State of Mind
Margaret Evans sat in the kitchen and gazed out the window. Spring was coming to Oxford the air was gentler, frost melted away, green shoots fighting through the soil. Yet inside she felt as though it were the bleakest November. Three years had passed since Charles died, and the ache had not lessened. She had gotten used to his absence, perhaps, made peace with it, but a hollow remained at her centre as though someone had removed a vital cog, and though the mechanism sputtered on, it groaned and creaked painfully.
Her children were far away. Paul was in London, Catherine in Manchester. The grandchildren were grown; each had their own busy life. They called her for holidays, sometimes sent photos in a WhatsApp group. Margaret would smile at the snapshots, then return to her chair by the window and watch the quiet street below.
The neighbours often called from across the fence, urging her out for a walk. But what did she want with those outings? Sitting on the park bench, trading complaints about aches and the price of groceries, held no appeal. In times past, she and Charles would stroll through Christ Church Meadow, or go to a matinée at the local cinema on Sundays, or have friends around for tea. Now, there was no one to go with and no reason.
A few eggs and a tin of soup sat in the fridge. On her own, she needed little. On TV, romantic dramas played incessantly, only deepening her sense of loneliness.
Margaret, youll waste away, stuck here, her friend Dorothy would sigh, visiting once a week. You need to get out, love. Join a club, do a little dancing plenty of fun about!
Dancing, Dorothy? At my age? With whom, exactly? Margaret would bat the words away. Besides, theres no one I want to dance with.
Dorothy would shake her head and leave; Margaret drifted back to her watchful perch at the window.
***
At the end of May, her granddaughter, Emily, arrived. A lively, second-year student always laughing, music in her ears, overflowing with stories. She burst into Margarets quiet house like a gale shaking the roses.
Gran, Im here, for the whole summer! Im tired of London its time for fresh air, peace, and your baking!
Margarets spirits flickered back to life. She rolled pastry, fried fishcakes, simmered stews. Emily devoured everything, chatting endlessly about uni, her friends, and a boy named Freddie who, apparently, was tragically oblivious to all hints.
Gran, how about you? How are things? she finally asked, as they sipped tea with jam on a rainy afternoon.
Oh, nothing much. Im listening to you. Might clean the windows tomorrow, if the rain holds off.
Do you miss him?
I do, Emmy. Very much.
Emily looked at her for a long moment, then her eyes widened as though struck by an idea.
Gran! You know what? Lets download a dating app for you!
Margaret nearly choked on her tea.
Dont be ridiculous! Dating? Im sixty-eight!
So? Loads of people your age are on there, Emily pressed on, unabashed. Theyre lonely, too just looking for someone to talk to, walk with. You might meet someone interesting even as a friend!
Nonsense, Margaret cut her short. I was married half a century. Now Im supposed to scroll for strangers? Id die of embarrassment.
No one has to know! Emily giggled, waving it off. Secret, incognito mission. Lets just try it, for fun.
Margaret scoffed and shooed her away, but that evening, with Emily out with friends, curiosity crept up on her. What was this app, anyway?
After a little fiddling, she downloaded, registered, found a photo from years back, taken with Charles on their last holiday in Cornwall. She cropped him out. For her bio she wrote: Margaret, 68. Looking for someone to chat and stroll with.
Then she put the phone down and forgot all about it.
***
Morning brought a notification. Margaret blinked at the screen.
Hello, Margaret Im Susan, 64. Im also looking for a friend to walk with. Love the parks, the fresh air. It gets lonely on your own. Shall we meet?
Margaret read the message twice. Susan. A woman, not the man she figured would reply.
Emily! she called. Theres a lady messaging me!
What lady? Emily raced in, snatching the phone. Look, Gran, shes right around your age! She wants to walk with you.
So what do I do? Margaret was flustered.
Meet her, of course! Its just a walk.
Three days later, they met in University Parks. Margaret was nervous as a schoolgirl she tried on three cardigans, two skirts, ended up in her old favourite, and set off.
Susan was short and spry, with dancing eyes and a booming voice. She got right to the heart of the matter:
Margaret, Im so chuffed to meet you! Sitting in at home by yourself is no life. You and I have lots in common, I can tell. Were you married? I was widowed too. Any children? My sons in Berlin, we only see him once a year. Lets be friends!
They walked and talked for hours, taking in the late afternoon sun on the river, sharing stories of husbands, small joys, stubborn loneliness. Susan embroidered, loved classic black-and-white films, missed her own Charles. Both yearned to fill the days with something more.
Lets meet again? Susan asked as they said their goodbyes.
Yes, Margaret managed, Saturday?
For the first time in ages, her smile came unbidden and genuine.
***
Within the month, they were meeting almost daily rambles in the park, ambling up the High Street, sharing tea and cake at home. Susan overflowed with ideas.
Why dont we find a few more friends? she exclaimed. The app is full of women like us. Theyre trapped inside, day after day. We could start a little club.
