Souls State
Margaret Jenkins sat in her kitchen and gazed out the window. Outside, spring was arriving: the last of the frost melting away, tender new shoots peeking through the damp soil. Yet to her, it felt like the deepest autumn. Three years had gone since her husband died, but it hadnt got any easier. She was used to it, in a wayresigned evenbut the emptiness lingered. As if someone had removed a vital cog: she still got by, but something inside her creaked with every turn.
Her children were far. Her son was settled in London, her daughter in Manchester. The grandchildren were grown, each busy with lives of their own. They phoned at Christmas and birthdays, sometimes shot her a picture message. Margaret would take a look, force a smile, then return to her place at the window, watching the tiny English garden or the street beyond.
The women from next door sometimes tried to draw her out, but what good would that do? Sitting on a bench gossiping about ailments? Dull as ditchwater. Years ago, she and her husband had strolled through the park togetherout for walks, the occasional film, or visiting friends for Sunday roast. Now, alone, there was neither reason nor company.
There was barely anything in the fridge. For herself, she needed little. The television kept looping endless romance dramas, which managed only to deepen her melancholy.
Margaret, youll do yourself in at this rate, her friend Eileen sighed once a week when she dropped by. You should get out amongst people. Join that social club, or try out the tea dances at the community hall. They say its a real laugh!
Oh, Eileen, dont be daft, Margaret would protest. Who would I dance with? Whod want to?
Eileen would shake her head, mutter something about wasted chances, and let herself out. And Margaret would sink back by the window.
***
At the end of May, her granddaughter Charlotte arriveda second-year university student; all roaring laughter, trainers kicked off, and those headphones permanently glued to her ears. She tumbled into the quiet house like a summer storm.
Grandma, hello! Im here all summer! Had enough of Londonwant some peace and some of your Victoria sponge!
Margaret came alive again. Cakes, stews, fish piesthe kitchen hummed with baking and talk. Charlotte tucked in with gusto, chattering about lectures, parties, about some chap called Ben who totally doesnt get the hint.
And what about you, Grandma? she finally asked, sipping her tea and picking at jam tarts.
Oh, Im muddling along, Margaret sighed. Listening to you, plotting to wash the windows tomorrow.
Do you miss him?
I do, Lottie. Very much so.
Her granddaughter gave her a searching look, then suddenly her eyes lit up.
Gran, listen! Why dont we try downloading one of those friendship apps for you?
Margaret nearly spluttered her tea.
Have you lost your marbles? What sort of nonsense is that? Im sixty-eight!
So what? Charlotte exclaimed, completely unbothered. Theres loads of folk your age on these apps. All sorts, just after someone to talk to, go strolling with. You might meet someone interesting. Even just for company.
Dont be ridiculous, Margaret retorted sharply. I spent half a century married, and now Im supposed to fish around for men on my phone? Its embarrassing.
Nobody has to know! Charlotte burst out laughing. Top secret, total mystery, you see. Lets just give it a whirl, for a laugh.
Margaret waved her off, huffing and puffing, but that evening, when Charlotte slipped out to meet friends, she found herself nosing about with her mobile. Purely out of curiosity. Just to see what all the fuss was about.
She found the right app, downloaded it, and set up a profile. The photo was oldtaken on holiday in Devon with her husbandcropped to hide him from view. She wrote: Margaret, 68. Looking for a walking companion, someone to chat with over tea.
And left it at that, nearly forgetting by morning.
***
The next day, her phone chirped. She peered at the message:
Hello, Margaret. Im Linda, 64. Also after some companylove a ramble in the park, miss a good natter. Fancy meeting up?
Margaret read it twice. Linda. A woman. Not the old gentlemen shed expected.
Charlotte! she called. Theres some lady messaging me here, look.
What lady? Charlotte dashed through, grabbing the phone. See, Gran, shes your age, she wants to go walking! Isnt that lovely?
What am I supposed to do? Margaret faltered.
Well, meet her, obviously! Why not?
Three days later, they agreed to meet in the park. Margaret was jittery as a schoolgirlshe tried on three jumpers and two skirts before settling on the usual outfit, and off she went.
Linda turned out to be a petite, spry woman with animated eyes and a voice that filled the air. She wasted no time.
Margaret, Im chuffed to meet you! Sitting alone at home is the end, I say. I think weve loads in common already. Were you married? Im a widow too. Children? My sons in Berlin, see him once a year. Lets be friends!
They talked for three hours. Walked through the trees, sat on a bench, strolled again. Turned out Linda embroidered as Margaret did, loved old black-and-white films, missed her husband dearly. She, too, was lost for how to fill the days.
How about we meet next Saturday? Linda suggested as they parted.
Yes, why not? Margaret replied. And for the first time in ages, her smile was real.
***
Within a month, their outings were routinea walk along the river, then tea and chatter at someones kitchen table. Linda brimmed with ideas.
Listen, lets find a few others! Linda said. There must be loads of women just like us on that app. Sitting about at home, lonely. We could get a little group together.
What, like a club? Margaret asked, bemused.
Yes, a club! Outings, tea, chat about books or a film. I rather fancy giving Nordic walking a gothey say its wonderful for your health, and its dull to do alone. But together, it could be brilliant!
