Happiness for Beginners

by Carole Matthews

  I was lonely up here without Hettie. Goodness only knows, I like the isolated life, but everyone needs someone and I had no one. If I’m honest with you, I could have just joyfully let myself fade away. Who would have noticed anyway? I simply couldn’t face going into the town, a trip to the supermarket began to terrify me and, like my aunt before me, I was only comfortable when I was around the animals. It’s probably having to look after them that kept me going.

  When I was younger Bev had always been kind to me when my mum was at her worst. The only true friend I had at school was her daughter, Stella. Bev was a young mum, having had Stella at just sixteen, so she felt more like a friend than a grown-up. As their house was between mine and our secondary school, I used to walk with Stella every day, picking her up on the way.

  Bev knew what my home life was like – all the neighbours did as they’d hear mum shouting incoherently when she was drunk or weaving down the street clinging to lamp-posts for support. Bev would check every morning that I’d had breakfast and that there was something in my schoolbag for lunch. Usually, there wasn’t so Bev would give me a bowl of cereal or some toast and there’d be a sandwich already wrapped alongside Stella’s for my lunch break. As I said, she’d always been kind. In fact, her urge to feed me has never really waned.

  When we left school, Stella went on to do wonderful things. University first and then some fabulous job in America – a lawyer or something. She comes home once in a while and Bev has been out to see her, but she doesn’t like the flight. I’m with her on that. It would be my idea of hell too.

  To fill the gap Bev became carer to a young girl, Trina, who had Asperger’s Syndrome. Her parents both had high-flying professional jobs so could afford personal care for her. I didn’t know what Asperger’s Syndrome was, but I knew it took up a lot of Bev’s time and I saw less of her.

  But when Bev heard about Hettie passing away, she came straight up to see me. She came along to the funeral too. There were only a few of us there. Me, Bev and … no, I think that was it. Unless, you count the celebrant. We went to the local pub afterwards and had a cheese sandwich and a glass of decent white wine. There was no fanfare, no farewell tune, no letting off of helium balloons into the ether. It was quiet, dignified and involved as few humans as possible. It was how Hettie would have wanted it. I threw her ashes into the air at the farm and let the wind carry them over the land.

  Afterwards, Bev insisted on setting up a routine of regular visits to the farm. In truth, I welcomed and dreaded Bev ‘dropping by’ in equal measure. The effort of talking to people had become enormous. Yet, despite my unenthusiastic response, she brought me food, home-baked pies and Tupperware containers brimming with wholesome soup on a thrice-weekly basis. When I was at my most pathetic, Bev’s husband, Steve, rigged up a freezer for me in the barn and she filled it with food that would provide me with a staple diet. For a long time, I lived entirely on Bev’s dinners that I only needed to microwave. She’ll never know how grateful I am to her for that.

  Sometimes, she brought the little girl she looked after with her. Which I think was for her own sake as much as mine. Bev was endlessly patient and kind with her charge, but I could see that it was demanding work. At the time, Trina didn’t speak much at all yet I still found it difficult coping with them both in the cramped space of the caravan. The sense of claustrophobia could feel overwhelming, but I knew that Bev enjoyed bringing Trina up to the farm and it seemed as if it was the least I could do for her. She’d always been there for me. Despite her own commitments, Bev carried on visiting me, regardless. She was a constant and dogged companion, carrying on a stream of chatter even when Trina and I stared blankly at each other, willing her to stop.

  Even in my self-absorbed and insular state, I could see that Trina’s behaviour could be challenging. She was quite a handful, restless and frustrated, always difficult to entertain. Bev was wonderful and seemed to have the knack of dealing with her. Not everyone could do it. I think it’s because Bev is one of life’s nice people, a natural carer.

  ‘I could kill for a bacon buttie,’ Bev complains, bringing me from my reverie. ‘But I suppose I’ll have to make do with a biscuit.’

