A Cornish Cottage by the Sea. Jane Linfoot
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‘Woah, I’m not that bendy!’ It’s the first excuse I come to. There are a lot of spaces in my head, but I’m completely certain yoga puts me to sleep. As for meditation, I’d probably have more laughs in a coma.
The pizza boxes from last night are out on the side, and I help myself to the last piece of my giant Hawaiian.
Aunty Josie’s wearing her ‘disgusted-of-St Aidan’ face as she pokes at her pizza box. ‘Help yourself to the rest of mine.’ Hers was the smallest, gluten-free with dairy-free cheese and no tomato, and she still only picked at a tiny bit. From the way I wolfed the side salad and both fudge cheesecake slices too, you’d never guess I can’t taste things. But I have to keep fuelled, and I’m always secretly hoping that next bite will be better.
‘So is it pizza for breakfast too?’
‘I’ve got some delicious juice here, or the milk arrived. There’s Oat So Simple if you’d rather?’ She gives a disapproving shudder.
‘That sounds way better.’ Her bean sludge is beyond disgusting. Porridge is beige too, but somehow that’s different.
‘I’ll show you how to make it.’ She rips open the packet, then slowly fills it up with milk. ‘Then we can watch Swan Lake while we have breakfast.’
Crap. ‘You don’t like Piers then?’ Breakfast telly has become a morning ritual for Mum and me, but now I think about it, Josie and Harry only like BBC. As for ballet, I’m not sure I can handle men in tights this early, even if they’re fit. Which reminds me, the guy from next door came down the road in his van just as the pizza delivery was blocking the lane last night. What are the chances? I accidentally let out another, ‘Love you, bye!’ as I scooted off with my stack of boxes, which I minded about less because I could swear I saw him jump.
‘I can’t get my head round news these days. The great thing about ballet is it gets the day off on the right foot.’ As Aunty takes the porridge bowl over to the microwave her unflinching expression tells me we’re waving goodbye to any hope of Good Morning Breakfast. ‘Push this button for three pings, Edie. Will you remember three for tomorrow?’
She’s making a big effort to be helpful so I want to say yes, but I have to stay honest. ‘I’ll try.’ Most probably I won’t.
It’s not that I’m a party pooper, and I’m not a quitter. But by the time I’m in front of the TV with my breakfast, what with ballet, stripes on the wallpaper, checks on the PJs and purple poppies, I give in. If I’ve eaten porridge wearing shades before I can’t remember. Maybe I did the time Marcus and I went to those huge mountains near India and had breakfast watching the sunrise. But if not, there’s a first time for everything. I jam my sunnies on my nose and settle back to watch the figures in gauzy net leaping across the screen.
‘You danced, didn’t you?’ It’s wedged in my head but the details have gone, and I’m half expecting her to tell me off for talking.
‘That was years ago.’ Aunty Thing’s abruptness softens. ‘And just once I was on the same stage as Margot Fonteyn.’
‘Awesome.’ I’m giving the air a mental punch for unearthing that.
‘Harry always made more of it than it was.’ If we’re talking stiff upper lips, Aunty Thing’s is made of steel, so I’m guessing her loud sniff has to be down to how much smoothie she’s still got to get through.
‘Do you watch Margot all day then?’ As fast as my heart’s sinking, my panic’s rising. Cosying up in front of Dad’s log-burner with Bridesmaids and Love Actually on repeat was fine, but I’m not up for all-day pas de deux.
She nods. ‘Dance is very therapeutic.’
‘We should go out.’ It’s easy to do, I know. The more you stay home, the more you want to. ‘There must be some classes. Can you look what’s on?’ I nod at the laptop even though I’m not that hopeful. As remote places go, St Aidan is at the end of the line. As the gale thrashes sand grains against the window, I’m wondering how I ever imagined I’d be sitting on the beach soaking up a winter sun patch.
‘Let’s see.’ She pulls her laptop onto her knee and scrolls through. ‘They do them at the Leisure Centre – there’s macramé, or basket-making?’
Surely that can’t be it? ‘Read them all out, please.’ I’m using the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ tone I keep for stroppy builders because, to be fair, the most awkward contractor probably has nothing on Aunty Josie when it comes to heels being dug in. Due to my voice recognition software completely failing to understand my West Country twang, brushing up on reading’s what I’ll be concentrating on next. In between renovations, that is.
‘Fine.’ Aunty Jo lifts her eyebrows. ‘Woodworking, Car Maintenance, Kick Boxing and Learn Spanish while Making Tapas.’ She pulls a face. ‘The best ones seem to be run by the Singles Group, but we can’t go to those.’
‘They might be … er … friendly?’ We are both on our own, in case she’s forgotten. It’s one of my greatest reliefs that I split from Marcus a couple of months before I was ill, because he wasn’t the best with hospitals or looking after people. But in case anyone’s wondering – though I can’t speak for Aunty Jo – a partner’s the last thing I’d be looking for right now.
One sniff from her says that’s a no to the singles. ‘The ones at The Whole Earth Centre are better. Paint your Own Plant Pot, Molecular Gastronomy, How to Make Vegan Dumplings, Hydroponics for Beginners, Breast Painting, Handstand Masterclass, Play the Ukelele in an Hour …’
‘Breast what?’ I have to ask.
‘From the picture, it looks like you roll on the floor and paint with your boobs. I’m not sure mine are big enough.’
Even if mine are, I still shake my head. ‘Keep going.’
‘Sew Your Valentine a Pair of Boxers. Oh, no, sorry, that’s gone.’
‘Damn.’ I grin at her, but she doesn’t smile back.
‘Interior Design … Well, that’s wasted on you. Creative Writing’s not suitable for now. We’d be out of place at Wedding Flowers. Which only leaves Heart Surgeon for a Day, Zombie for an Evening or Goat Rearing.’
I let out a groan. ‘Who goes to these?’
‘Oh, but there’s a Practical page.’ She looks more closely. ‘Dry-Stone Walling or Plastering. With the buildings to finish, either of those might be useful?’
It’s great she’s so up for this, but with everything else going on, I’m not ready to drop rocks on my feet.
‘What about Cupcake Making?’ Cupcake’s another word I can always find. Thankfully. Or Cake Icing would do, so long as it’s the squishy sort.
‘Edie, I’m sugar-free. So we’re back to Macramé?’
I’m a stroke survivor, I could have died. I may not be able to tell the time, but I value every second. ‘Not things from string. Life’s too short.’
‘Calligraphy, then? Harry’s mum used to do that, she made wonderful Christmas cards.’
In my head it’s in the same box as string.
‘It says Modern so it must be for young people like you. It’s drop-in, which is good, so you only pay when you go. Tuesday afternoons at The Deck Gallery.’
‘Is that it?’ It’s vital to get Aunty Jo out again, and it’ll be great to sharpen up my writing. But I can’t believe I’ve come all this way to end up doing that.
‘You can still write?’ She knows because Mum talked to her about helping me with my letters.
‘A bit.’ It’s odd that writing’s easier than reading. Tash says they’re worked from different bits of my head, which is why it’s useful having a sister who’s a doctor. She also has a house, a husband