Cricket has accepted an offer on her house and is moving. But only around the corner. She’s found a two-bedroom flat that’s on the first floor, with tall windows and a small roof terrace off the back that overlooks a church.
‘So God can keep an eye on me.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in God.’
‘I don’t, but I like to keep my bases covered,’ she replies. ‘At my age I’m getting closer to the call-up—’
‘Cricket!’ I admonish.
‘What?’ she protests. ‘Talking about the D word isn’t going to make me die any quicker.’
Walking back from viewing her flat, we’re wearing thick coats and boots. The weather has grown colder and the clocks have gone back. Leaves gather along the kerbs. Big red jagged ones, and small frilly yellow ones the colour of lemons. I look at them and think I must learn what trees they come from.
That’s another thing about mid-life. When I was younger I’d never notice such things, but maybe learning to appreciate the wonders of nature is the pay-off we get for ageing. If you think about it like that, then a bit of a sleeve isn’t much of a price to pay, is it?
‘I do love it when they rake them into huge piles.’
I look up to see Cricket gesturing to several large mounds of leaves ahead. Big heaps of them in the corners of the street.
‘Reminds me of when I was a child. I used to love jumping in them, didn’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ I shake my head. ‘My mum always used to say they’d be full of spiders, so I never did.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they are,’ she nods cheerfully, ‘but there are many worse things to be scared of than spiders.’ And, breaking free of my arm, she promptly jumps in a big pile of them, sending them scattering and twirling as she stomps and kicks. She looks like she’s having so much fun.
‘Oy!’
Until a street sweeper yells at her, and I wave apologetically and hurry Cricket away.
She’s still smiling when we reach the house, where a teenage girl is putting a book on the shelf of the little library and exchanging it for another one.
‘It’s made me realize how much I missed reading,’ the girl confesses as we stop to say hello. She smiles warmly at Cricket. ‘It’s such a great idea. I hope you keep it going.’
‘Well, actually I’m moving, but the new owners have promised to.’
‘I hope so,’ she says, but I see a flash of disappointment across her face.
‘Do you think the new owner will?’ I ask a few minutes later, as we shrug off our coats inside. I fill up the kettle while Cricket goes through to the living room to make a fire. I can’t believe it’s time for fires already.
‘I hope so.’ Kneeling down, she begins stacking the pieces of kindling. ‘But who knows.’
I stand in the doorway, watching her carefully building a wigwam of wood. I know not to offer to help. Cricket can be stubborn, but never more so than when it comes to making fires in her own certain way.
‘I wish we could do more of them.’
‘Ah, well, that’s something I was going to talk to you about . . .’
I watch her leaning over the grate, her back to me.
‘I’ve been talking to a leading Arts charity about starting a scheme to put up more little libraries across the borough, maybe even beyond. I thought now I’m selling my house I could use some of the money to fund it.’
She lights a twist of paper and pushes it into the kindling.
‘That would be amazing,’ I enthuse. ‘That’s so generous of you.’
She turns to me now, standing up and dusting off her hands on her skirt. She looks pleased.
‘And it looks like they’ve agreed to help.’
‘Wow!’
‘I’d like it to be in memory of Monty. It was his books that started all this, and you of course—’
‘I just gave you the idea, that’s all,’ I protest, but she shushes me.
‘No, you gave me more than that; you gave me a reason to want to get up in the morning again. Building that free little library was the most invigorated I’d felt since Monty died. It was as though I came back to life.’
Her eyes meet mine and she smiles.
‘I’d been doing all the other things – the art classes, redecorating – but I was just going through the motions really . . . but then you suggested this and—’
She breaks off and sits down in an armchair.
‘We all need a purpose in life, and before Monty died he was my purpose. It’s probably a very old-fashioned thing to admit these days, but he was.’
‘What do I know about being fashionable,’ I shrug with a smile, gesturing to my dog-walking outfit, which I wore this morning and haven’t yet changed out of.
‘I still find it hard though,’ she confesses.
‘Well, it hasn’t been that long,’ I remind her.
‘Yes, I know.’ She looks at the fire. The kindling has caught light, and the fire spits and crackles as the flames take hold. ‘But I’m finding it hard in a different way now. Not just because I miss Monty, but because my life is growing while his has ended.’ She turns to face me. ‘I mean, look at me, I’m having all these new experiences and new interests . . . new friends.’ She smiles at me. ‘And I feel guilty that I’m enjoying life again. That I should be grieving more.’
Her smile drops. Her expression is troubled.
‘What did you say to me once? That grief isn’t linear?’
As I remind her, I see her face relax. ‘Thank you, Nell.’
‘The way I see it, you can grieve for someone and the past, but you’ve also got to live,’ I continue firmly.
Then I go to make the tea, and we sit by the fire and spend the evening talking about all the new plans she has. And it’s only later, when I’m lying in bed, that I realize I wasn’t just talking about Cricket and Monty; I was also talking about my own life.
I’m grateful for: