The Happiness List

by Annie Lyons

‘Bugger. Rookie mistake. I said the “w” word out loud, didn’t I?’ Another bark of affirmation. ‘Right, okay. I guess we may as well head out because I’m not getting very far here.’ Fran pulled on her dog-walking coat, trainers and clipped on Alan’s lead. ‘After you, doggy.’

  They trotted along the street in the sunshine. Fran felt its warmth on her face and a sense of calm descend. Maybe this was what mindfulness felt like and she’d simply never realized. Fran wouldn’t call it happiness as such but she wasn’t unhappy. It was just that grief had that annoying habit of being there all the time so that these small moments of joy were a bit like licking the icing off a cupcake and finding that the cake was made of shit. Yeah. Even two years on.

  Fran didn’t honestly believe that people got over grief. How could they? Someone you loved more than anything was gone. For ever. How could you ever reach a point where you blithely said, ‘Yeah, I’m fine with that? I’m happy again.’

  Never. Gonna. Happen.

  The problem was that after two years, people sort of expected you to have moved on. They weren’t being unkind. She would probably do the same. You couldn’t keep doing the sympathy thing for ever, the ‘how are you?’ voice.

  Still, just because the rest of the world had moved on, it didn’t mean that she had. In the days immediately after Andy’s death, she had found herself thinking, This time two days ago, he was here, having dinner at home with us, and then, This time three weeks ago, we were watching an episode of The Sopranos and drinking that delicious wine Sam bought us. It then became, This time three months ago he was here. He was alive. But now it was ridiculous. She couldn’t say to herself, This time one hundred and four weeks ago, he was still breathing. She knew something had to change but at this moment in time, she had no idea what it was.

  As she returned home from their walk, she let Alan off his lead and made her way to the kitchen. She spied her notebook sitting on the table, open, the blank page taunting her. She grabbed her pen and started to write.

  ‘There,’ she said to Alan. ‘Done.’ She flicked on the kettle and gazed out at the overgrown mess of a garden. She glanced back at the book. Alan gave a quizzical whine. She stared at him. ‘You’re right. It is too soon. I’ll think of something else.’ She grabbed the pen and put a neat cross through what she had just written.

  Chapter Six

  Pamela

  My Happiness List

  1. Just bake

  ‘Observe the soured cream as you gently pour it into the chocolate mixture. See how it changes the consistency of your batter. Look at the way it alters as you stir, creating swirling patterns and a light tinge to the colour.’

  ‘Do we have any Jeyes Fluid, Pammy? That bloody fox has done his business on the front path again.’

  Pamela pressed pause on the iPad. ‘Barry. I am trying to do some baking here. I don’t know if we’ve got any Jeyes. Why don’t you look in the shed?’

  ‘So-rree,’ he huffed. ‘I was only asking.’

  Pamela closed her eyes and sighed. Three deep breaths and bring yourself back to the moment. That’s what the nice American lady said. Satisfied that Barry was safely foraging around in the shed, she pressed ‘play’ on the recording.

  ‘And now we add the vanilla essence. I recommend Madagascan for the ultimate aromatherapy experience. Open the bottle and allow the sweet scent of vanilla to fill your nostrils.’ Pamela wrestled with the cap – it was an unopened bottle, stubbornly sealed. ‘Pour one teaspoon into the mixture.’

  ‘Hang on a second, ducks,’ she said, gripping at the cap and trying without success to unscrew it.

  ‘Now mix it all together, allowing the mingled aromas of chocolate and vanilla to waft into your senses.’

  Pamela tried to gnaw at the bottle top with her teeth. A loose crown flew from her mouth into the mixture. ‘Bother,’ she declared, fishing it out with a spoon.

  ‘Take a moment to admire what you’re creating.’

  Pamela frowned at the resolutely sealed bottle of vanilla essence. ‘Never mind,’ she told the batter. ‘You look lovely as you are.’

  ‘Now observe the sensations in your arms and body as you mix.’

  Pamela wondered if the woman meant her to dwell on the nagging pain in her wrist but decided she probably didn’t.

  ‘Once you have mixed it thoroughly, spoon evenly between the muffin cases, taking time to focus on what you’re doing.’

  I wonder if Barry found the Jeyes? Oh, I forgot to take the sausages out of the freezer for tea. I wonder if Matty will want to eat with us tonight? Unlikely after Barry went on at him for not having a job. How can he be so unkind to his own son? You have to support your children no matter what.

  ‘If you find your mind wandering, just bring it back to the task in hand.’

  ‘Sorry, lovey.’ Pamela grimaced.

  ‘And now place the cupcakes in the oven. Have a seat a safe distance away and close your eyes. Take three deep breaths. You have nothing else to do but sit here for the next fifteen minutes while they bake. Listen to the sounds around you, feel the warmth of the oven and inhale those delicious smells as they start to waft over you. If your mind wanders, don’t worry. Just focus on this gentle music and bring it back with three deep breaths. Enjoy this moment in your comfortable, warm kitchen filled with its wonderful aromas.’

