Page 70 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘There will be, Frederick. I’ve decided. That’s all there is to it.’
His face is angled in such a way that she can’t see any expression he may be making. She watches him, but he doesn’t move.
‘You’ve been driving for a while,’ she says at last. ‘You must need a break.’
‘We need petrol,’ he says. ‘I will stop at the next service station and we will both have a little break.’
Dorothy closes her eyes again and hears the road underneath the car and the rumble of the engine. The faint noise of the radio that Frederick keeps on low, even when there’s a song she knows he likes.
‘I love you,’ she says.
‘And I love you,’ he replies.
She tries not to fall asleep before they reach the service station and almost succeeds.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Grace Maud didn’t return to the yoga class exactly when Patricia and Dorothy wanted her to; not because she was inherently resistant to the idea but because she didn’t want to go outside. Also, Sandrine took four weeks off over Christmas and the new year, and Grace Maud took advantage of them.
Cecilia kept scolding her. ‘You can’t stay inside all the time. Do you want me to get Luca to carry you to the car?’
They both knew that was an empty threat, but Cecilia was obviously concerned because her manner became more and more fake-cheerful each time she appeared. ‘Beautiful day out there!’ she’d say as she almost skipped down the hallway, shopping bags in her hands.
‘Are you going to whistle while you work, Snow White?’ Grace Maud said once. She knew she’d used too much snark when Cecilia looked as if she wanted to cry. Grace Maud felt ashamed but didn’t apologise. That was probably her lowest day. After that she tried smiling more, and was rewarded with Cecilia’s own lovely, bright smile.
When Grace Maud was ready to re-emerge, she called Patricia and said she would be attending the next class.
Now she is feeling regret in direct proportion to the difficulty of holding her downward-facing dog.
Sandrine warned her when she arrived. ‘You have not been practising long enough to take a break like this, Grace Maud,’ she said. ‘You will feeeel it.’
Grace Maud’s hamstrings are telling her that she’s pushing them too far. She concentrates on her breathing, trying to distract herself.
The combination of a vacation from yoga and her age isn’t one she’s experienced before and she doesn’t like it. She can’t reverse the old age, so she’ll just have to keep coming to class regularly, because she knows she felt better than this before. The weeks away have calcified her, but they’re also the best advertisement for the postures she endures, and sometimes enjoys, in this class.
No, that’s enough. Too hard.
She bends her knees and comes to the floor, into child’s pose, to have a rest. Sandrine always says they can come into child’s pose any time they need a break.
‘Are you all right?’ It’s Patricia’s voice in her ear and, presumably, her hand on Grace Maud’s back.
‘Yes. Just old,’ Grace Maud says into her mat.
Patricia pats her, which makes Grace Maud sit up. ‘I’m not a dog, Patricia.’ Although she half smiles as she says it.
‘Of course you are,’ Patricia says. ‘You’re a downward dog.’ And she pops back up into the pose herself.
‘Oh, that’s hilarious,’ Grace Maud replies, smiling even though Patricia can’t see it. But she doesn’t rejoin her in the pose. They’ll be finished soon enough and on to the next thing, so she’ll wait.
She sits back on her heels and her thighs register their disapproval. Too bad. She has to try to stay here for a little while. If she gives in to discomfort – tosensation, as Sandrine likes to call it – not only will she not progress, she’ll go backwards.
‘The body is designed to be moved,’ Sandrine is always reminding them. ‘If you do not move it you can expect that it will stop working.’
Like the Tin Man inThe Wizard of Oz, one needs to keep oil in the joints, and yoga is that oil. Not that Sandrine’s ever mentioned the Tin Man. That’s Grace Maud’s own association.
The rest of the class is, thankfully, sitting postures. These Grace Maud can handle, even if her joints bleat at her whenever she asks them to move.
‘Open those eeeeps!’ Sandrine commands.
