Page 69 of Out of Control

“Now you’re making me all emotional. Tell me about that big posh wedding.”

Fiona had shown her mum the photos of the happy couple on her phone and the selfies she’d taken at the table early in the evening.

“And did all that romance wrap itself around you and Meeko?”

“I’ve told you, Mum, we’re just good friends.” Maybe they weren’t even that now.

“Hmmm. There is much meaning behind that phrase, ‘just good friends’.”

Fiona said nothing about how everything had gone horribly wrong and that she didn’t know if there was a way back. Then her mother switched to asking about Rose. She got the brandy out again and poured them another glass. By the time Fiona had turned out the desk lamp her anxiety about Meeko had been swept away by the alcohol and her heart was warm from telling Dorothea about the gratitude that both Rose and Adele had expressed in their different ways. Her mother’s face had beamed after learning that she could continue to be a great-grandmother-by-proxy.

“Porridge is ready!” her mother called.

Fiona pulled on her dressing gown and found her mother sitting at the small table in the window alcove of the lounge. Having someone else prepare food for her resurrected that same warm feeling of belonging as she’d had from Adele’s chocolate brownies. Was it small gestures like these that made marriages work? Would mornings with Meeko create a feeling of mutual support or would she tar him with the same brush as Rob and wonder if he was telling the truth about his activities? She was being ridiculous. She had to draw a line under Meeko. They were incompatible — he wouldn’t trust her not to put him in a steel box unless they had rings on their fingers, and she didn’t trust him sufficiently to accept one of those rings and all the ‘jointness’ that went with it.

“Help yourself.” Dorothea pushed the squeezy golden syrup bottle across the table. Fiona was about to ignore it and plough on with a plain but healthy breakfast when her mother spoke again. “You haven’t forgotten it’s Meeko’s first trial yoga class this morning? At ten thirty, so there’s time for this to go down first — we won’t be exercising on a full stomach.”

“We?” She had remembered and had brought biscuits for her mother to take for the refreshments, but she couldn’t face Meeko herself. And it wasn’t fair to throw him off balance by turning up unexpectedly when this was his very first class and he was trying to impress. The manager of the complex might be there and he couldn’t afford to get distracted by any implications, real or in his imagination, of her being there. “I’m not old enough — better to leave the space for someone else.”

“Nonsense. There’s plenty of room in the lounge and Meeko will be grateful for a friendly face. Plus, there are lots of chairs to move out and then put back — he’ll need the help of another able-bodied person.”

“I should really check on Adele and—”

“Nonsense. You’ll be good for Meeko, plus I want to show my daughter off — I get precious little opportunity to do that, even though you’re retired now. Eat your porridge before it gets cold.”

Fiona squirted the sweet syrup over her breakfast. If she had to face Meeko, she needed energy.

Her running gear was in the small suitcase she’d brought to her mother’s, and those leggings and T-shirt would do for the class. She didn’t have her mat but the room was carpeted and most of the action would take place seated. Dorothea insisted they get to the lounge early to help Meeko arrange things. He was surveying the area when they arrived.

“You tell Fiona what you need moving. She is your slave. I’ll sit and watch.” The old lady took on the role of captain of the ship.

“Fiona. Hi.” It was a half-hearted greeting.

She shrugged at him and inclined her head towards the old lady to convey to him that her presence at the class wasn’t her own idea. Impossible to say whether the message was received.

“There’s not much furniture moving to do,” he said. “I’m focusing on chair yoga today so I can assess the level of fitness and mobility. I don’t want people doing themselves an injury getting down on the floor. But everyone will need to be able to stick their arms out at shoulder height, so we need to space the chairs out appropriately. And we want chairs without arms if possible.”

