Becca’s second client that day was the elusive Rita Blackwell. In her seventies and now in a retirement home, she had been bought a series of fitness sessions by her daughter, who had rung Rachel, concerned that her mother had become inactive and put on weight as a result. Yet after only one appointment, Mrs Blackwell had phoned with an excuse every single time afterwards. ‘I try to rearrange the sessions, telling her that they’re all paid for,’ Rachel explained, ‘but she’s obviously very busy because she can’t seem to fit me in at any other time, apparently.’
Becca knocked back the rest of her coffee. She was still feeling pleasantly glow-y from the success of that morning’s session with Hayley, although perhaps that was the caffeine. Rachel had actually thanked her for it, though, and said the magic words ‘Well done’, which felt rather like being awarded the Nobel Prize for sisterly achievement. ‘So what do you want me to do? Try to find out why she’s not keen?’ she asked now. Just listen to her, the expert! The sports psychiatrist! But oh, it felt nice to be discussing this with her sister, as if they were a team after all these years. Are you watching this, Dad? she thought, her gaze flicking up to the ceiling. See what a good sister I can be, too!
‘If you can. She rang while you were out to say she couldn’t make the 1.45 appointment as planned because of . . . I can’t remember what it was now, there’s been so many reasons. The dentist this time, maybe. But if you go along there early – say for one – then you might be able to catch her for a chat.’
‘Roger that.’ Becca rather liked the thought of an exercise-resistant client. At least she’d have something in common with this one. It was nice, too, the way that Rachel was speaking to her – almost like an equal, like a colleague. Ever since Rachel had got married and had children, she’d been somewhat haughty and patronizing, as if her life was worth more than Becca’s, as if she was better, full stop. If nothing else, the accident seemed to have made her humbler; more civil. Almost human, in fact.
The retirement home was out on the Ledbury Road, and easy enough to find on the bike. Becca was feeling more confident in the saddle already, and enjoyed being able to whiz past stationary cars at the traffic lights. Forget the clients getting fit, she thought in amusement, navigating her way through town. By the end of her stay with Rachel, she was going to have thighs like Victoria Pendleton and a tiny little bottom. Bring it ruddy well on.
Willow Lodge smelled of cooked fish and ammonia, with a top note of rose air freshener. The light, bright June morning seemed a distant memory to Becca as she was shown through to an overheated lounge where a group of residents sat dully in a semicircle in front of Bargain Hunt. One was knitting, her needles clicking together like the rattle of a typewriter, but the others were slumped in stupefied silence, eyes on the screen.
‘Rita? You’ve got a visitor, love,’ the receptionist said.
It was the knitting lady who glanced up. Becca was rather hoping it would be. She had a round, jolly sort of face with lots of laughter lines, framed by silver-grey curls, and was wearing a white cotton blouse with a rosebud print and navy blue slacks. ‘Ooh dear,’ she said, seeing Becca standing there. There was a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘You’re not from the council, are you? Have I done something wrong?’
‘I’m not from the council,’ Becca said, just as the lone man of the group let out a cackle.
‘They’ve come to take Rita away!’ he cried gleefully. ‘About time, and all.’
‘No-one’s taking anyone away,’ Becca said. ‘I was wondering if I could have a quick word, that’s all. Maybe outside?’
Rita put down her knitting. ‘A word outside! The plot thickens!’ she announced to the group, none of whom responded in any way – apart from the man, who gave another wheezy laugh and slapped his bony corduroy-clad thigh.
‘Here, this way, darling,’ Rita said, gesturing towards a door. ‘We can sit in the courtyard away from all these nosey parkers. We don’t want the likes of Malcolm earwigging on my great lottery win, or whatever it is you’ve come to tell me about.’
Outside, they settled themselves on a bench in the sunshine. The courtyard was small and rectangular, surrounded on three sides by the home, and Becca could hear the sounds of someone washing up through an open window nearby as well as the faint rumble of traffic from the road. The fourth side of the rectangle consisted of an ornamental wooden barrow, planted up with purple geraniums, and a path leading out onto the main garden. A fat wood pigeon strutted around the lawn beyond, chest puffed, as if it owned the property.
Becca explained who she was and why she was there, and Rita’s cheerful expression immediately faded to one of guilt. ‘Oh no! I’m sorry,’ she said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘You caught me out. I don’t really have a dentist appointment later,’ she confessed, looking up through her lashes. ‘Just like I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment the week before. I’m a terrible woman, aren’t I? I’m an ungrateful old baggage, I know.’
