Stepping Out

Moira tugged at her trusty navy-blue J Crew jacket, pulling it tighter over her cream blouse, criss-crossing her ankles in nervous repetition. She still found it challenging taking the train into town on her own. She noticed how the light caught the shiny gilt buckles on her loafers. That made her smile. Worth the extra polish, she thought. You can tell so much about a person from their footwear. Look at George’s terrible taste in shoes, always scuffed and brown, brown with everything. Even worse those open-toed sandals with socks in summer. She shuddered.

Unfortunately having allowed the image of George into her head, Moira now found she couldn’t get him out. She recalled, with some pain, the ‘oh so ordinary’ grey-skied Thursday when George had announced in the kitchen, whilst staring at the fridge, not at her, that he wanted, ‘Some space. Not a divorce, old girl. More of a breather.’

Moira had tried laughing off her husband’s words. Even while George had gone upstairs to pack a suitcase, she’d worked at keeping her tone light, not confrontational, (men, she knew, hated women who argued), but it had made no difference. To her intense surprise and distress, George, her husband of three decades, had followed his suitcase and golf clubs out the door.

“I’ll pop back for my clean shirts when they’re washed, love,” he’d shouted through the letterbox. Shaking at the assumption in his words, as much as at the shock of his departure, Moira had stood frozen, hand paused in mid-air, as though conducting an orchestra.

Their generation didn’t talk about ‘space’. He was trying to be trendy, she’d concluded hours later after mulling over his unexpected departure. She didn’t really think he had another woman, not George. His passion was golf.

Their only daughter, Rowan, had taken her father’s side. “You’re too clingy, Mum. You need to get a hobby. Stand on your own two feet more. Let Dad breathe a bit. You do everything together.”

‘Course, you’ve always been a daddy’s girl. The disloyal thought swam into Moira’s head.

Secretly Moira was deeply hurt by her daughter’s blunt assessment, but she tried to hide her feelings from her offspring, who these days, scared her with her busy life and string of cohabiting, ever-changing partners whose names Moira rarely caught.

After a few weeks of staying at home power-cleaning, Moira, in an effort to stem waves of boredom and loneliness, signed up for a Zumba class in town and a Pilates class in the village hall. The latter alongside a bunch of ladies all demonstrating differing degrees of stiffness or flexibility. Moira discovered she was on the supple side, which secretly delighted her. She’d never thought of herself as flexible in any way. If her body could bend, so too could her mind. She could learn to stand on her own two feet, and show her bossy daughter a thing or two.

The new classes furnished her with new contacts and, to her surprise, she was enjoying herself more with each passing week and missing George less. There were lunches out at trendy bistros with gal pals, walks with their dogs, shopping trips and, as a happy by product, she was fitter. The waistbands on her skirts no longer cut her in half, skewering her like a doughnut. She’d even ventured a new haircut with purple highlights and a feathery fringe.

‘Takes years off you, Mum. Good for you,’ commented Rowan. Moira glowed at this rare daughterly praise.

After an extensive foray into her favourite shops, Moira retreated to a cafe for a latte, and watched the couples on the tables around her. Everyone except her seemed to be with someone. Her aloneness seemed to be screaming out. Moira felt the familiar bubbles of anxiety rising, affecting her digestion, choking her and making it hard to swallow.

Breathe in, count to five, focus on a pebble.

Moira valiantly recalled the instructions from her mindfulness tutor, who was, she’d noticed, always barefooted during the classes. This had encouraged Moira to copy her and daringly remove her own stern lace ups and grip the mat with her toes. It reminded her of being a five-year-old on the beach. Minus the sand.

The meditation classes had been recommended by her doctor, who had said ‘no’ to sleeping pills and told Moira it was all about ‘stress busting’ and ‘controlling your anxiety’ these days. Moira, had stared at the floor, gazing at the doctor’s brogues which seemed to reflect how centred and sensible she sounded.

Moira threw herself into the mindfulness classes - colouring in complicated mandalas, listening to medleys of whale songs, performing mental head to toe body scans and focussing on a physical pebble, held in the palm for several minutes.

