Soul State
Margaret Davies sat in her kitchen, gazing out of the window. It was nearly spring outsidesnowdrops pushing up past the puddles and blackbirds chattering on the fencebut to her it seemed deep, damp autumn. Three years had passed since her husbands death and nothing got any easier. Supposedly, shed adjusted, grown used to the loneliness, yet inside her it was hollow. As if someone had removed just the vital cogher machine still whirred but not quite properly, everything creaking and sighing.
Her grown-up children were scattered. Her son in London, her daughter up in Manchester. The grandchildren, practically adults themselves, had each retreated into orbiting their own blossoming worlds. Theyd ring for birthdays, ping her the occasional photo on WhatsApp. Margaret would study these pictures, smile, then settle back toward the window, her eyes roaming the orderly English suburb.
Neighbourly invitations found her, like carrier pigeons banging on her pane. Come sit with us on the green, Margaret! Lets have a natterits fresh out! But what would she do with them? Sit on a cold bench, discuss their ailments and the rising price of milk? Not exactly thrilling. Once, she and her husband would take brisk Sunday walks along the canal; sometimes the cinema, or tea at a friends. Now, she had no companion and barely a reason.
Her fridge kept only essentials. One person didnt need much, after all. The TV sang endless soaps about love affairs that only amplified her ache.
Margaret, youll run yourself into the ground! grumbled Nina, who popped round once a week, plonking herself on the floral sofa. Youve got to get out! Join a club. Theres line dancing for over-sixties at the community centre. They say its a right hoot.
What, dancing? Margaret waved a dismissive spoon. Who with, Nina? Ive no partner. And honestly, who for?
Nina sighed and departed. Margaret watched her go, settling by the glass once more, as if waiting for something she couldnt name.
***
In late May, her granddaughter Zoe arrivedloud, bright, headphones perched around her neck, a whirlwind in converse shoes. University, second year, giddy with life and chattering, crashing into the quiet little house like a blast of July sun.
Gran! Hello, gorgeous! Im here all summerIve run off from London. Want your cottage pie, quiet, and your fussing!
Margaret came alive again. Stews, scones, piesa flurry of wooden spoons and laughter. Zoe munched through them, recounting stories about university, friends, some lad called Josh who just doesnt get it.
So, Gran, what about you? she asked finally, swirling her tea as they sat in the kitchen, jam bubbling and toast crumbs everywhere.
Oh, you know, Im just here, Margaret sighed. Tomorrow I thought of washing the windows.
Do you miss him?
I do, love. So much it hurts.
Zoe gave her a long, considering look, then suddenly her eyes glinted.
Gran! Lets download a dating app for you!
Margaret spluttered on her tea.
Have you lost your wits? Dating? Im nearly seventy!
So what? Zoe was unmoved. Theres loads of people your age. Lonely, looking for chat, for a walk, a coffee. You might meet someone interestingor even just a friend!
Dont be daft, Margaret insisted. Fifty years married, and now Im to find men online? Id die of embarrassment.
No one has to know, Zoe winked. Its our secret, incognito and all that. Lets just try, for fun! Cmonadventure!
Margaret shooed her away, her cheeks flushed. But when Zoe zipped out to see her mates, the old curiosity rattled and she poked at her mobile. Just for a peep, really. Just to see.
She found, downloaded, registered. Uploaded a years-old photo, artfully cropped to cut her husband out. Wrote: Margaret, 68. Looking for someone to walk and talk with.
Quickly, she forgot about it and went to bed.
***
Morning. Telephone beeped. Margaret peeredmessage on the app:
Hi Margaret, my names Daphne, Im 64. Id love a companion for walks. Love fresh air, parks, birdwatching. Its lonely sometimes. Shall we meet?
Margaret read it twice. Daphne. Not a man at all, but another woman.
Zoe! she called. Oi, come hereyoull never guess!
Whats up, Gran? Zoe skidded in, grabbed the phone. Oh, look! Shes your age, and wants to meet for a walk!
What do I do? Margaret said, lost.
Meet her, obviously! Why else?
A few days later, they met in the park. Margaret fretted like a schoolgirltried on three cardigans, two skirts, landed in her favourite blouse and sensible boots.
Daphne was tiny, fierce-eyed, brisk-voiced, straight to the point:
Sitting in alone is death, Margaret! Were birds of a feather. You married? Widow myself. Any kids? Mines in Germanysee him once a year. Lets be friends!
They walked for hours, then sat, then walked again. Both loved embroidery, the old films, missed their husbands, wondered how to fill the vast empty days.
Shall we meet again? Daphne said, peckish for more company.
Yes, lets. For the first time in ages, Margarets smile felt bright and real.
***
Within a month, walks and kettle-boiled chats became routine. Daphne brimmed with schemes.
Lets find a few more, she said. Theres loads like us on the app, rattling about at home, lonely. We could all meetmake a group!
