The Happiness List

by Annie Lyons

  Angela raised her eyebrows. ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about.’

  ‘What?’ snapped Fran.

  Angela gestured with her hands. ‘This. This attitude. This sarcasm. This dark humour. You’re not facing your grief. You’re railing against it. And in doing so you avoid the pain instead of facing it head on.’

  Fran was incredulous. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, my darling, you replace it with all manner of things – anger, cynicism and so on – when you need to open up because that’s the only way you can move on.’

  ‘I don’t want to move on,’ said Fran, folding her arms

  Angela’s face softened. ‘I don’t mean forget Andy, I just mean get to a place where you can accept the world without him.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor Freud – you should have been my counsellor. It would have saved me a lot of bother.’

  ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  Fran stared at her. She wanted to say, ‘I am happy,’ but there was no way she’d get a lie that big past Angela Cooper. She turned back to the carrot she was chopping and an uneasy silence descended. Her body stiffened as her mum placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Just think about it, Fran. That’s all I ask. It’s been two years. Now shall I lay the table?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As her mother bustled round the kitchen, the same dead-end thought drifted through Fran’s head like a song on repeat.

  Accept a world without Andy? Why on earth would I want to do that?

  Chapter Three

  Pamela

  It was fine. Really. Absolutely fine. Two out of three Mother’s Day cards were fine. A declaration that the majority of her children were thinking of her. There were plenty worse off.

  ‘He’s a lazy, selfish bugger,’ Barry declared as they sat down to Sunday lunch. ‘Doesn’t think about anyone but himself. He lives the nearest and does the least.’

  ‘Oh shush, Barry. It doesn’t matter,’ said Pamela. But it did matter. Of course it mattered. Another moment in her life that she shrugged off, pretending she didn’t mind when in actual fact it exhausted her brain every waking second. Matthew. Her middle son. A constant worry and a big mystery to her.

  Her other children were getting on with their lives. Her eldest, Laura was a chef, working for a trendy chain of Mexican restaurants in the West End, living in north London with her girlfriend, Jax. Her youngest, Simon was an app designer. He had set up his own business and become quite successful with a game called Run, Bob, Run, in which a gigantic polar bear called Bob had to run across various different landscapes, avoiding sharks, vultures and other similar nasties. Pamela had tried to play it once and felt rather sorry for Bob but apparently it was a big hit with pre-schoolers and meant that Simon could afford a lovely Georgian semi-detached in Bristol, which he shared with his software engineer girlfriend, Skye.

  Pamela’s middle son Matthew, on the other hand, was a relatively unsuccessful journalist and writer, living in a flat-share in Clapham in the same place he had moved to after leaving university. He was thirty-three now and whilst the other residents had changed numerous times over the past twelve years or so, Matthew remained in situ. He made just enough money to get by, along with occasional handouts from Pamela.

  ‘Don’t mention it to Dad,’ she would cluck indulgently, posting a folded wad of twenty-pound notes into his pocket following another surprise visit. She chose to ignore the fact that he only popped round when he needed something. He was her son, after all. What was the world coming to if you couldn’t turn to your own mother in times of need?

  Pamela stared down at her lunch – the perfect roast, with slices of tender beef, Yorkshires as light as clouds, crispy roast potatoes, veg and gravy. She glanced up at her husband, who was scoffing it with gusto.

  ‘Belicious,’ he declared through a mouthful of food. Within minutes, it was gone. Barry sat back in his chair, patting his bulging belly appreciatively. ‘Are you not eating, love?’ he asked, staring at her untouched food.

  ‘I’m not that hungry,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe have it later, eh?’ he ventured. Pamela nodded. ‘Right, well I’d best get back to it – got to get the peas in before dark.’ He hauled himself to his feet and left the room.

  Pamela looked at the clock. Twenty past one on Mother’s Day. When families up and down the land were sitting down to celebrate the one who had given them life, who had brought them into the world and nurtured them as best they could.

  And here she sat. Alone. While her husband tended his garden and her children got on with their lives. Weren’t these supposed to be her golden years – the time when she embraced her life again, like an old forgotten friend? And yet, Pamela had spent so long being a wife and mother that she felt like the last person at a party after everyone else had gone – sad that it was over and wishing she could do it all again.

