Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

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      Lorna nodded. ‘He did, but I know that he too had his dreams of an idyllic chapter as we grew older, and that they would be within driving distance. Neither of us ever imagined they’d all be so far away. They come back when they can, but travel is expensive and each visit feels too short. Then there are the inevitable goodbyes, waving them off at the gate, never showing that I’m crumbling inside.’

      It wasn’t meant to be like this, I thought again as I sipped on my drink and wondered what I could say to make her feel better. My two friends, both alone, though in different circumstances, both dealing with being by themselves in such opposite ways. I was glad that I’d come to see Lorna, and glad that she’d opened up to me about how she was feeling. It was a rare event, and I didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up Matt, Tom or my concerns in the face of her obvious loneliness and the brave front she put on most days. Despite that courage, there was no changing the fact that she was here on her own most nights, on the veranda at the back of the house where she’d spent every evening with Alistair, the dogs at their feet, before he died.

      ‘We’d talk for hours out here,’ said Lorna, ‘and while Alistair was alive, it was bearable that our family had flown to distant parts of the world. We had each other, always something to say and, you know, although he was ten years older than me, I thought he’d last at least another twenty years.’

      I nodded. ‘Me too. He was such a big character, the life and soul, with a hundred interests and opinions on everything, informed and stimulating ones at that.’

      ‘And now there’s just me here, an empty chair opposite where Alistair used to be, silence where there was conversation and company. Even inside, everything is as he’d left it in his study, a scribbled note on his desk reminding him to get tickets for an author event at Toppings bookshop in town, the history book he was reading on the side table by his armchair, his old cardigan hanging on the back of his desk chair. If I hold it to my face, I can still just about catch the scent of him, woody from the garden where, as you know, he spent most of his time.’

      I reached out and put my hand over hers. ‘Oh, Lorna. I know it must be so hard. You know you’re welcome at ours any time you feel like company.’

      ‘I know, and thanks, but the reality is, he’s gone, and I’d still have to come back and wake up here, have my evenings without him. I’ve been house-hunting in the last week, if only to keep my girls happy, as Jess and Rachel have been on at me again to move. I saw three houses, all perfectly nice, adequate, charming even, but I couldn’t see myself in any of them. What feels right is home, my home, so it’s only confirmed that I don’t want to move. I told the estate agent that I’d be in touch but I won’t.’

      ‘I can’t blame you for not wanting to go. It’s beautiful here. So peaceful.’ I knew that the house had been in Alistair’s family for three generations, making it doubly hard to let go of.

      ‘Even though it’s quiet without him, I feel his presence. When I look out on the garden, I’m reminded of the endless trips to nurseries when we began to redesign the layout. It had been so neglected in his parents’ old age. The bare root roses, wild geraniums, alliums, lavender, clematis, jasmine that we bought that will tumble over walls, trellises in June and July, tiny plants we nurtured that now fill the borders, they’re all reminders of him. I couldn’t leave them for someone else to neglect.’

      ‘Then don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s perfect, and if it gives you comfort being here with all the reminders, then stay.’ She and Alistair had done their homework in the early days and driven all over England looking at National Trust gardens, Sissinghurst, Gertrude Jekyll landscapes. There were years when I remembered they’d pored over gardening books, attended workshops at weekends until they knew exactly what they were doing, before creating the wonderful garden that was in front of us now.

      I smiled and took my hand away from Lorna’s. ‘I can still see Alistair out there in his baggy old gardening clothes, on his knees planting or in the greenhouses watering his pride-and-joy tomatoes.’

      ‘And inside, every room has paintings and artefacts left by his parents, and others we chose together on various holidays. Every one tells a story, to me at least. So no, I don’t want to move yet. Some day. Not yet.’

      Suddenly she stood up and shook herself. ‘Enough of being maudlin, Lorna. I’ll think of something,’ she said as she went down the garden to wind a stray stem of clematis around a pergola pole. ‘If Alistair going has taught me anything, it’s that we must seize the day and live our lives fearlessly, Cait: life is short. Sorry. Enough of me and doom and gloom. How are things with you? How’s your lovely dad? And heard any more from that Tom bloke?’

      ‘Dad’s OK though lonely I think. And no, I haven’t heard from Tom.’

      ‘Did you delete his friend request?’

      ‘It’s on my list of things to do when I get back.’ I didn’t need to tell her that I’d accepted Tom’s request if only to satisfy my curiosity. If I unfriended him, she’d never know.

      ‘You make sure you do it, Cait. How’s Matt?’

      ‘Same ole.’

      ‘Same ole good or same ole bad?’

      ‘Same ole somewhere in the middle. He keeps bringing me tea in bed. His way of making an effort.’

      ‘I’m sure you’ll get through this.’

      ‘I know. I’ll give him time.’

      ‘And yourself, Cait. It’s an adjustment for you too.’

       10

       Cait

      To do:

       Unfriend Tom Lewis.

       Make a list of decorating tasks for Matt.

       Start clearing out rooms for Airbnb.

       Collect rubbish for the tip.

       Plant white geraniums in pots at front.

       Visit Dad.

      *

      Resolutions made on the drive over to see Dad in Chippenham.

       Stop saying oof and groaning when getting in or out of the car or on or off sofa.

       Stop talking out loud to myself.

      I usually talk to myself at home so it’s OK, short phrases like, ‘Right, that’s done now.’ Or talking to the plants in the garden after removing bindweed – ‘I think you’ll feel better now.’ However, I found myself doing it in the supermarket this morning when picking up a few things to take to Dad.

      ‘Don’t forget red peppers,’ I said to myself as I went along the vegetable counters.

      ‘That’s another off the list,’ I said as I found mushrooms.

      ‘Good,’ I said as I loaded loo paper onto the trolley. ‘Now, СКАЧАТЬ