A group? For what? Margaret was baffled.
A club, dear! Walks, tea, book talk, a film now and then. I fancy Nordic walking. Apparently very healthy, but dull on your own. Groups better!
Margaret hesitatedclubs, walking sticks? Yet Daphne, persistent as drizzle, soon found two more: June and Pat. Then three more.
Out of nothing, the Light Steps Society was born. June, a retired teacher with a fondness for lists and calling things official-sounding, came up with the name.
Nordic walking, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays! she decreed. Tuesdays, tea with book club. Thursdays well go to the cinema or an exhibition. At weekends, we rest (or not!).
At first, Margaret merely joined in. Then quietly, she became the groups heartbeatorganising a WhatsApp chat, jotting down new members, eventually declared Captain (again, Junes doing).
Margaret, youre brilliant at this! Daphne crowed. You bring us all together. Without you, this lot would still be sulking at home.
Margaret waved her off, but something inside her flickered warm.
***
The local newspaper soon caught wind of them. A young reporter arrived with notepad and camera, brimming with questions. The next week, Margaret saw her own picture in print: clutching Nordic poles, grinning, surrounded by happy faces. And her smile looked strangely young.
Then the local telly called.
Mrs Davies, wed like to run a feature about your club. Would you mind?
She minded, awfully so. But Daphne and June pounced.
Its for a good cause! If people see us, others might join! You want to help lonely pensioners, dont you?
So she agreed.
Filming lasted three hours. The reporter, a kind girl named Charlotte, asked how it all began, what kept them returning, what the club meant to her.
You see, Margaret said to the camera, when someone you love goes, you think lifes over. That youre needed by no one. Especially if your children live far off. But youre still neededto yourself most of all. Weve found each other, and now, theres something to get up for. For a walk, a chat, for a new day.
The piece aired that evening. Her phone rang all nightneighbours, old colleagues, well-wishers. Twenty new members joined within a week.
***
Seventy. Margarets milestone. Shed rather not think of itwhat kind of celebration, when youre that age? The club had other ideas.
Margaret, were throwing you a party! Daphne declared. At a café, with music and dancing! Youre our starso lets make a splash.
Margaret blushed but inside she was secretly pleased. Bought herself a new frocknavy, sprinkled with forget-me-nots, like shed once worn at twenty-one. Even matching shoes.
Then her son rang from London.
Mum, were coming for your birthday. Me, Emma, the kids.
What? You cantwork, school…
Well sort it. We want to be there. Its been too long.
All night she flapped and fussed, dusting, chopping, worrying. When her son and his family walked in the door that morning, she realized she hadnt seen them in nearly three years. Grown grandchildren: Rosie, already eighteen; Tom, now fifteen. Changed, wise-eyed.
Granny! Rosie flung her arms round her. You look… different. You look younger!
Margaret laughed, a clear sound.
We run a lively club round here, she teased. No time for growing old.
The birthday party sparkledfriends in bright dresses, flowers everywhere, neighbours, colleagues, club members galore. Daphne presided, June recited her own silly poems, Pat sang to her battered ukulele.
Her son watched her, almost in disbelief. Three years before, shed been shrunken, grey, lost in shadows. Now…
Mum, is that really you? he asked in a stolen moment.
Yes, love, she smiled. Only now Im not alone. Ive got friends, purpose, something to wake up for. You see?
I do, Mum. Im sorry we didnt visit more often.
Oh, dont, she waved away. Youve your life, Ive mine. And you know what? I have one now.
Then Zoe video-called: Happy birthday, Gran! Remember when you thought the dating app idea was stupid?
Utter nonsense, Margaret grinned. The kind that can change your whole life.
***
Epilogue
A year on, Light Steps Society shined city-wide. Theyd been on television, in the paper, everywhere. The women spawned other clubsknitting, art, even amateur drama.
Margaret wasnt just a club member; she was the networks heart, with a diary and to-do lists, volunteers and plans stretching for months.
Her sons family visited often now. The grandchildren texted and sent photos, asked her advice. Zoe, that visionary, landed an internship at the local papershe said she wanted to write about women like her grandmother.
Gran, youre my hero, she said.
Margaret just smiled, gazing out of her window. Now, outside, it wasnt autumn, but the vivid green of a true English spring.
Life pulses on. It is beautiful.
Margaret still kept that peculiar app on her phone. Sometimes she scrolled through new faces, but she didnt search anymore. Why would she? Shed found the most important thingherself. The rest would come.
And to newcomers, still timid, shed say: Darlings, dont be frightened. Lifes longer than we think. Theres always a fresh startno matter how near the end it seems.
They believed her. How could they not? A living, blooming, triumphant womanwho at seventy became a local sensation. Proof, if any was needed, that age is but a number and life, always, is a state of the soul.