  She left the table and went upstairs to the box room at the front of the house where she kept her photographs. She liked to come in here, to wallow in the memories of when she’d felt really happy. She picked out a random album and flicked it open, smiling down at a photograph of the three children on holiday in Weymouth. They were sitting on the sand – Laura in the middle, Simon to her left and Matthew on her right. Laura had her arms around her brothers and they were all grinning, their faces covered with ice cream. Pamela knew their exact ages – Laura had been seven, a right little bossyboots, organizing her brothers for every activity from sandcastle building to beach cricket. Matty and Simon didn’t mind, of course. They were five and two and more than happy to comply with Laura who, as their big sister, seemed to know everything. They eyed her as if she was a mystical sorceress, holding the secrets of the universe in her pudgy grasp.

  Pamela longed to leap into that photograph, to be back in that time when she still had so much to offer – when she was their whole world. They were still her whole world today. It’s just that she wasn’t theirs. She could remember Matty on the last night of that holiday. He had wrapped his chunky little arms tightly around her neck and whispered into her ear. ‘I’m never going to leave you, Mummy.’

  Pamela realized that she was sitting with her arms wrapped around her chest now and felt breathless with sadness at the memory. She longed for the feel of a child’s body in her arms – that vital warmth and pure essence of love. She missed it so much. She missed being needed.

  Pamela jumped with surprise as the doorbell rang. She made her way downstairs, thinking it would be Barry having locked himself out. She opened the front door and was confronted by a gigantic floral bouquet and the heady perfume of lilies.

  ‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mum,’ said the bouquet.

  ‘Oh, Matty,’ cried Pamela, her sadness giving way to delight.

  Matthew peered around the flowers with a grin. Such a handsome boy. Although he did look a little pale. She would give him a plate of dinner. Feed him up a bit. ‘Hello, Mum. Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ she said, accepting the flowers and taking a step back to let him over the threshold. It was then that she noticed the large rucksack leaning in the porch. Matthew’s rucksack.

  ‘Actually, Mum. There’s something I need to ask you,’ he said with a wrinkle-nosed grimace.

  Chapter Four

  Heather

  ‘Excuse me. I ordered a flat white but this is clearly a latte.’

  Heather stared into the neatly bearded man’s frowning face and immediately realized her mistake. ‘I am so sorry. Let me sort that out for you right away.’

  ‘Okay, but if you could be quite quick about it please – I’ve got a train to catch.’

  ‘Of course. Georg, please would you make a flat white for the gentleman? And could I offer you a complimentary cinnamon swirl by way of an apology, sir?’

  ‘I’m gluten intolerant,’ said the man.

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Heather. ‘How about one of our gluten-free brownies then? They’re delicious.�
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  ‘Just the correct coffee, thanks,’ insisted the man irritably.

  Georg held out a flat white. ‘Ahh, my glamorous assistant,’ joked Heather. Georg remained as stony-faced as Flat White man. ‘Here you are, sir. Sorry again. Have a lovely day. Thank you, Georg.’

  ‘Mmm,’ muttered the man before he left.

  ‘Mm,’ echoed Georg.

  Tough crowd, thought Heather but then the caffeine-hungry, harassed commuters always were. The trick was to be bright and efficient – inject a little cheer into their day, encourage a fleeting smile perhaps.

  Georg was a different story. Despite working alongside him for over six months, Heather couldn’t remember ever seeing him crack a smile. He was supremely efficient and made the best coffee in this corner of south-east London. Heather assumed that customers considered his taciturn nature a small price to pay for sublime barista skills. She in turn felt the need to overcompensate for his blank expression by smiling so hard that sometimes her face ached by the end of the day. Heather had made it her secret mission to solve the mystery that was Georg. It was proving to be a challenge.

  By 8.45, the queue was thinning out as Oliver and assistant baker, Pete, appeared from the kitchen carrying trays of croissants and pains au chocolat. The air was filled with the irresistible waft of chocolate, coffee and freshly baked pastries

  ‘Post school-run provisions,’ Oliver said with a smile, plonking his tray on the counter.

