Any Time Now

By Lyn Smith

After a long career in nursing, Connie thought that she could look forward to an enjoyable retirement, doing all of the things that she and her husband had never had time to do. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, her husband was killed. 
A year later, just as she feels she is learning to live with her loss, life decides to throw more difficulties in her way. She discovers that Dave wasn’t quite the model husband that she always assumed he was, and there are a few ancient family secrets which, it seems, she is the last one to find out about. Her life is turned upside down once again. Is she really the innocent party, as she has always believed, or could she be partially to blame for her lukewarm relationships? Can she regain her equilibrium and strengthen the bonds between herself and her family, and will she find love when she least expects it? 
This is a heartwarming and ultimately upbeat story about the nature of love and loss, and also hope and optimism. It shows the importance of the support of family and friends in getting through the sorts of problems that can lie in wait for any of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jun 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838596316

Book preview

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter One

Bowie’s China Girl. Dave set it as my ring tone-no idea why. I pick up my phone from the bedside table, glancing at the time as I swipe to answer. It’s 7.15. Not ridiculously early, but early.

Hello lovely. How you doing? Geri has to ring early as she starts work at eight and I appreciate her thinking of me, I do.

Too soon to say. I mumble. She snorts appreciatively at my grim attempt at humour. She is my best friend in all the world. She was the only person who could be in my company without appearing acutely uncomfortable after Dave died. She was happy to talk, or listen and seemed to know instinctively which was appropriate. She brought wine, or chocolate or take out food and again seemed to understand exactly what was called for.

What are you up to today? she continues. I inhale and try to martial my thoughts . Well, the kids are coming this evening.

And now?

Oh you know, breathe in, breathe out, that kind of thing.

Connie.... she says in her schoolmarm voice.

It’s fine-don’t panic. I’ll make some bread, make a cake, get the bedrooms ready. I have plenty to keep me occupied.

Okay, well, I’m in my office this morning so if you want to chat just give me a ring. Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?

Absolutely. Looking forward to it.

Okay. Love you. Then she’s gone. Off to her manic job at the huge FE college in town. She works all the hours that the gods send but still finds time to call. She knew it was important to talk to me on the anniversary of Dave’s death, to let me know that I wasn’t alone. I had done the first Christmas and the birthday so this was next in the line of significant dates to endure. My kids always came to spend time with me. We huddled together at Christmas, had too much to drink, watched crap tv. For his birthday we went to his favourite restaurant and reminisced about the things we loved about him and the things that drove us crazy. And now it was October 17th. This time last year we were getting up together. Four hours from now he would be dead.

My mind travels back. How could it not? I had been retired for a couple of weeks, he was staying on at work until our house was sold. It was supposed to be the beginning of a new stage of our lives, one where we had the time and the energy to do what we wanted, when we wouldn’t be dancing to someone else’s tune. Well, fate put paid to that little brainwave.

He went off to work as usual that morning and then there was a stupid accident involving two cups of coffee and a flight of stairs. Dave’s neck was broken in the fall.

He didn’t suffer said the doctor at the time. But that doesn’t help. The kids and I have to live on without him, and we do suffer.

I push myself up to a sitting position as my phone rings again. My daughter this time. Hi sweetie.

Hi momma bear. How you doing?

Shit. You?

Shit.

We both let out a hmph of half hearted laughter and there is a brief pause.

So, we will be over at about seven she says

Righto. I will get your room ready. Anything you fancy for tea?

No need to worry, Bella is making her signature dish.

Again we both snigger softly. Bella’s signature dish is, in fact, the only dish that she can successfully produce - a roasted vegetable lasagne, and it is very good.

Lovely I respond. I will make some focaccia.

And apple cake?

And apple cake! Another pause. A bereaved wife, a bereaved daughter. We both know that there is nothing we can say to take the hurt away, but need to express it anyway, somehow.

Love you Mum she says, a catch audible in her voice.

Love you Becks I respond, and we sign off, because weeping into our phones won’t do either of us any good. And I get up, because I have focaccia and cake to bake.

This, in my experience, has been the way to deal with grief-always have something that needs to be done. Finding the strength to do it, however, is sometimes a challenge. It helps if it is for someone else, like the bread and the cake, and it also helps if it is something complicated and difficult, like selling and buying houses.

