Page 6 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

The task labelled ‘Get Life in Order’ floated like a huge, unassailable Zeppelin in his mind. It was easier to focus on the domestic minutiae around its edges. He got the health authority to collect all the loaned medical equipment including the walking frame, the special riser still fitted to the high armchair that Dad hadn’t sat in for years, the hoist and the commode that had preceded the bedpan. He watched their joint daily life disappear into an unmarked white van. His father’s death had left so many empty spaces. The cloying atmosphere of illness and decay was absent; the sickbed routine had been usurped by unfilled hours and his role in life had been kicked from under him. Stuart was Humpty Dumpty waiting to be put together again.

“He’s in a better place, love.” Lillian appeared as the two men with the van gave him the thumbs-up and reversed onto the road. She’d forgotten to put her shoes on again. “Concentrate on yourself now. It’s Easter next weekend; you can smell spring in the air. Create a new start for yourself.”

Then the old lady touched his arm. “I’ve got fruit scones in the oven and I’ve used those sultanas that are soaked in brandy for Christmas cakes. They were on offer in the supermarket because they’re nearly out of date. Come and help me eat a couple. I love it when the butter melts into them.”

Stuart didn’t need much tempting to put thoughts of his future on hold for another hour or two. “That would be lovely. And while we’re at it, I’ll help you find your shoes.”

Lillian glanced down and seemed surprised to find she had nothing on her feet.

* * *

The cycling club held a long-distance Audax ride every Easter Saturday. It was ten years since Stuart had been able to leave his father for that length of time to take part. One hundred kilometres in a day — did he still have the stamina? He wavered between fear and confidence. The old quote about only regretting the things that you didn’t do, rather than the things you did, came into his mind. He remembered the idealistic young man with the mullet haircut. Before his confidence failed, he went on the website and signed up.

The night before the ride he panicked. It was a solo event. What if something on the bike failed? He had no one to phone for help. What if he got lost? He’d never bothered with a GPS because Dad’s needs meant he never rode outside the locality and his map reading was rusty. At three a.m. he got up and walked around the house. With Dad gone, his responsibilities had disappeared but he felt, more than ever, that the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He decided not to do the ride. It was silly to court pressure when there were so many other changes going on in his life. Perversely, the decision not to ride increased the tension between his shoulder blades and prodded Sandra to say her piece.

One week of life was all I got. One lousy week. And I was too tiny to make the most of it. I never graduated out of that plastic hospital fish tank. But I do know that you were beside me the whole time. The warmth of your body and the sound of your snuffly breathing probably kept me going for longer than if I’d been a singleton. So, I owe you one. I’m going to kick your arse until you successfully integrate back into society. I don’t want a brother who neighbours describe as a recluse or who scares the kids in the park because he sits there in a big, smelly coat, handfeeding the pigeons and squirrels, or who lies dead in his house for months before a postman notices the smell. Stuart Borefield, it is your duty to live life for the both of us and you will start tomorrow with this cycling thingy.

She was right. She was definitely right, but that didn’t make it easy. He had to move forward one challenge at a time. One hundred kilometres on no sleep was not a good idea.

He walked back upstairs. There was an orange glow from outside the landing window. He paused. As a teenager, when he’d still been plucking up the courage to ask Jayne out, he’d discovered if he stood on the top step and angled his head properly, he could see into next door’s garden and sometimes he’d see Jayne out there. That was the signal for him to go nonchalantly into their own garden and pretend to fiddle noisily with a plant by the side of the fence until Jayne noticed him and came over for a chat.

It was dark now and there was no one in the garden, just a pool of orange light sprawled on the paving stones beneath the kitchen window. Maybe Lillian couldn’t sleep either. Knowing that someone else was awake was comforting and Stuart’s shoulders eased down from their rigid position. He got back into bed and must have slept because the alarm clock shocked him awake a couple of hours later.

He poured milk, stirred oats and made porridge in the microwave. He brewed strong coffee to give himself a mule-kick start to the day, and added two spoonfuls of sugar, and then he created a track of golden syrup around the edge of the porridge. He tried and failed to add the discrete markings of eyes and curved mouth to form a smiley face. Instead, it was a criss-cross of lines where he’d failed to stop the flow of the heavy syrup between markings. Stuart smiled at the bowl anyway. Then, as the caffeine and sweetness began to shoot energy through his body, he felt the first stirrings of excitement at the day ahead. He fetched sandwiches from the fridge and filled his large plastic drinks bottle with water. According to the map there were three cafés and a couple of pubs en route, where further food and drink could be purchased.