Unfortunately the image which came to mind in the coffee shop was not of a pebble, but instead the mauled blackbird which her cat, Maxie, had deposited on the doorstep the day before. Moira had been forced to dispose of the tiny body, armed with her Marigolds, in the outside bin, watched with venom by her pet. Maxie had been George’s cat and he’d not taken his master’s departure well. Mass slaughter following in the ensuing weeks.

Breathe in, count to five, focus on a pebble.

Moira’s sweaty hand clasped her posh cardboard gilt handled shopping bag and she smiled at what was inside. Her luxury purchase; her gift to herself. Her breathing slowed and the anxiety bubbles retreated.

Maybe pebbles weren’t right for her? Maybe she was more the luxury end of the meditation scene?

At the train station Moira watched a young Goth couple, ineach matching black clothes, with identical nose studs, claim the seats near her and begin to kiss and chat. More happy couples. Anxiety bubbles began to stir. As her stop hoved into sight, Moira stood up, laden with bags, and waited for the doors to open. She sensed the couple standing behind her and in her rush to disembark caught her foot in one of the bags.

Moira felt a sickening lurch to her centre of gravity, as she toppled headlong towards the platform. She closed her eyes in terror waiting for the impact. It didn’t come. Instead, a terrific jerk around her shoulder blades halted her fall. Next, she was yanked up and backwards by her left arm. Looking down she glimpsed black-painted fingernails gripping her jacket. Wobbly, but vertical again, she looked up in confusion.

“You OK?” It was the Goth lad holding her arm. He looked anxious. He unpeeled a couple of the bags from her sweaty hands and keeping hold of her upper arm, helped Moira descend to the platform. “Tricky, isn’t it?”

The lad’s nose stud glinted in the winter sunlight, giving him a rather piratical air. His girlfriend smiled, revealing dimples on either side of her black-painted lips.

A flash of memory - George with gelled hair, and a thin pencil moustache, her younger self, with a permanent bubble cut, shortish skirts and red lipstick, applied after she left home, because her father would never let her out of the house, ‘looking like a tart.’

“All right, now?” the lad asked again.

Moira found her voice. “Yes, thank you so much. I really do appreciate your help.”

The platform stretched in front of Moira, a paper bag blew along beside her keeping her company. When she reached Victoria Road the diners and pub-goers were flocking into the amber- lit bars. Moira strolled towards her terraced house perched near the canal, feeling lighter in spirit than she had in quite a while.

She recalled the newly-painted walls and the hand-painted kitchen table; all her own work. The tangible fruits of many hours spent in expressing her own tastes. She acknowledged to herself, yes, it had been a shock at first when George walked out, but being on her own, standing on her own feet, as Rowan had said, had produced its own rewards. New hobbies, friends, a fresh image and increased self-esteem.

A shadow was waiting for her by the gate next to the herb garden, where scents of lavender filled the air, planted specifically for its calming qualities. Maxie purred and slinked around the shadowy figure’s ankles; like the flirt he was.

“Hello George,” she said without pausing in her step, extracting her door key.

Her spouse replied, “Er, well, I’ve been waiting a while, surprised you were out…?” He paused, but Moira offered no information. “So, I was just in the area and wondered if you’ve . . . well - time for a coffee?”

Moira paused, considering. Her feet ached. However, to her surprise, her heart did not. “No, not right now, George. I’m rather tired, you see. I’ve been out in town, shopping and I just want to put my feet up and have a coffee.”

“But . . . you never go into town. You always said it was too crowded.” George’s face expressed shock. His eyebrows raised comically high.

“Did I?” Moira smiled. “Come on in, Maxie. Hurry up you daft thing if you want your tea. I see things differently now.” Pausing on the doorstep Moira turned. “I can go for a coffee later in the week, George. Why don’t you call me?”

Maxie slipped past her ankles. Traitor, you know which side’s your bread’s buttered on, thought Moira. “Night, George.”

Inside she plopped down onto the settee and opened her poshest shopping bag, unwrapping the cream tissue paper layers and revealing her special purchase – a pair of luscious glossy black shoes, with silver heels, ideal for Zumba and nights out. She tried them on and the soft leather embraced her feet.

Breathe in, count to five and think of . . . shoes.

Moira relaxed and put her feet up. One at a time.