In the weeks after Dave died I made the decision to go ahead and sell our house. Most people thought I was mad. Well, I suppose I was really. Certainly I wasn’t thinking straight. However I haven’t regretted my decision for a moment. I guess I was helped along when I got a full asking price offer, and I was very clear about the house I wanted to buy.

Dave and I had viewed it together, but he had dismissed it out of hand as too small. I then explained to him, once again, the principles of down-sizing. He wouldn’t be persuaded though. Pokey he said. Couldn’t swing a cat in that lounge. We didn’t have a cat. I do now, but I don’t think he would be happy about being swung. The lounge is certainly cosy. When the whole family (five adults, one child and the aforementioned cat) are in there you need to move around cautiously to avoid injury. This isn’t often though. Most of the time it is just me (and the cat).

What I love most about my house is the kitchen. It is light and bright, has just enough room for a table in the middle, and gives out onto the garden. Which is my second favourite thing. Mine is the last of a row of farm workers cottages, and is at the end of a lane which peters out into fields. This means that the garden wraps all the way around the house which gives me both privacy and space. I have a small vegetable and herb patch, a few fruit trees, and still room for the pretty stuff.

The gloom and doom sayers told me that I should stay in the home I shared with Dave, that I needed the familiarity and the memories. They were wrong. The memories don’t disappear when you change location. I have brought a lot of things over from the old house (not everything - downsizing and all that) and the life we had together travels with me everywhere I go.

The thing that I haven’t done yet is invest the rest of the money that was released when the house was sold. Our intention was to buy a second property which we would rent out to augment the pensions. That is the bit I seem to be struggling with and so the money is just sitting in the bank earning next to nothing in interest. Fortunately I am not without income since I am able to access my nurses pension and of course a portion of Dave’s but this still isn’t a generous sum so I need to sort something out soon.

These are the kinds of thoughts that can switch grief into a mild sense of irritation. Is that better than grief? I’m not sure. It is frustrating, certainly. There is no one to turn round to and berate, no one to have a spat with, no focus for your hissy fit. In your head you are railing against the departed We should have sorted this out sooner. This is your fault for delaying. We should have just got on with it.

Definitely, definitely I will get on to it. Tomorrow. Meanwhile the bread needs to prove and then I will get on to the apple cake.

Dan and Molly arrive first - bearing wine and whiskey, both of which I am happy to receive. Dave used to refer to Dan as No.1 son although he is, in fact, our only son. Thirty two now and happily settled. We love Molly but she is a bit - eccentric, I suppose. She marches to the sound of a drum that only she can hear. Which is odd given that Dan is science all the way, with two degrees and a PhD to back it up. Despite this he patently adores her and accepts even her dippiest utterances with a kind of calm consideration which suggests that he is willing to give her the benefit of the doubt until empirical evidence proves otherwise. And since we are never going to be able to say for certain that fairies don’t exist.....

She envelops me in a hug perfumed with jasmine and chilly autumn air. She is much more tactile than Dan, or Rebecca actually, and is forever hugging, stroking, kissing. It irritates Becca and Bella, but I don’t mind. It is, for her, just another form of communication, part of her mark on the world. Breaking from the hug, she stares into my eyes. I look back, waiting for a pronouncement.

I thought so. She has a breathy voice, little girl-y, almost. Turning, she rummages through her capacious, embroidered bag and produces a small plastic bag of something herbal looking. I am wary - I have come unstuck before when Molly has handed me little bags of herbs. She is vehemently against mind altering substances though, so it turns out I didn’t need to worry (although in Molly World alcohol counts as a health food).

What is it Moll? I ask. She wrinkles her nose and half closes her eyes in thought. After a fairly lengthy pause she says,

Let’s just call it a tonic. Sprinkle some on your cereal. and I probably will because sometimes she’s right.

In the meantime Dan has taken over corking duties and returns with a bottle and three glasses. It feels odd, a bit like a party, like there should be music and nibbles. Until he sits, with a sigh. How are you? he asks, both of them looking at me anxiously. I feel that they deserve more than a flippant answer.

Well, I’ve been better. I start, trying to play things down, not get too emotional. I try again for honesty.