  Pamela did exactly as she was told. She closed her eyes and began to breathe.

  Oh damn, I still haven’t taken the sausages out of the freezer. Never mind. I’ll do it in a sec.

  Breathe, Pammy.

  I wonder when Matthew’s going to get up. He doesn’t always help himself with his dad by lying in bed until goodness knows when.

  Breathe.

  If only he’d find a job – something he enjoys. I might take a look in the shops on the high street to see if there are any ads.

  Breathe. Keep breathing.

  Mmm, those cakes do smell delicious…

  It’s a drizzly day – cloud-heavy and dull. Laura is splashing through the puddles on the way to school, Matthew is kicking his welly-clad feet in the pushchair. They’re singing. Singing in the rain. We’re singing in the rain! Laura glances up at her mother and gives her a gap-toothed grin. They reach the school gates and she runs off to class with her friends in a flurry of brightly coloured cagoules. ‘Have a good day, my little duck – love you!’ Matthew peers up at his mother, one 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 have to, don’t you? I really feel for you young women – so much pressure on you to do it all. In my day, you gave up your job when you got married, you didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘Sometimes the choices make it harder.’

  ‘Don’t they just?’ agreed Pamela. ‘Anyway, where are my manners? Let me make you that coffee.’

  ‘How are you getting on with your happy homework?’ asked Fran. ‘To be honest, I’m struggling.’

  Pamela flicked on the kettle and fetched three mugs from the cupboard. ‘I went with the obvious.’ She handed Fran her notebook. ‘It’s my favourite hobby but I get the feeling I could do more with it.’

  ‘Just bake,’ Fran read out, nodding. ‘Looks good to me and, for the record, I shall do all I can to help you. I’m an excellent eater of cakes.’

  Pamela laughed. ‘I might have had some chocolate muffins for you today. I had a go at that mindful baking that Nik suggested but I fell asleep and they all burnt!’

  ‘I think there’s a fine line between meditating and sleeping – so easy to get the two mixed up,’ joked Fran.

  Pamela smiled. She liked Fran – she was easy to talk to and good fun. She felt rather protective towards her too. She was very young to be a widow and as for her poor children – Pamela’s heart went out to them.

  She placed a mug of coffee in front of Fran, along with milk and sugar. She opened the back door. ‘Barry! Coffee!’

  Moments later, Barry appeared. ‘Thanks, Pammy. Did you get milk then?’ he asked before spotting Fran. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. Hello.’

  Fran smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Fran.’

  ‘Fran and I are doing that course together.’ Barry nodded without comment. ‘Barry thinks it’s a lot of old mumbo-jumbo, don’t you, Barry?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face.’

  Fran looked uneasy. ‘Well, I suppose some of it is a bit “out there”, but I was surprised how much I enjoyed it.’

  ‘See? Fran’s enjoying it and she’s a widow. No offence, Fran.’

  ‘None taken,’ laughed Fran.

  ‘My garden gives me h
appiness,’ declared Barry. ‘So if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the pruning. It was nice to meet you, Fran.’

  ‘You too.’

  After he’d gone, Pamela turned to Fran. ‘Sorry, lovey. That man infuriates me sometimes. All he thinks about is his garden. It’s as if I’m invisible.’

  ‘Maybe you should try telling him?’

  Pamela snorted. Fran made it sound so easy and maybe it was for her generation, but Barry and Pamela didn’t really talk about their feelings. She would have liked to but wasn’t sure where to start. ‘You saw what he’s like. He doesn’t want to know. He can’t get back to his garden quick enough.’ She stole a glance at Fran and felt a pang of guilt. ‘Sorry. Here I am moaning about Barry when you’ve got real problems.’

  Fran laughed. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  Pamela looked horrified. ‘Sorry, Fran, I didn’t mean it like that. I get a bit carried away sometimes.’

  Fran waved away her concerns. ‘It’s fine. Honestly. I’m joking.’

  ‘So how is your list going?’ Pamela asked, trying to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘Not great. I need to open up but old habits die hard,’ said Fran, pulling a face.

  Pamela reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘You’ve been through a lot. You stick with me and Heather – we’ll help you.’

  ‘Thanks, Pamela. So what do you think Nordic Nik’s got in store for us next? Knitting big jumpers and field trips to Ikea?’

  Pamela laughed. ‘I don’t know but I’m looking forward to it.’

  Fran held her gaze for a second. ‘You know what? Me too. Thanks, Pamela – you’ve given me the kick up the bum I needed.’

  ‘Have I?’ asked Pamela, feeling buoyed by the compliment. It was so much nicer than being taken for granted. ‘Well I am glad.’

  ‘So you should be. It’s easy to be cynical, much harder to see the bright side. Right, I’d better get back. Those psychological thrillers and cupcake romances won’t edit themselves.’

  Pamela followed her to the front door and before Fran left, she folded her into a hug. Fran’s body was rigid at first but she relaxed into the embrace. ‘Thanks for popping round, Fran. I really enjoyed our chat.’