When Joe-Nathan was at work, Janet busied herself with chores and visits. For a long while she had convinced herself that this was enough life for her, she was happy with her role, felt useful and content. But Janet read a lot of books and had seen people like herself between the pages, convincing themselves that they too were happy and content when – in fact – they were in denial about what they were missing out on, filling their time up as if they were colouring within the lines of a picture. This is what Janet had been doing in the years since Mike had died, and now she yearned to colour outside the edges. The more she thought about what life might have to offer, the more her emotions began to clash together like contestants in a game. Guilt had been the strongest contender since she had begun to think like this, but resentment was starting to show signs of strength. Not resentment of any one person, and certainly not resentment of Joe, who she could not love more than she did, but resentment that she had become a servant to her own existence.
Janet had disqualified resentment when she realised that it was the wrong emotion; it implied a feeling that things were not fair, or that she was annoyed or angry with her situation, and none of those things were true. Janet simply wanted more.
She knocked on Hazel’s door and took two steps back. Waited, and knocked again. She strolled around the side of the house and found Hazel and Angus in the back garden sitting on wooden chairs under a big shady tree. When Angus saw Janet, he got up quickly and brought another chair from the shed, unfolding it as he returned.
‘It’s just getting warm enough again to sit outside, isn’t it?’ said Hazel.
Janet said nothing, and sat in the chair, nodding her thanks to Angus.
‘Is something wrong?’ Hazel said.
‘No, why?’ said Janet.
‘Because something is clearly wrong.’ Angus said, as though she were a very bad actor.
Janet tutted (at herself, not Angus). ‘Look at us, all widowed and drifting through life.’
‘I’m not drifting,’ said Hazel lazily.
‘I think you are,’ said Janet. ‘I think we all are.’
‘Widowed and waiting,’ said Angus. ‘Or am I “widowered”?’
‘Exactly,’ said Janet, slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘Drifting, waiting, I feel like I’m biding my time until I die. I feel as if Joe is almost independent, as though he could cope without me, if he really had to, and so now, what about me? Am I just waiting to die?’
‘Janet!’
‘I’m serious, Hazel. I’m in a hurry to get living.’
‘I was like that for a while,’ Angus said, staring unblinkingly at the grass just beyond his feet. ‘Felt like time was running out, and I was standing on a platform, waiting for a train to come.’
‘What happened?’
Angus sighed. ‘I waited, and hoped, and looked down the tracks for a bit, and then I sat on the platform and accepted that the train would never come. I stopped waiting, stopped letting it bother me.’
‘But you’re talking about meeting someone, I think, aren’t you?’ Janet said.
‘Well, what are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking,’ said Janet, ‘about climbing down onto the tracks and walking along them to see if there are any adventures waiting for me to find them.’
‘You’re talking about a spa weekend, I think,’ said Hazel, who leaned back, shut her eyes and tilted her head to the sky.
Janet laughed. ‘Well, that would be a start,’ she said.
‘I don’t do spas,’ said Angus.
‘What about a walking weekend?’ said Hazel, eyes still closed.
Angus grunted.
‘We could book into a really nice pub, walk during the day and then just eat and drink in the pub in the evening,’ said Hazel.
‘Hmm,’ said Angus, in a more positive tone at the mention of the word pub.
‘It sounds like a nice idea,’ said Janet.
‘It might be a good way to ease you into your adventures, start with something manageable.’
‘What about Joe?’ said Angus.
‘Well, it might be a good way to ease him into a little bit of independence. I admit I would be more comfortable if one of you were around, while I was away.’
‘I could stay back, if you like,’ said Angus.
‘Oh, no! You must come,’ said Janet. ‘I think Joe’s got a friend who might be willing to keep an eye on him, and if we don’t go too far… it might have to be just one night away, to start with,’ said Janet.
‘That’s settled, then,’ said Hazel, rising up from her chair.
‘Where are you going?’ said Janet, suddenly worried.
‘To get my diary,’ said Hazel, calling back over her shoulder.
‘Oh, goodness,’ said Janet, looking sharply at Angus. ‘It’s really going to happen.’
The widowers chose a weekend a month away, to give the weather time to improve and allow Janet enough time to put a plan in place for Joe. She could talk to Lucy, Joe’s social worker, about what needed to happen. Then Janet had to leave, and Hazel asked Angus if he would mind putting the chairs back in the shed before he left too.
‘The forecast tonight is rain,’ said Hazel.
But Angus took longer than expected, and when he emerged, he was holding something black in his arms.
‘I’m so sorry, Hazel,’ said Angus. ‘It’s your cat, poor Banjo. I thought she was asleep, but she’s dead.’
That evening, after Janet told Joe about the cat (but not the walking weekend), Joe had rolled up his sleeves and gone to the workshop. He cut a piece of wood to the size and shape of a novel, with a pointed stake at the bottom. He sanded it down, plugged in the heat gun, and carefully inscribed the headstone. Then he varnished it with wood protector and clamped it into a vice to allow it to air and dry overnight. The inscription read:
HERE LIES BANJO, WHO PROBABLY LOVED HAZEL