I don’t know Dan, what can I say? I get through the days fairly well now. It isn’t such an effort to heave myself out of bed every morning. I know that I’ve still got so much to be grateful for like you two and the girls and Tom.....but.

They don’t speak, just watch and wait for me to go on.

But I still find myself thinking, I’ll have to tell Dave about that or making plans for things we could do, and then I remember... Molly moves in and puts an arm around me as I continue. And sometimes I’m so mad at him. Is that awful?

My son looks perplexed but Molly shakes her head emphatically.

No. You have every right to rage. The gods shat on you and you didn’t deserve it. she says.

I am contemplating the wisdom of her words when the front door opens again and a small whirlwind in the shape of a boy flings himself at me.

Nana Connie! At six years old, Tom doesn’t worry about the right thing to say, he is simply happy to see me. I hug him right back because he really does make me feel that nothing can be too awful to bear as long as he is in my world.

I’m not his biological nana, of course. He is actually Bella’s son from her brief marriage. Trying to please her family, but denying herself, she married a man she had known at school and liked. They were only 19, still children really. They lived together reasonably happily for a couple of years then decided that a baby was the next thing on their to-do list. However, shortly after Tom was born, Sean, Bella’s husband, fell in love. I guess he recognized the real thing when he saw it. Bella was far from heartbroken. At this point she had come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t remotely attracted to him and that actually her interests lay in a completely different direction. She dated a few women until, two years ago, she met Becca on a dating website. They moved in together six months later, an instant family. I didn’t so much lose a daughter as gain another daughter and a grandson, which I was very happy about. Bella’s family, on the other hand, were not. Her parents and brother pretty much cut her off when she came out. I don’t understand it myself. She is kind, smart, ambitious - a daughter anyone would be proud of. They are a bit older I suppose - almost my parents generation. Her brother is ten years older than her, and they weren’t young when he was born. Certainly my dad struggled when he was told of Becca’s sexuality. He tutted and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if it was just something she was doing to be irritating, like when she became vegetarian. He didn’t distance himself though. Becca was never in any doubt that she was loved by her family. Poor Bella doesn’t have that so Dave and I always tried to fill the void a bit for her. Of course that meant that she was hit by Dave’s death just as hard as the rest of us. Tom struggled with it too but is happy with the explanation that Grandad Dave is now in heaven with Dobby and Johnson (a guinea pig and rabbit, respectively ). Occasionally he asks questions such as, do they have football in heaven? or, can he get a burger and chips there? In his head it probably sounds like a pretty awesome place so why wouldn’t Grandad Dave want to live there? He understands that it was a year ago today that this trip to heaven occurred and sees the event as a bit of a party. One half of the family is present (the other half being his dad’s side), there will be lots of food and a late night. All good stuff for young Tom. He has had enough of being cuddled, however, and drags his Uncle Dan into the chilly evening for a spot of floodlit football, which is to say, in the garden with the outside lights on.

That leaves us women folk nursing our wine and contemplating the future. Chips and dips? says Molly whose view of the future is pragmatic. She is going to make sure we don’t starve. She and Bella bustle into the kitchen to serve up snacks and warm up lasagne.

It’s still weird isn’t it? says Becca I still expect him to walk through the door even though he never lived in this house.

I know. I feel the same. I sometimes find myself talking to him. I tell her. Never any answer though!

Becca gives a twisted grin, Funny that!

I suppose that the jokes, however weak, are an improvement on the weeping.

I guess it’s good to talk about him, she goes on although talking TO him is a bit strange. She gives me a sideways look and we both start to giggle. Molly and Bella pick this moment to return. Bella clearly thinks we have lost our senses, whilst Molly joins in, even though she has no idea what we are laughing about.

Three hours later we are full of good food and wine and I have poured everyone a tot of whiskey (except for Bella who says she would rather suck dirty socks and Molly who says she isn’t in the mood ). Tom is dozing, sprawled across his mummies and whilst there is a kind of poignant air to the room, there is also a calmness, a tranquility which feels good to me. I look at my little family and whilst of course it is desperately sad that Dave won’t see Tom grow up, or meet any other grandchildren we might have, I am thankful that they are there for me and that they are such good people. The girls take themselves up to bed first, using my bedroom which is the biggest. Dan and Molly follow soon after and I settle into the small bed in the spare room. I fall instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep, the first time I had done so in months.