‘No!’ Becca cried. ‘Absolutely not. And I’m certainly not here to tell you off or make you feel bad. We just want to know why.’
Eyes down, Rita appeared every inch the penitent. ‘You see, the thing with Carol – my daughter – is that she means well but she doesn’t always take the time to think things through properly. I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure this exercise lark is for me. There. Now I’ve said it.’
‘You didn’t enjoy the session you had with Rachel before?’ Becca asked. ‘Not your cup of tea?’
‘No! Not at all.’ She glanced unhappily at Becca. ‘No offence to your sister, I’m sure she’s doing her best, but . . . Well, she had me doing star jumps and jogging on the spot, out here in the gardens. Where all and sundry could see me! It was ever so embarrassing. Malcolm – that’s the old goat you just saw in there – kept calling me Jane Fonda. For weeks afterwards! He’s only recently stopped, and I’m hoping he’s forgotten about it now. Alzheimer’s, he’s got. Forgets our names, half the time. Typical, that was the one thing he did remember – and boy, didn’t he enjoy teasing me about it, as well!’
Rita was quite pink in the cheeks by now, and Becca felt sorry for her. If she’d been forced into huffing and puffing through public star jumps and jogging, in front of all the people she lived with, then she’d have hated it too. ‘Okay, point taken,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you kept fit in the past, then. Is there something else that we could try instead? Swimming, maybe, or cycling? I’m not the fittest person in the world either, as you can probably tell, but I’ve quite enjoyed getting back on a bike recently. We could have a go at that if you wanted, find a nice flat cycle path without any cars . . .’
A look of relief had passed over Rita’s face as she realized Becca was not about to bully her into a round of press-ups, right there and then, in her slacks. But now she was shaking her head. ‘Cycling? I haven’t been on a bicycle for twenty years, love,’ she said. ‘I’d be a bit scared to take it up now as well, after my fall. That’s how I ended up in here, see – because I fell over on my own kitchen floor like an idiot, and broke my hip. Carol and her husband decided I was too old and feeble to live by myself any more. Too old! I’m only seventy-seven, thank you, that’s practically a teenager compared to most of them in here.’
Becca felt a bit sorry for her. ‘You don’t seem very feeble to me,’ she commented.
Rita’s chin jutted. ‘You’re telling me, kid! I’m not! I can’t bear being stuck in here,’ she said. ‘When I think about the new people in my house now, letting my garden get overgrown – oh yes, I went back and had a look to see what they’d done. And they’ve cut down my pear tree, the savages, and concreted the front right over. How could anyone do such a thing?’
Becca didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she ventured. ‘You liked gardening then, I take it?’
‘Oh yes. I’d be out every day, I loved it. I shared an allotment with friends too, so I’d be busy there as well. Nothing like being outside, seeing something grow, feeling the seasons change.’ Her eyes misted over. ‘I miss it.’
Becca looked around. The courtyard had a few large pots – one with lilies in, another couple with olive trees – but down the path and beyond the building there was the garden itself, with herbaceous borders and mature trees. ‘Can’t you do some weeding and digging in this place?’ she asked. ‘I’d have thought they’d love you to help. And I keep reading what good exercise gardening is, all that bending and stretching.’
‘It is good exercise,’ Rita agreed. ‘And makes you feel great too! But me, help? Well, I tried that. Health and safety issues, apparently.’ She gave a snort that made it quite clear what she thought of the home’s health and safety issues. ‘I’m not sure what they’re worried I’ll do. Cut off my toes with a spade or trip over a daisy, goodness knows. Scared I’ll sue them, probably. Me!’
‘How daft,’ Becca said. ‘How about we go for a walk today, then?’ she suggested. ‘Stretch our legs. Maybe drop in for a coffee somewhere nice, have a bit of a chat. Nobody could call you Jane Fonda for that, could they?’
Rita hesitated, then nodded. ‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘Seeing as you’re here and all. A walk would be all right.’
‘You can tell me about your knitting too,’ Becca said as they got up and began ambling slowly away. ‘I’m a knitter myself – well, I used to be, anyway. Was that a windmill stitch I saw you doing back there?’
Rita smiled. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘Very good!’ She tucked an arm into Becca’s in a companionable sort of way. ‘Do you know, I’ve got a feeling you and I are going to get on just fine.’