‘Oh, no!’ I say, walking into Sheila’s living room on Thursday. ‘Now what’s happened?’
Herbert looks up at me from the rug by the hearth, a plastic shield round his head like a lampshade. One of his eyes is half shut, as if he’s winking at us.
‘Eye infection,’ Sheila says. ‘He kept rubbing at it.’
‘Poor old Herbert.’ I get down beside him and make a fuss of him. It does me good seeing Herbert. ‘You are in the wars.’
‘I don’t know why I bother going to the Red Cross,’ Sheila says, stalking off towards the kitchen. ‘I feel like Florence Nightingale in my own home.’
I stay on my knees, comforting the old dog. Maggie the cat watches from the sofa, with an expression of undisguised scorn.
‘Yeah, you can gloat.’ I make a face back at her.
I’m glad I’ve come now, but it was a bit of a struggle. Why on earth did I blurt out all that stuff about the run on Tuesday? This has not been a good day; it’s been one of those when I can hardly get up in the morning, let alone start running around. I look down at my scrawny, unpromising-looking thighs, wrapped in my old jeans. This feels like an enormous deal. It’s in London – and six miles! What was I thinking?
‘D’you know,’ I whisper to Herbert. ‘I used to be quite a feisty young thing once upon a time. I used to go clubbing and I travelled all over the world.’ Now that feels like another life; something that happened to a different, braver and happily oblivious person.
Herbert eyes me sympathetically, or so I choose to believe.
‘Yes – I bet you were an adventurous young feller once, weren’t you?’
The doorbell rings and I kiss Herbert’s shoulder, since his head is trapped in the lampshade thing, and go to answer it.
Soon we are all round the table, what has come to be the usual six of us: Sheila and Kim, Pat, Sunita, Hayley and me, drinking Sheila’s tea and eating a coffee and walnut cake Hayley said she baked this morning.
‘I made one for Nan as well,’ she says. ‘It’s her favourite.’
‘You’re a good’un you are,’ Sheila tells her fondly. ‘I could do with a granddaughter like you. Ours are all lads.’
‘You know you were talking about that run?’ Hayley says after a while. She’s sitting by the window, the other side of the table from me, in a fluffy pink polo-neck jumper. ‘I had a look and I think it’s a lovely idea. I was wondering if I could do it with you? I mean – that’s if you want anyone to?’
For a second all I feel is panic. What on earth have I started?
‘Where’s it for again?’ Sheila says, before I can answer.
‘It’s in India . . .’ I begin.
‘Oh . . .’ Sheila sounds doubtful and, to my surprise, a bit dismissive. ‘Why don’t you do something for a local charity? There’s plenty going on round here without having to look further afield!’
None of us is quite sure what to say.
‘I took a look at the website.’ Hayley glances at Sheila, seeming a bit unsure of herself but carrying on anyway. ‘It’s – it looks like a really extreme situation. I mean, I know we’ve all got our problems here, but nothing like this . . . And the run’s not until the twelfth of July. We’ve got time to get in shape for it. I’d like to do something – you know, for a good cause.’
I smile gratefully at her.
‘Sheila,’ I say cautiously. ‘I think if you saw the effects it had on the children there . . .’
‘Well,’ Sheila says rather stiffly, ‘I suppose I think charity should begin at home on the whole. But why don’t you tell me more – show me where I can read about it. I’m not trying to be difficult.’
‘No!’ I say. ‘Of course you’re not.’
We all look at each other. Hayley appears stricken, as if she has started something she didn’t mean to.
I’m just a bit lost for words. How to explain about the picture, the boy . . . None of it really makes any sense, not sense that I can explain. I just want to say to Sheila, Of course charity begins at home, with the people closest to you. But does it have to end there? But I don’t want to argue.
‘It’s just . . .’ Pat speaks up then. We are all awkward, accepting Sheila’s hospitality, not wanting to get into an argument. ‘Sometimes –’ she glances at me as if for confirmation – ‘some things just get to you. Get under your skin. You can’t always explain it.’
‘It was terrible – what happened in Bhopal,’ Sunita says. ‘I remember when it happened.’
Kim hands round the plate of cake slices as if to ease things.
‘Do you go back to India often?’ Hayley asks Sunita.
‘India – oh, no,’ Sunita laughs. ‘I’ve hardly ever been to India – I was born in Uganda! We came here in seventy-two, after that madman Idi Amin kicked us out. We lost nearly everything. I was fifteen. My family is Indian, of course, but I’ve only been to India on a visit a few times. To Gujarat – that’s where the family are. I have been to Delhi – but nowhere else much in India. You see . . .’
She holds out her plump little right hand, palm out and facing downwards.
‘See, if this is India –’ she points to the thumb joint – ‘Gujarat is round about there. And here – down a bit and in a bit, in the middle – that is where Bhopal is. It is supposed to be a very nice place. It has big lakes. What happened there . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘Wicked. Very terrible. The way people died – it was horrible. Poison gas. And still now, so much sickness.’