  ‘Wonderful, thank you,’ said Heather.

  ‘Busy morning so far?’

  ‘Very,’ she replied, restocking the pastry baskets by the till.

  ‘She made mistake,’ reported Georg gravely.

  ‘Snitch,’ laughed Heather.

  Georg frowned. ‘What is snitch?’

  ‘A person who tells tales to the boss. It’s a very serious crime, Georg,’ said Pete, winking at Heather.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ muttered Georg, looking unsure.

  ‘Fortunately, Caroline’s not in yet so you’re off the hook,’ said Oliver, flashing a grin at Heather.

  ‘But you are boss too,’ insisted Georg.

  ‘Don’t let Caroline hear you say that,’ joked Oliver.

  Heather chuckled, remembering the moment Oliver’s wife, Caroline, offered her the job at Taylor-made. Heather had been in no doubt who was in charge as she issued her specific instructions with a frown.

  ‘You’ll need to scrape back your hair into a neat ponytail for hygiene and wear a minimal amount of make-up – we want you to engage with the customers, not make them fall in love with you. Please arrive at six-thirty sharp. We open at seven in time for the commuter rush. Georg is our resident barista – he’ll show you the ropes. Oliver will be around but busy baking obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ repeated Heather feeling sick with nerves. I am a strong, confident woman. Until I meet another woman, who is stronger and more confident. And then basically I become a jelly.

  Caroline had cast a critical eye over her newest employee. ‘We’ve had no end of troubles finding someone suitable for this job – please don’t let us down.’

  ‘I won’t,’ promised Heather, praying that this was true.

  ‘So I should tell Caroline about Heather’s mistake?’ asked Georg earnestly.

  ‘Georg!’ cried Heather, feigning outrage. ‘How would you feel if I told Caroline about all the mistakes you make?’

  Georg looked confused. ‘I do not make mistakes.’

  Pete patted him on the back. ‘We’re just joking, bro. You don’t need to tell anyone anything, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Georg, fixing Pete with a look of relief. ‘Thank you.’

  Heather grinned at Oliver. She loved working here. Despite Georg’s unusual nature and the fact that she now had a mild pastry addiction, it was good fun. The place was always bustling, the customers eclectic and mostly lovely, and its location, just around the corner from where her mother had grown up, gave Heather an unexpected feeling of comfort.

  ‘Aha, and who is this vision I see before me?’ cried Oliver as Pamela hurried through the door with two large cake tins in her arms.

  ‘It is Pamela,’ said Georg, confused. Heather and Oliver exchanged glances of amusement.

  ‘Hello, my loves. How are we all today?’ asked Pamela, plonking the tins on the counter.

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ replied Oliver. ‘And what delights do you have for us this fine morning?’

  ‘Just a salted caramel layer cake and a strawberries and cream sponge.’

  ‘Pamela, if I wasn’t a happily married man, I would drop down on one knee right now,’ declared Oliver.

  ‘Oh, get away with you,’ she blushed.

  ‘These look incredible,’ said Heather, lifting the lids on the tins. Pamela might have been Hope Street’s resident busybody but she was the closest thing they had to Mary Berry. Credit where it was due.

  ‘Thanks, lovey,’ said Pamela with a smile. ‘Oliver, would it be okay if I put up this poster on your community notice board? It’s for a new course all about happiness starting tonight at Hope Street Hall.’

  ‘Of course – be my guest.’

  ‘Thank you. I just met the man who’s running it – lovely eyes and so charming. I think I’m going to give it a go. I’ve always wanted to find out about that mindfulness malarkey. Anyone else fancy it?’

  She fixed her gaze on Heather, who felt a flash of irritation.

  Back off, lady – just because my parents died, it doesn’t mean I need to go on a course.

  ‘Pete?’ asked Heather, deflecting the question.