  Like the animals, Bev’s thoughts never stray far from her food. And, despite her love of our four-legged friends – or mostly four-legged in our case – I’ve never managed to convince her of the joys of being a vegetarian.

  ‘One of the parents brought us some Tunnock’s Teacakes,’ I tell her.

  ‘Food of the Gods!’ Bev looks beside herself with glee. We all love it when we get unexpected treats. ‘What have we got on today?’

  ‘I haven’t written up the list of tasks on the board yet,’ I confess. ‘That’ll be my next job.’

  ‘Slacker,’ Bev teases. ‘You’ve normally got that done by six o’clock. Have we got a full house?’

  ‘Just four students, I think.’ Our students all have different requirements, so no day is the same and we can’t cope with too many at one time if we’re to give them the attention they need. Some require one-on-one care, others can manage to do more for themselves. The time they spend here varies too. Some of the kids we have all week, some just for a few days, others only have a few hours here which – quite frankly – is never enough. Today, we have some of our less troubled youngsters booked in. ‘It should be quiet.’

  Bev snorts. ‘Famous last words, Ms Glass Half-full.’

  She’s right, of course. Whenever I say that, there’s always some kind of drama and Bev is always here to help. She has been a steadfast friend and I’d give her an affectionate glance, but she’d kill me if she saw it. Nevertheless, I don’t know what I’d do without her now.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Where’s Alan?’ I ask Bev.

  ‘Disappeared into the barn the minute we got here,’ she says.

  No change there.

  Whereas Bev is an open book, Alan Taylor is one of life’s mysteries. Hettie would have called him a ‘conundrum’. Alan’s probably in his sixties and is a minimal communicator. I’m only glad that he managed to land at our door. In one of his more voluble moments, I managed to wheedle out of him that he’s a retired engineer of some sort – he might have said defence industry, but I don’t like to ask him again. Apparently, early retirement – even with a generous pay-off and pension – wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and he was looking for a few hours of volunteer work to fill his day. Some kind soul pointed him in our direction, so one day he just rocked up, got stuck in and never left. He says very little, can fix everything and won’t take any payment from me. That’s it. I can tell you nothing else about his work or personal background. He has his Enhanced DBS check that enables him to work with children, so that’s all I need to know.

  I sometimes think he might fancy Bev but it’s quite hard to tell. Occasionally, I sense that his expression softens when he looks at her. I might be imagining it, though. The only time he shows any real emotion is if I splash out and tell Bev to get some chocolate Hobnobs with the weekly shop – then his eyes truly light up.

  His appearance is a bit of an enigma too. Alan has a surfeit of grey hair that sticks out in all directions and a long, straggly beard that ZZ Top might envy. Like me, he is a stranger to grooming products. He favours baggy trousers, a ripped check shirt and ancient Hunter wellies.

  ‘Did you see what he’s wearing today?’ Bev widens her eyes – which are more than a little bloodshot after last night’s enthusiastic pub session.

  The only excitement we get from Alan – and our lives in general – is that he wears a different band T-shirt every day under his unbuttoned shirt. Some surprising ones too. Yesterday, for instance, was a Pulp day. We vie for the first glimpse which can send us into a frenzy. Every evening Bev and I take bets on who he’ll turn up in, usually wagering cake or biscuits for the winner. We are normally way off. Though, in fairness, neither of us would have guessed Alan was a Bucks Fizz fan.

  ‘No. Did you catch it? Were we anywhere c
lose?’

  ‘Remind me?’ Bev says. ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Kings of Leon.’

  ‘I went for Kaiser Chiefs.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Florence and the Machine.’ We both sigh our defeat. Didn’t see him as a Florence fan either. He is a man of deep mystery.

  ‘Not a hope,’ I complain. ‘He’s always one step ahead of us. It’s as if he knows.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ Bev says, consoling. ‘We will crack the band T-shirt code. Fancy joining me for a quick tea and a teacake in commiseration at our abject failure?’

  ‘Why not?’

  So, dogs in tow, we head towards our communal tea room for a welcome break and a breakfast of biscuits for me.