Margaret was hesitant. Clubs? Walking about with sticks? But Linda was persistent. Within a week, theyd found two moreSusan and Violet. Another week, three more joined.
The group took shape and called themselves Brisk Steps. Susan, once a headmistress and ever the organiser, dreamed up the name.
Nordic walking every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday! she declared. Tuesdays are for book chats and home baking. On Thursdays, out to the films or galleries. Weekendswe recharge, or meet up if we fancy!
At first, Margaret was simply one of them. Before long, she was keeping the group chat tidy, compiling new members lists, even being voted the club captain (Susans doing, of course).
Margaret, you have a real knack for this! Linda exclaimed. You bring us all together. Without you, none of it would run.
Margaret would brush it off, but secretly, the warmth grew inside.
***
Word soon got outa reporter from the local gazette came by, asking questions, snapping photographs, taking notes. A week later, an article appeared: Golden Years: Local Ladies Finding Friendship and Changing Lives.
Margaret peered at her own picture in printthere she was, right in the front, beaming, Nordic walking sticks in hand. Her grin was as true as the sunshine.
Then a call came from the regional television.
Mrs. Jenkins? Wed love to do a feature on your clubwould you be willing?
She wasnt willing. She was mortified. But Linda and Susan insisted:
Margaret, itll be brilliantmight reach more people, get them out of the house. Dont you want to help other lonely souls?
She had no choice, really.
The crew stayed for hours. The presenteryoung and kind, a lass called Sophieasked gentle questions about why, how, what the club meant.
You see, Margaret told the camera, when you lose someone close, it feels like your lifes over, like theres nothing left. Especially when your children are scattered. But you do matter. First and foremost, to yourself. Weve found each otherand now, every morning, weve something to wake up for. For a stroll in the park, for a chat, for another day.
The segment aired on the evening news. That night, Margarets phone rang off the hookneighbours, old schoolmates, even colleagues from decades past. Within a week, twenty more joined Brisk Steps.
***
Her seventieth birthday came rounda milestone she wished would slip by unnoticed. Whats the point of a big party, she thought, at this age? But the club had other plans.
Were throwing you a bash! announced Linda. Weve booked the village hallmusic, dancing, the whole works. Youre our star, so youd better dress the part.
It cheered Margaret to her core. She even bought herself a new blue dress, sprinkled with tiny daisies, just like those she wore in youthand smart shoes with a gentle heel.
Then her son rang from London.
Mum, were coming up for your birthdayme, Helen, the kids.
Youre coming? But work, schoolhow on earth?
Weve booked the time off. Weve missed you, and its about time.
That evening, Margaret barely slepttidying, baking, worrying. When her sons family finally arrived in the morning, she realised she hadnt seen them in nearly three years. Her grandchildrenone now eighteen, the other fifteentowered over her, grown and changed.
Grandma! her granddaughter cried, hugging her. You look different. Younger, maybe?
Margaret laughed. Well, you seeweve got a golden years club here, keeping us sprightly. No time for old age in this parish!
Her celebration took place at the hall, every member of the club in bright dresses with bouquets, presents, and greetings. Neighbours, too, and even what seemed like half the staff from the primary school where shed once worked. Linda hosted, Susan recited her own poems, and Violet serenaded with her ukulele.
Her son watched in wonder. Three years ago, hed left behind a grey, hunched, spiritless mother. Now
Mum, is this really you? he asked quietly, when they found a moment alone.
Its me, love, she smiled. I was just lonely before. Now Ive friends, a purpose, and good reason to greet each morning. You see what I mean?
He nodded. Sorry we stayed away so long.
Oh, dont fuss, Margaret waved it off. Youve your lives. Ive found mine. And you know what? I rather like it.
Just then, Charlotte rang on video call.
Happy birthday, Gran! Im so glad for you! Remember when I said to try that app, and you called it silly?
Silly, Margaret agreed, grinning, the silliest. But sometimes its just those silly things that change your life.
***
Epilogue
A year on, Brisk Steps was a household name across town. Media called for interviews; other clubs sprang upknitting, painting, even amateur dramatics.
Now, Margaret wasnt just a membershe was the organiser, with assistants, schedules, plans stretching months ahead.
Her son visits far more often now. Her grandchildren chat to her online, ask advice, send photos. Charlotte, inspired by her gran, returned after uni to start an internship at the local paperintent on writing about vibrant retirees.
Youre my inspiration, Gran, she tells her.
And Margaret just smiles from her window. But now, outside, its no longer autumn but the brightest spring.
Life goes on. And its beautiful.
Margaret still keeps that app on her phone. Sometimes she peeks at new profiles, but she isnt searching anymore. Shes found what she truly neededher sense of self. The rest will follow.
Ladies, she tells newcomers shyly joining the group, the main thing isdont be frightened. Lifes long, much longer than you imagine. And you can always begin again, no matter your age, even if it feels like everythings over.
And they believe her. Because before them stands a genuine, radiant woman, who at seventy became the toast of her town. Whos proven: age is just a number. What really counts is the state of your soul.