  Pete grinned. ‘As an Aussie, I’ve pretty much got the happiness lark sorted, thanks, Pamela – it’s mainly down to sport and beer. Now excuse me, lovely people, but I need to crack on with another batch of sourdough,’ he said, before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Pamela gave an indulgent chuckle and then looked at Oliver with eyebrows raised. He put a hand on his heart. ‘I fear that if I told Caroline I was going to a happiness course, she would see it as a declaration of weakness, which, as you know, isn’t allowed in our house.’

  Pamela giggled before turning to Heather. ‘Do you fancy it then, Heather?’ she asked, holding out the poster.

  Heather smiled politely as she took it from her and read out loud.

  ‘The Happiness List – a course led by life coach, Nikolaj Pedersen, teaching you practical skills and exercises to achieve your own version of happiness.

  Ten weeks from Wednesday, 29th of March, 7-9 p.m., Hope Street Community Hall, £8 per session including refreshments.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Thanks, but it’s not for me, Pamela. I’m about as happy as it’s possible to be. Besides, Luke and I are going to be busy tonight making wedding plans.’

  Pamela clapped her hands together. ‘Of course – how wonderful. You deserve to be happy after losing your dear mum and dad. But you must miss them terribly, especially when you’re preparing for such a happy event,’ she insisted. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must be organizing your big day without having them here to lend a hand and share in your joy. I mean, who will help you pick out your dress?’

  Not you if that’s what you’re angling for, thought Heather, astonished at Pamela’s tactlessness. ‘My cousin, Gemma is very supportive,’ she said with a curt smile. ‘And it was a long time ago.’

  ‘Oh but you never get over it, do you? I mean, I still miss my parents after all these years. I wasn’t even that close to my mother but I still catch myself wondering if I should phone to check she’s okay.’

  ‘Everyone’s different,’ said Heather, trying to close down the discussion.

  Pamela gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you by dredging up the past.’

  Heather was annoyed with herself because she had no right to be irritated with Pamela. She wasn’t being unkind. She was just speaking the bald truth – a truth that Heather hadn’t properly considered until now.


  Her parents wouldn’t be there for her wedding. Her mother wouldn’t help her pick out her dress. Or argue over the seating plan. Or hold her hand when the day finally arrived and she felt shaky with nerves.

  She caught a whiff of ginger and cinnamon from the coffee Georg was brewing and felt herself transported back to the day her parents died. She was sixteen and remembered sitting next to Gemma on the sofa at her house – a green velvet sofa with brown sagging cushions. It was November and the air smelled of cinnamon and ginger because her aunt Marian had been baking parkin. Her uncle Jim walked in and cleared his throat. Heather could see his face, grey with concern, and her aunt behind him crying. She couldn’t remember her first reaction to the news but she did recall Gemma wrapping her arms around her for the longest time – an embrace so tight as if she was trying to hug away the pain.

  Gemma. She was the one who had propped her up ever since it happened. She’d moved in to her aunt and uncle’s house as an only child and ended up getting a ready-made family with a big sister to boot. That wasn’t to say there weren’t arguments and disagreements. Suddenly Gemma had to share her parents, her house, her whole world with her younger cousin. Two teenage girls living under one roof was a challenge at the best of times – the cries from Gemma of, ‘Stop stealing my stuff!’ and Heather’s perfect storm of adolescence and grief made for some pretty epic battles. Heather couldn’t remember seeing Uncle Jim in the house much during those years. He retreated to the safe haven of his garden shed, and who could blame him?

  Still, Heather’s overriding memories were of the good times – a blanket of laughter and comfort from the best friend and cousin all rolled into one, who counselled, cajoled and lent her nail varnish.

  It had been Gemma who introduced her to Luke. It was the spring of 2014, months before Gemma was due to marry Ed. She and Heather had embarked on a series of nights out. Their ‘Final Tour’, they called it – drunken evenings where they tearfully declared how much they loved one another, drank too much vodka and danced to the Spice Girls. Heather couldn’t remember the name of the club but she did recall the moment when she returned from the toilet, walking towards the blue backlit bar where Gemma was silhouetted next to a tall man. He was resting his hand on her arm and talking into her ear. Gemma was laughing and shaking her head as she turned and caught sight of Heather.