Positivity buoyed him up as he queued in the church hall to have his name ticked off the starters’ list. A few riders he knew by sight patted him on the back and wished him well. Someone else said they hoped to see him at the first café stop for a catch-up. The feeling of camaraderie swept away his lack of sleep.

As the event started, they rode two abreast but gradually everyone found their own speed; some were naturally faster and disappeared from view, while the more social animals, who preferred chat over physical challenge, gradually slid to the back of the bunch. Stuart settled somewhere in between. His legs found a rhythm, his mind calmed, emptied, and he became aware only of his own regular movements, the birdsong and the patchwork of green, yellow and brown fields alongside the road. He crested a hill and gazed over the valley below, a rainbow arched itself across the sky.Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain.

The old mnemonic was swiftly followed by memories of his mother. Whenever they’d seen a rainbow, she would sigh with contentment and tell him the sight of a rainbow meant that everything would be all right. Problems would take flight and solutions appear with ease. Now the sight of the rainbow made his heart rise with hope for his future.

He freewheeled down the other side and spotted a huddle of cyclists outside a café. He ordered coffee and a hunk of bread pudding, and joined their banter. A stream ran close to their table and, during lulls in the conversation, the sound of its pure, bell-like trickle over the rocks helped ease the tension in his muscles.

The day continued fine, friendly and fun. Towards the last few miles his legs started to protest. It was years since he’d ridden this distance and he should’ve worked up to it more slowly. He deliberately slowed his pace, aware from the map that the largest hill of the route had been saved until last. To stand any chance of making it to the top he needed to conserve energy. A multitude of Lycra overtook him and the Mexican wave of encouragement transformed into a new tide of determination within him.

As the hill came into sight, he pedalled harder to build up momentum. His legs had already propelled him almost one hundred kilometres and were heavy with fatigue. The muscles in his thighs trembled. He tightened his grip on the handle bars. He kept pushing down with his feet as the road rose beneath him. Every few turns of the wheels he changed down a gear until there was nowhere left to go with the lever. He forced leaden muscles against pedals the weight of elephants. His speed was virtually nil and he began to wobble. Stuart wasn’t a quitter. He continued the battle, trying to raise himself off the saddle into a standing position to generate increased downward force into the pedals. His balance faltered in the absence of forward propulsion. With no time to remove feet from pedals, the bike went over and Stuart’s left shoulder banged onto the kerb, just as a minibus of youths sailed past on his right-hand side. They jeered at him through open windows and then disappeared over the top of the hill.

For a few seconds he lay awkwardly, feet still attached to the bike and shoulder throbbing. He’d tipped over like a five-year-old attempting to lose his stabilisers. He needed to get up before he was seen. Ignoring the argument from his shoulder, Stuart reached forward, unclipped himself from the pedals and then gingerly stood. Very slowly he stretched out both arms, in front of him and then above his head. He raised and lowered each of his shoulders in turn. His left side was painful but mobile. Diagnosis: his pride had taken the biggest hit. He pushed the bike the short distance to the top of the hill, his calves making it known that he’d never have beaten this gradient on two wheels. No cyclists went past, no witnesses to confront over his failure. He remounted and went at speed downhill towards the church hall and the finish. Inside there were pats on the back and words of praise. Stuart held himself tense to avoid wincing when people caught his left shoulder.

“Brilliant stuff for someone who doesn’t usually ride that distance!”

“Can’t wait to see you tackle something longer.”

“Good to have you back on the longer distances.”

Stuart hadn’t expected to feel emotional but the liberal praise and easy friendship swept through parts of him that had been empty for years. He blinked hard, suddenly realising what he’d been missing. Then his conscience got the better of him; he couldn’t start this new life as a fake. “That last hill beat me. I came off and walked the last hundred yards to the top.” He grimaced and gave his shoulder a rub.

“Are you OK?” One of the women looked concerned.

“It’s fine, really.” The sharpness of the pain had genuinely dulled to an ache. Maybe it was the distraction of people and the emotion of finishing or perhaps, alone at the brow of the hill, everything had seemed worse than it actually was, like when sleep failed in the early hours of the morning.

Two of the older male riders exchanged looks and then one of them spoke. “We walked that bit too.”

“I came off there last year,” someone else said. “I was determined the bugger wasn’t going to beat me. It did.”

Stuart left the church hall on a high. He’d set himself a challenge. He’d wobbled last night but had still gone on and completed it. And he’d enjoyed the process. The ache in his shoulder felt like a badge of honour, or even a medal. He remembered the rainbow and suddenly felt his life was going in the right direction. Stuart Borefield had a bright new future.

He smiled inwardly.

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