They worked in silence, elongating the existing rows of chairs, which looked as though they’d last been used for a film show. As they finished, a couple of Dorothea’s fellow residents entered, one on a walking frame and one with a stick. Meeko seemed to be silently assessing them, while her mother rushed over and made introductions, her words falling over each other in her pride. “Barbara, Alice, this is my daughter Fiona and her . . .” there was a slight hesitation before she pronounced the next word with a peculiar emphasis, “. . .friend, Meeko, our new yoga teacher.” Dorothea repeated this exercise until there were eight participants, plus Mrs Fairchild, the manager, and the clock said 10.30 a.m. Not as many as Fiona had hoped — she wondered if Mrs Fairchild had a mental cut-off figure which must be reached before the complex would agree to fund the classes beyond the three trial sessions. Please don’t let another part of Meeko’s future come crashing down — it would be her fault for encouraging him to believe he could improve on the hand that fate had dealt him. Fiona took a seat at the back so she could easily put the kettle on ten minutes before the end and arrange the promised biscuits on a plate.

“Hello and welcome!” An energised Meeko introduced himself with open arms and welcoming smile. “This first sessionis experimental to find out your baseline starting position with yoga. Going forward, the classes will be adapted to suit you. It will be easier with shoes off. Give me a wave if you need a hand?”

A murmur of conversation as Meeko made sure that everyone who needed help removing their shoes got it. Fiona helped the lady nearest to her.

“Let’s start by sitting tall with our feet on the floor.” There was a general shuffling of bottoms on seats as comfortable positions were found. Meeko was watching carefully. “If you can’t quite get your feet flat on the floor, don’t worry for this week. Next time I’ll bring some blocks you can use as foot rests. Now, inhale and lengthen through the spine. Imagine you are a puppet with piece of string pulling you up from the crown of your head.”

Fiona watched shoulders move back and the women appeared to grow taller in their chairs.

“Inhale deeply as you lift your heart and exhale as you move your shoulders backwards and down. We are going to find mobility in a way that’s soft and gentle. We’ll start by lifting the toes, keeping heels on the floor, and then lowering the toes. Let’s do that a few times.”

Meeko’s words were gentle and soothing as he ran through a range of easy stretches. Fiona imagined the bliss of hearing that voice every day. Stress, bitterness or anger couldn’t thrive in the presence of such calm. The daydream transported her away from the residents’ lounge. When she tuned back in to Meeko’s instructions, he was bringing the ladies into a seated twist. “Bring your right hand to your outer left thigh and, if possible, move your left hand onto the chair back.”

She followed the rest of the movements along with the residents until he talked them into how to fold the top half of their bodies over their knees and to breathe deeply. Fiona glanced at the clock; the session was coming to a close. Meekowas bringing the energy in the room down. She crept over to the lounge’s tiny kitchenette area, put the kettle on and started putting out mugs and arranging the custard creams she’d brought onto a plate. When she looked up, several faces were looking through the glass of the lounge doors, like zoo visitors staring into the lion enclosure. Some ducked when they realised they’d been spotted, others brazenly continued peeping. In the background Meeko was talking the ladies through bringing themselves back up to sitting by placing hands on thighs and gently pushing.

“Thank you, ladies . . . and gentleman.” Meeko gave a respectful nod towards the only man in the room. “It’s been a pleasure to have you here today and I hope you’ve enjoyed it.” There was a smattering of applause among the group, who looked half-asleep after the end-of-class relaxation session. “I will definitely be here for the next two weeks. If those classes are well attended then Mrs Fairchild will consider funding these sessions — unfortunately I do need to pay my rent and buy food. Any questions, please give me a wave and I’ll come and have a word with you.” A couple of hands went up.That had to be a good sign — it meant people were taking an interest in what was going on.

Suddenly there was a throng of people around Fiona and the urn. And the custard cream plate was empty. There were significantly more than eight people now. A lady, who Fiona recognised as her mother’s neighbour, whispered to Fiona, “Didn’t you see them gathering outside the door? Vultures they are whenever the word ‘biscuits’ appears on a poster. They should be banned — they haven’t earned their refreshments like we have.” Fiona thought she’d left petty politics and snide remarks behind when she retired but they obviously existed in all areas of life. From her bag, she retrieved her second ‘in caseof a mammoth class attendance’ pack of biscuits and refilled the plate.

“Custard creams.” The voice was derogatory and made Fiona feel like a failed staff member rather than a volunteer giving her own time and biscuits free of charge. The lady was wearing a silky blouse with a bow at the neck and a close-fitting skirt. She had definitely not been in the class. “I was hoping for a dark chocolate digestive. That’s what they put out during the film club interval.”

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