There is a sudden silence. Sheila pours more tea and I’m wondering whether I ought to change the subject altogether. I’m uncomfortably taken aback by the narrowness of Sheila’s attitude. On the other hand, I like her very much, respect her and I’m grateful to her. Things suddenly feel strained.
‘The thing is –’ Pat’s quiet voice breaks in before I can come up with anything to say – ‘I think it’s a really good idea. I’d . . .’ She hesitates. ‘I’d have a go with you. Only –’ she looks worried, embarrassed almost – ‘I’m not sure what Fred’d say.’
‘Fred?’ Sheila says to my amazement. She’s peering into the teapot, the lid in her hand. ‘What’s Fred got to do with it? You’re not asking him to do it, are you?’
‘I thought you didn’t approve?’ Pat laughs.
‘Well, it’s not my cup of tea, certainly,’ Sheila says. ‘But honest to God, we’re not living in the Victorian age, are we? I’ll get Roy to have a word.’ She pushes the tea cosy back on to the pot. ‘At least he’s taken Roy out to the club with him today, even if he can’t play. He’s driving me round the bend, limping around here like Long John Silver – and the complaining! Suffering in silence isn’t on my dear husband’s radar, I don’t think. The dog’s more stoic than he is.’
We all laugh and things feel better. I can see Sheila beginning to come round to the idea.
‘Well,’ Pat says doubtfully, ‘Fred can be a bit funny about some things. But I’d like to.’ She looks at Hayley. ‘Yeah?’
I find tears in my eyes suddenly. ‘Really?’ I’m looking at Hayley and Pat. ‘Both of you?’ I pull out a tissue and wipe my eyes and Kim gives me one of her hugs. ‘God, I’ve come over all weepy. That’s so nice! But you’re both really fit – I don’t think I could run to the end of the road.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Hayley says. ‘You just have to start somewhere.’
‘Good for you,’ Kim says. ‘I wish I could – but what with the kids and work I just can’t fit it in. We can cheer you on, though!’
Sheila gets up and goes into the kitchen and it feels as if she’s distancing herself from the conversation. The rest of us exchange looks.
‘Well,’ Sunita says, ‘I’m too old for all that sort of thing. But I wish you luck.’ She sounds wistful.
‘You’re not old,’ Hayley says, with great earnestness. ‘You’re really not. There’s a man in his nineties who runs the London Marathon every year!’
‘Ninety?’ Sunita makes one of her round-eyed faces. ‘Well, that may be so. But he’s a man. And he’s probably a bit mad. I don’t think my knees would stand it – I’m such a fatty.’
‘Oh, Sunita,’ Pat says. ‘You’re too hard on yourself.’
‘That’s what my grandchildren call me now,’ Sunita says slightly huffily. ‘My son-in-law’s mother is “Thin Dadi” and I am “Fat Nanimma”. What can I do?’
‘Take up jogging?’ I tease her.
‘Huh.’ Sunita folds her arms. She is still looking put out. ‘Since when do grandmothers go jogging?’
Only when I get home does the reality of what I seem to be letting myself in for really dawn on me. Thinking about it, we’ve got four and a half months to get ready for this event. In the past year I have barely walked anywhere, let alone run.
If I’m going to take part in this thing, that means I basically, obviously, need to start running. Not just thinking about it, but actually doing it. Now, this week.
I wander into the kitchen to start cooking for me and Ian, half-hearted since I am still well fed on cake. I’m just pulling chicken thighs out of the fridge when I realize it’s probably been two hours since I last thought about Paul. Really thought about him, not just about the boy in the photograph. Pain slices through me. An actual physical pain of guilt and regret.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say out loud. ‘I’m so sorry, my love – I haven’t forgotten you, I haven’t. I never will . . .’ The pain of it drains me and I feel suddenly exhausted.
Chopping onions in the quiet kitchen, I feel utterly despondent. It’s hard to get to the cemetery to visit these days. Finding that I have not thought about Paul almost every minute, and instead have been thinking about doing this run in aid of people suffering in a faraway place Ian will probably never have heard of, for something he will find hard to understand – I wonder if this is all a big mistake. Or might he be glad to see me just getting involved in something – anything?
Soon I hear him come in and I go into the hall.
‘Hello!’ I force myself to sound cheerful. And in that moment I actually feel suddenly in better spirits. There’s no accounting for my moods these days.
Ian looks wary. ‘All right? How’s Mom?’
‘She’s OK. I’ve been in, as usual. So – how’s your new guy getting on? Carl, is it?’ Ian has employed an older man, in his late forties, who was eager for the work.
‘Yeah . . .’ He fishes in his bag for his sandwich box. ‘Yeah, he’s OK, actually. Good bloke. Knows what he’s doing, all right.’ He doesn’t seem to know how to deal with my good cheer. ‘I’ll just get changed.’
I watch him go upstairs, hoping that once he’s fed and relaxed a bit, it might be possible to hold a conversation.