  Chapter Six

  When I was slowly surfacing from my trough – I don’t like to call it depression, but it may have been – someone asked me to take on a Shetland pony that had been neglected. I had no idea how to say no, so Tiny joined us.

  He arrived malnourished and unkempt. Bev and I would walk out into the fields together with Trina to take care of him. It was then that we found that Trina loved the animals and, in turn, they seemed to calm her. Tiny was a particular favourite and she’d stand stroking the little pony and brushing his mane for as long as he’d let her. I’ve since discovered that some horses have a knack of knowing how to treat kids who need that bit of extra attention and Tiny was one of them. He was always kind and gentle, despite never having been treated that way himself. He was with us for a long time and had a good life here. We missed him terribly when he went to that big, open paddock in the sky.

  Over that first summer, the improvement in Trina was incredible. She still never spoke directly to either Bev or me, but she began to coo away contentedly to the animals. When we acquired poor, battered Little Dog as not much more than a puppy, he joined her inner circle of three. She’d grin back at his weird perma-smile and, when she thought we weren’t looking, we’d hear her chatting away to him, Little Dog cocking his ears as if listening intently.

  That was ten years ago and, since then, Trina has blossomed into a lovely, and remarkably chatty, young woman. She’s now at a local college doing an art foundation course. She still needs extra tuition and extended time for exams – and some days she has a complete meltdown out of nowhere – but her achievements are nothing to be sneezed at. She paints big, bold, beautiful landscapes with vivid, expressive colours. In her spare time, she rides ponies and helps out at nearby stables. Sometimes, she still comes up here to see us and it’s always a joy to be with her.

  When the local press found out about Trina’s visits here and how they’d helped her, they sent a journalist who looked about twelve to interview us all. Then a photographer came and took some pictures of our very photogenic animals which we still have hanging in the tea room. When the piece appeared in the paper, I got phone calls from other parents – mostly stressed people at the end of their tether – asking if they could bring their children here. With Bev’s help, we had a few informal open days – where I would do my best to hide in a barn. The children would arrive, pet the animals, maybe try riding a pony, collect eggs from the hens or some other simple, supervised tasks around the farm. Without exception, they loved it. So their relieved parents told other people and the word spread.

  So, after much deliberation and angst, I decided to make it a formal arrangement and set up a permanent school here. Soon I had about ten people coming on a weekly basis. I generally have children over the age of ten up to about sixteen, with either behavioural difficulties or mental health issues. Some of them are brought here by harried parents who just need a few hours respite. Some come here because no one can think what else to do with them. We take students from the school down the road that caters for children with special education needs when they just need time out of the classroom to let off steam – mucking out a stable is an excellent way to burn off excess, destructive energy. Now we have about fifty kids in total on our books and just try to help them to overcome their fears and build self-confidence.

  It’s hard to say what we do exactly, but what we most definitely don’t do is try to force square pegs into round holes. The students here are encouraged to develop at their own pace. We build self-confidence, self-esteem and responsibility. We teach them to learn by doing rather than by lessons. They look after the animals, they look after each other and they work on the farm. To the outside observer, it may seem haphazard – dare I say chaotic. No day is the same. But somehow, with a bit of luck and a following wind, it works. You know me well enough by now to realise that I like to stay as off-grid as possible but, of course, we have to jump through hoops with all the paperwork required for a place like this. Bev cajoled me into setting up a charity and I’m glad that I did as it certainly made this strange and unique little establishment feel more rooted. With Bev’s guidance we’ve grown, developed and, not wishing to blow my own trumpet, helped so many kids to reach their full potential – especially the ones who would have foundered in the usual school set-up. I didn’t exactly enjoy my teacher training or my work in state schools, but it was a means to an end and has certainly stood me in good stead for what I do now.

  So that’s kind of how we started and it’s still what we do now. We just help people.

