling a pint from her shopping bag. ‘If you be the coffee, I’ll be the milk,’ she added kindly.
Pamela smiled sheepishly. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Sorry if you heard me shouting.’
‘Don’t apologize. You should hear what goes on in my house. We’ve made shouting into an art form.’
Pamela laughed. ‘It is nice to see you. Come on through.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fran. ‘Is it okay to bring the dog?’
‘Oh yes of course,’ said Pamela, reaching down to pat Alan. ‘Such a lovely boy.’ Alan gave her hand an appreciative sniff in reply.
Fran followed her down the hall to the kitchen, pausing to admire the framed photographs of children at various ages – upward-grinning babies, gap-toothed schoolchildren and university-robed adults. ‘You have a lot of photos.’
‘My babies,’ said Pamela misty-eyed. ‘All grown up now but still my babies.’
Fran smiled. ‘How many children do you have?’
‘Three,’ said Pamela. ‘Laura, Matthew and Simon. All living wonderful lives.’
‘Do they come home much?’
‘They’re very busy and all spread out around the place,’ said Pamela hastily. ‘Simon lives in Bristol and Laura’s in north London but Matty is staying with us at the moment.’ Her eyes shone at the mention of his name. ‘He’s a writer,’ she added with pride. She loved telling people this – it made her life sound interesting.
‘Wow,’ said Fran. ‘What kind of things does he write?’
‘He’s a journalist really but he’s got all sorts of projects on the go. You know how it is.’
Fran nodded. ‘Well if he ever needs an editor, let me know.’
Pamela smiled. ‘I’ll do that – thanks, Fran. How do you fit your job around your kiddies? Must be tough juggling it all.’
Fran shrugged. ‘I’m lucky. I’m freelance and I’ve got some good contacts who trust me and get in touch whenever they need an editor. I enjoy the work, but after I had the kids, I wanted to be at home and then after Andy died, it was all a bit trickier, but I keep my hand in – I manage.’
‘You