Regrets perhaps fall into two categories – avoidable and not-avoidable. The focus should be your relationship to either type – and this is a story about one person’s decisions and how nothing needs to be set in stone.
She had a cat called Sid and a husband named James; she would introduce them as “Sid, James”. In the main only older people got the joke though. Neither Sid nor James made her laugh much anyway.
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James cycled to work every morning, spent the day carving – mainly funeral stuff – at a small stonemason’s yard down the hill and two villages further along the valley, and cycled back home in the evening.
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He walked the last bit up the hill, unless it was raining.
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Grave stones and little statues and what-have-you were OK. It was regular enough. People will always need burying, same as they’ll always need hairdressers. He didn’t find the work macabre or depressing or maudlin.
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Most evenings Sid would be waiting somewhere near the top of the hill. He’d trot up, apparently jauntily, and try to rub against James’ legs while he pushed his bike through the gate and towards the shed.
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Every time, he’d nearly get kicked. Every time, he’d jump out of the way just in time and up on to the garden wall.
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From the wall he’d have to be rescued by James. Sid had grown old and nearly blind – with one eye lost in a fight and the other cloudy – and he struggled to get down from things himself.
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If there wasn’t anyone around he’d whine for help. No depth perception, so James reasoned.
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She’d often see all this from the kitchen window. She didn’t mind the routine. She didn’t mind the predictability. It was boring. That was all. It could be worse.
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At least James didn’t tell her about “Sid’s antics” anymore, in the same way as he didn’t tell her about his day. He used to.
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She owned the cottage they lived in; it had been her parents’ place, before that her grandmother’s and before that her great-grandparent’s. Her family had lived in the village for donkey’s years.
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With no mortgage, James’ money kept them comfortable enough. They didn’t want for anything.
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She was still kind to James but only out of habit now. She didn’t put any effort into it.
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He’d never been unkind to her.
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She thought of it as a quiet, well-rooted English country life and would say to herself that there was nothing wrong with that.
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Callum knew them both well but was her special friend. He lived in the next-door cottage.
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Everyone who’d been in the village long enough knew that when he’d been young and she’d been even younger, he’d been very keen on her, but that was all way back when.
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Opportunities are missed and times change. There was never going to be an affair, not even now, now Callum’s wife had died. They both knew that.
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She had wondered whether he’d move on now he was alone, whether living there would have too many memories because his wife had died quite young and unexpectedly, but Callum had said he was happy and thought all the reminders were positive.
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One day Callum had mentioned that she could easily sell-up if she wanted to, now that commuters bought in to villages like theirs. He’d said the money would last a good few years.
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He’d said it out of the blue, unbidden. They’d just been chatting about getting someone in to do the gutters; whether Callum knew anyone to do the job because James didn’t and he didn’t fancy doing it himself.
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Later, after she’d thought about it, she’d been slightly surprised at Callum’s suggestion and wondered why he’d been thinking about her leaving.
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Once she’d thought about it a bit more, she’d realised it might not have been a suggestion. It might have just been a comment, an observation.
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At the time she’d taken it merely as a passing remark he’d made; she hadn’t even replied.
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The gutters were fixed by one of the local farmer’s sons, just starting out with his own roofing and guttering business. His father hadn’t wanted him to go into farming, not now it had been ruined by the supermarkets and the government.
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He’d done a good job for a good price. She’d used him again soon afterwards to re-do some slates on the west gable after they lifted and moved in a freakish gust during an October storm.
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She felt sure the weather was changing, causing problems that it never used to. She’d said about it to Callum one evening as they’d stood outside in some warm late autumn sun.
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They’d talked about the changes they’d seen and he’d said again about selling up and moving away. This time he’d said he’d buy her cottage if she’d like him to.
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She knew he had money tucked away, that life assurances had paid out and that he’d inherited a bit from an Aunt too.
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He’d said he could afford it; that James could stay there; that he’d only want a little bit in rent to cover keeping the place up.
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This time, she’d been surprised but she didn’t just dismiss the idea. She’d said she’d have to think it over. Callum didn’t make much of it; he just said the offer was there if she wanted to take it up.
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They’d both simply assumed she’d leave James behind.
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Just two weeks later, when she saw Sid and James going through their evening performance yet again, she’d made up her mind: the boredom had to stop.
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So she left. Callum kept his word and bought the cottage. There was no big bust-up with James. He didn’t say much at all really. No tears and nothing silly. He did say he hoped she’d be happy.
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At first she travelled England, spending most of her time on the coast, in the main staying in not-too-expensive hotels and decent bed-and-breakfasts. Almost always, she’d stay somewhere for at least a fortnight. She wasn’t afraid of haggling for a good price.
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After a while she started taking in Wales too and, later still, she included Scotland. As time went by she started visiting inland areas as well, particularly when the coast was busy. She never did like crowds.
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She drove herself, unhurriedly and never during peak times. She travelled lightly and didn’t once miss not having a home.
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When she arrived somewhere new she’d take the trouble to try to buy a picture postcard if she could. She’d send it to ‘Callum and James’ but always addressed it to Callum’s cottage.
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She’d only put a few words on the cards, more-or-less bland pleasantries, but she’d also email them – often three or four times a week and always at least once.
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Some emails would just be about practicalities: reassurances that she was well, details about where she was staying and for how long. In others, often sent late at night, she’d try to write about the things she’d seen that she thought would interest them.
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When she started out she wasn’t that good with words and struggled with descriptions but she took to it, enjoyed it and improved quickly: both Callum and James noticed. She bought a pocket thesaurus-and-dictionary to help
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She did a lot of walking and she’d mention any well-known sites but she’d notice the humdrum and paid attention to the everyday as well – how people looked, local buildings, monuments and anything else; whatever caught her fancy or made an impression.
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Callum and James rubbed along without any problems. They shared a grumbling mutual warmth and utter trust, and they both liked to hear from her.
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They’d send her emails on high days and holidays but neither of them took easily to small talk and not a lot happened for them to write about, so the rest of the time they didn’t try. She didn’t mind.
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More than three years after she’d left, she was staying near St Ives when James phoned her on New Year’s Eve. He’d never phoned before so she knew it was going be bad news. He was calling to say Callum had died: he’d gone to bed and hadn’t woken up.
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He spoke hurriedly, the way she knew he always did when he was upset and uncertain. He hated uncertainty.
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She walked on beaches and cliff tops in Cornwall for two days before deciding to go back, but she did. She phoned James and took control.
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Callum had left everything to her, including both cottages. After a few weeks staying with her aunt she moved in to Callum’s old place. She’d cried at his funeral but, like Callum, she was happy with the memories the rooms held.
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James stayed where he was and carried on paying rent. He was happier with her back in the village.
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She found that Sid had died too, quite a while ago, but that wasn’t really a surprise. There was a life-sized stone cat marking his grave in the garden, just by the shed, beautifully carved.
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James had found a replacement, a tabby, from a rescue centre and called it Babs.
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