  Chapter Seven

  While we’re having our first cuppa of the day, the students start to arrive. Some are brought by parents, others arrive in taxis – most of whom now know how to find us tucked away in our little satnav-teaser spot.

  We’ve got some of our easier students today. First to arrive are two lovely young men, Jack and Seb. They’re both fourteen and are on the autism spectrum. They’ve been coming here for roughly a year or so now, during which time they’ve become firm friends. If all of our kids were like this, then our job would be easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy. Set them a task – whether it’s collecting eggs or mucking out a stable – and, generally, they’ll carry it out without faltering.

  Jack’s favourite task is making tea for everyone and so his first job is always to put the kettle on. His routine is more precise than any Japanese tea-house, I’m sure. We like to meet up with the students here in our tea room each morning before we start the day with them, so that we can have time to chat through any issues. We also have our breaks here and our lunch. It’s where everyone congregates for tea and sympathy. We call it the tea room, but that makes it sounds an awful lot more glamorous than it is. Essentially, it’s a knackered old outbuilding with windows that are draughtier than I’d like. It could do with a lick of paint too, but we brighten it up with bunting made by the students and photos of their achievements. There’s a wall of photos of our animals too, and granny blankets scattered everywhere thanks to our tame crochet fan – no one should be without a blanky in their lives.

  There’s a small kitchen at the back with a newish oven that was donated to us. Bev whips up our lunches here. She likes to bake too so there are often cakes to be had. But mostly it’s just sitting around. Often that’s the easiest way to get kids to open up. Then again, there are times when they just need to be quiet with their own thoughts and the modern world doesn’t allow for much of that. If it was up to me, I’d confiscate everyone’s phones the minute they came through the gate. Mobile phones are the devil’s work, I’m convinced.

  Jack makes a beeline for his favourite kettle and Bev and I oblige by having another brew while he and Seb tell us what they’ve been up to since they were last here a couple of days ago.

  Jack lives at home with his parents – which not all of our students do – and has a couple of hens in the garden there, so we always get the lowdown on what his girls have been up to. His favourite job here is to collect the eggs from our scraggy brood and to write it up in the ledger.

  Seb lives with foster parents and it seems as if his entire evenings are spent on his PlayStation, which sometimes worries me. I’d like to see him have some other interests, but we do everything in tiny bites here
and that’s something I can work on in the future.

  ‘Who’d like to write up the list of tasks for the day?’ I ask.

  ‘I will.’ Seb volunteers first. I reel off the jobs we have to do and slowly Seb writes them in his meticulous handwriting on the whiteboard in red marker pen, his favourite colour.

  ‘The hens will be waiting for us.’ There’s a note of anxiety in Jack’s voice as he dries the last of the mugs. ‘They won’t like that.’

  ‘You go,’ Bev says to me. ‘I’ll wait here for the other students to arrive and then I’ll take them up to the field.’

  ‘Come on then, Jack. Don’t forget your bucket.’ We head out together and Jack collects his pail from the barn en route. We walk up to the chicken coop which is set behind the tea room, close enough that I can see it from my caravan window. We have about twenty chickens now. It varies as we have a very active and determined fox in the vicinity. No matter what I do, he somehow finds his way in to their high-security unit. The chicken coops and run have recently been relocated so if I hear any kerfuffle in the dead of night, I’m up, out of my bed and there like a shot. No one messes with my girls.

  ‘I think I saw Phantom,’ Jack says as he swings the bucket next to him. ‘Hiding behind the hay bales.’

  ‘Really?’ We have a cat with half a face, probably due to a past traffic accident, who lives in our barn. He wasn’t brought here like the others; Phantom just moved in by himself about six months ago. Perhaps he just felt it would be a safe haven for him. I haven’t ever been able to get close enough to him to fully ascertain that he is a ‘he’. Phantom walks with a goose-step, lives mostly on the mice he catches, has fits occasionally and rarely comes out to see us. Every now and then, I try to cajole him to come and talk to me so that I can check he’s all right, but he’s a very reluctant patient. ‘Did he look OK?’