Chapter Two

Of course with a six year old in the house lying in is not even the remotest of remote possibilities. And whilst I love my grandson dearly, having him bouncing on my stomach whilst I am in the throes of a (very mild) hangover would not be the way I would choose to start the day. Luckily for all concerned his mum appears soon after with a cup of tea and diverts him to his aunt and uncle. I feel a millisecond of guilt but, hey, they are younger than me and I have already done the getting up at the crack of dawn with the kids thing. It’s somebody else’s turn.

Sipping my tea it occurs to me that we have all survived The Day, that actually it slipped by with very little in the way of sobbing or sorrowing. Is that bad? I wonder. Are we callous and unfeeling? After a short period of reflection I decide not. As everyone will tell you, life goes on and it IS what Dave would have wanted from us. I start to feel a lessening of the weight that has been sitting on top of me for a year now and it begins to seem possible that I could look forward to a future, albeit not one that features my husband.

I decide to make an appearance downstairs. Everyone except me has work or school to go to, so the morning won’t be a leisurely one. Within minutes I find myself wishing I had stayed in bed as I encounter four harassed adults and an excitable child in my small-ish kitchen.

Toast, Tom? No? Cornflakes? No, Nana Connie has no Choco-rice. I do, but decide not to interfere in the child/parent dynamic.

Have you any green tea, Connie? This is Molly. I am prepared.

Top shelf, left hand cupboard. Sit down with that toast Tom.

Any more coffee?

Same cupboard as the tea.

And so on until, in a whirlwind, they have all departed with hugs and kisses and promises to ring. I am able to eat my own breakfast in peace and get myself ready for lunch with Geri.

It’s a late lunch, actually. She finishes teaching at 1.30 and is sneaking out to meet me when in fact it is her admin afternoon. You would have thought that as a mature, well qualified and conscientious professional she would be trusted to manage her own time but apparently education doesn’t work like that. The principal of the college she works at polices his staff in the fashion of a tin pot dictator, checking when they arrive, when they leave, how long they take for lunch and so on and so tediously forth. I don’t know how she lives with it. Today, however, the big cat is away at a conference so she is scurrying out to play.

We trained together, Geri and I, but whilst I persevered in nursing, she left fifteen years ago to teach aspiring nurses, paramedics and midwives in further education. She took to it like a duck to water and pretty soon became a department head. She is clearly successful, and her students adore her. How long she will stick it out under this new principal remains to be seen.

And there she is, already at the table. Tall and beautiful with her Nigerian father’s dark skin and her Irish mother’s blue eyes. Her mum, Dymphna , left Ireland to do her nurse training and was expected to return to Cork to use her expertise in the old country. Unfortunately for her family she decided to stay in England and became a career nurse, which in her family’s eyes was code for lesbian in the same way that gay bachelor was once code for, well, gay. She wasn’t though, just never encountered a man who met her exacting standards. Then, when she was 35 years old, she met the eyes of a handsome young ophthalmic surgeon over an enucleation (look it up. I was a nurse for over thirty years but eyes still creep me out). Dymphna married Reggie Obafemi and Geri and her brother Joseph followed in short order. Then, tragically and unexpectedly, at only 47 years of age, Reggie suffered a huge coronary from which he never recovered. Dymphna was shattered initially but she is made of stern stuff. She brought up her two children single handedly, having never found an acceptable replacement for Reggie, and is about to celebrate her 93rd birthday. Her body is failing her but her brain is still as sharp as a tack. When asked about the secret of long life she simply says that death isn’t ready for her yet.

Geri kind of carried on the family tradition and married a doctor that we both worked with, but they divorced two years ago. No kids, which was a great sadness for her. She now says it was probably just as well, but I know she doesn’t mean it. No shortage of potential suitors, but it must be said that, at 56, the baby train has left the station.

Hi hon. She hugs me. How are you?

We both sit as I consider my answer. I’m ok. I woke up this morning and I really felt like the worst is over. Tempting fate do you think?