A club? Margaret frowned.
Yes! Shared interests, a bit of a walking gang. Tea, films, even crafts. Ive always wanted to try Nordic walking they say its good for your health, but its no fun alone. In a group, itd be perfect!
Margaret hesitated, but Susan was determined. By the following week, theyd found two more Anne and Ruth. By the week after, three more joined their ranks.
And so the Light Step Club was born a name that Anne, ever the retired teacher, invented and delighted in organising.
Nordic walking on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Anne declared. Tuesdays, well have book club with tea. Thursdays, cinema or art galleries. Saturday and Sunday a wildcard, or just a rest!
At first, Margaret merely participated. Then, suddenly, she found herself running the WhatsApp group, keeping a register, even being named President Annes idea, of course.
Margaret, youre a natural organiser! Susan marvelled. You gather us, encourage us none of this would exist without you.
Margaret brushed off the praise, but something warm stirred inside her.
***
Word of the club spread. The Oxford Times sent a young journalist to interview them, camera in hand. He scribbled notes, listened to their tales, snapped photos. The article hit on a Monday, under the headline: Active Ageing: Pensioners Find New Life Together.
Margaret gazed at herself in print walking poles in hand, beaming with a smile as youthful as any on the page.
Then came a call from BBC South:
Mrs Evans, wed like to film a spot about your club. Would you agree?
She wanted to refuse. She was mortified, truly. But Susan and Anne insisted.
Margaret, its for the club! Think how many might join us, who need this as much as we did. You want to help, dont you?
She relented.
Filming lasted three hours. The reporter, a cheerful young woman named Daisy, was kind and patient. She asked about their beginnings, their routines, the difference the club had made.
You see, Margaret said to the camera, when someone you love is gone, you feel as if life ends with them. Lonely, unwanted, especially with the children far away. But in truth… in truth, youre still needed. Most especially by yourself. We found each other and now, each day, theres something to wake up for. A walk, a chat, a new start.
The piece aired that evening. Margarets phone rang non-stop neighbours, old friends, even former colleagues. Within a week, twenty new women joined Light Step.
***
Margarets seventieth was approaching. She wanted to ignore it what did another decade matter now? But the club had other plans.
Margaret, were throwing you a do! Susan declared. In a proper café, with music and dancing. Youre the guest of honour!
Margaret protested, but inside she was touched. She even treated herself to a new dress blue, with a tiny floral print, just as in her youth. Sensible shoes with a little heel.
Then her son called from London.
Mum, were coming for your birthday. Me, Judith, the kids.
Youre coming? But work, school…
Well take time off and manage. We want to be there. Its been too long.
The night before, Margaret didnt sleep tidied every corner, made cakes, and quietly worried. When Paul and his family arrived, she realised it had been nearly three years. The grandchildren grown, changed.
Gran! Emily threw her arms around her. You look different. Younger, even!
Margaret chuckled.
Well, with our active living club here, we havent got time to grow old!
They celebrated at a café. Every member of the Light Step Club came bright dresses, flowers, gifts. Neighbours and old workmates, too. Susan kept the party going, Anne read her own poetry, Ruth serenaded on guitar.
Her son watched his mother in amazement. Three years before, shed been grey, hunched, eyes hollow. Now…
Mum, is this really you? he asked as the room quieted.
It is, darling, she smiled. I was lonely before. Now I have friends, a purpose, a reason to get out of bed. Understand?
I do, he nodded. Sorry we didnt visit more.
Dont worry, she waved it away. You have your own lives. Now, I have mine too. And its a good one.
Then Emily called on FaceTime:
Gran, happy birthday! Remember when I suggested that app you said it was all nonsense?
Nonsense, Margaret agreed, the silliest ever. But sometimes, a little nonsense changes everything.
***
Epilogue
A year later, Light Step was renowned all across Oxford. TV crews dropped by, papers wrote features. The women launched new clubs one for knitting, one for watercolours, even a little community theatre group.
Margaret was now more than a participant she coordinated the whole movement, with helpers, a calendar, big plans stretching out into next spring.
Her sons family visited more often. The grandchildren texted every week, sharing photos, turning to her for advice. Emily, her inspirer, finished university and came for a placement at the local paper she wanted to write about pensioners who seize life.
Gran, youre my role model, she said.
Margaret simply smiled and looked out her window. Now it was spring out there real, gold-bright, alive.
Lifes moving forward. And its wonderful.
Margaret still kept that dating app on her phone. Sometimes she browsed the new profiles, but she wasnt searching anymore. There was no need shed found herself, the thing that mattered most.
Darlings, shed say to new members, shy and uncertain in their first week, dont be afraid. Lifes long much longer than you imagine. And you can always begin again, even when it feels like the end.
And they believed her, because in front of them stood a living, joyful, radiant woman seventy years old, local legend, proof that age is mere numbers and life truly is a matter of the soul.