She laughs No. Fate has got much better things to do than listen in on our lunch, I promise. She is so sensible and pragmatic. I still feel the need to head off any supernatural interference at the pass, though, and continue, I just don’t feel I have done the whole grief cycle thing. I feel I should still be railing against my misfortune or something.

She snorts. Cycles are for washing machines. People don’t come with a rule book . You feel how you feel, no ought to or should about it. If you are beginning to see a life ahead for yourself then that is a good thing. She sees my continuing scepticism and continues A GOOD THING, actually in capital letters. I have to laugh. A good thing, got it.

And that is the last thing we say about my bereavement. We talk about my kids, her job and a potential holiday for the two of us in the upcoming half term. Anywhere, just a break, which we both feel would be A GOOD THING. I promise to do a bit of research as I have time on my hands, and we joke about Bridget Jones style mini breaks. We both agree on a few things, close enough to be able to drive to in a few hours but far enough to feel we are actually away. Then, good pubs and restaurants in easy reach, and preferably by the sea. Piece of cake. I say. Optimism seems to have become my best friend.

Lunch is good and as always we never run out of conversation but after an hour or so Geri sighs and her shoulders slump slightly. Better head back I spose. Even with the Commandant absent, we have to be careful. Walls have ears it seems. She looks really unhappy, and I’m unhappy for my friend. Why don’t you leave? Go somewhere else? Retire even? She sighs. I would love to retire, but I can’t afford it with Dick being such a dick about money. (Richard was Richard until he left Geri, when he was re-christened Dick). I could start looking for jobs, but my chances aren’t good. I boggle at her.

Whyever not?! You’re successful, experienced.... she interrupts, and that’s why. I’m expensive. What colleges want is young, newly qualified and cheap. Although, of course it will be couched in different terms, y’know, new ideas, innovation, that kind of thing. Ah well, back to the coalface. Go book that mini break Bridget!

My next job is a round of the estate agents. There is quite a few grand burning a hole in our, that is, my, bank account waiting to be invested. We reckoned, Dave and I, that the sum would run to a couple of one bed or studio flats, so that is what I am looking for.

The first two agents are a complete bust, and are only able to sell me family and executive homes in the pricier parts of town. The third doesn’t seem particularly promising but does, at least, point me towards a company who have more of the sort of thing you are looking for whilst making it appear that the sort of thing I am looking for is an advanced case of bubonic plague.

The fourth agency is in a decidedly down-at-heel part of town. The shops are of the betting, kebab and pound variety. However I am met by a very pleasant young man who introduces himself as Darren. When I describe what I am looking for Darren’s face drops and he turns speculatively to the display of accommodation particulars behind him. He wanders up and down in front of them, finally selecting three for my perusal. If I was disappointed by the lack of choice, then I am devastated when I look at the leaflets themselves. The properties he shows me are depressing to say the least. I couldn’t, in all conscience, expect a living, breathing, sentient being to live in them. Darren watches apologetically and I finally hand them back.

Thank you. I need to have a re-think. Perhaps I could get back to you? I say, even though we both know I won’t. He appears to accept this defeat, but then his expression changes, brightens.

I do have something that may interest you. I could take you round now if you like? I’m done for the day. I have nothing to lose, so agree to this impromptu viewing. We decide that I will follow him in my car and so head off.

The house (for that is what it turns out to be) is in a row of railway cottages on the outskirts of town. Most of the others in the row have been gentrified to some degree, but this one remains a slob amongst the gentry. The paint is peeling, the roof dilapidated and the gutters are hanging off. And those are just the defects that I can see. Darren opens the door with difficulty, having to put his shoulder against it and give it a shove. Inside there is a distinct smell of damp. As I wander round it is pretty clear that nothing has been done to the place for years, decades actually. It has a fifties electric fire in the living room and some original features such as bakelight light switches and glass panelled doors . It has two living rooms on the ground floor plus a teeny kitchen and horrible lean-to. Upstairs there are two reasonable bedrooms and, as Darren is at great pains to point out, a proper upstairs bathroom. Apparently the houses were originally built without and had an outside privy. He explains that it is being sold by executors but with little success. A couple of developers have made laughable offers and the next step for the house is a trip to the auction. I realise that I am beginning to have an emotional