It Works for Us by Helen Carr

Arrive at Ingrid and Don’s freshly painted white gate just after three. There’s obviously no one at home. We park on the immaculate gravel drive and contemplate their immaculate bungalow and garden.

‘Touch of the OCDs if you ask me,’ says Jack. ‘They weren’t always like this, were they?’

Cast my mind back to Don and Ingrid’s previous incarnation. Big untidy town house full of cats and Ingrid’s flowery paintings. Don worked in a bank and wrote poetry.

They arrive in an immaculate white Range Rover, each wearing white sports shirt, beige trousers and green baseball cap bearing the name of a golf club.

‘Darling,’ says Ingrid, throwing her skinny brown arms around me. She has lost weight. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. We have to keep to our schedule, you see. It really works for us.’

Jack helps Don deal with the clubs while Ingrid takes me to the kitchen, a marble shrine dedicated  to the uncluttered. She looks thin and tense.

‘…for us the secret of a happy retirement is to organise our time, to fill every minute with activity…’she says, filling the kettle.

She points to a timetable on the wall. From six in the morning until nine at night every minute is planned…swimming, running, archery, golf, yoga, croquet, theatre club, reading group, gym, cycling, ceramics… For the first time in my life I experience my jaw actually dropping.

‘I know, I know,’ says Ingrid, rattling about with mugs and spoons. ‘It looks insane but it works for us, darling. It really works.’

We are invited to join tomorrow’s scheduled 6am run, and are sent to bed at ten.

Wake at eight feeling guilty. Have already missed two hours of the schedule. Slink into kitchen which is, thankfully, empty of Ingrid and Don. Heart shaped post-it note tells us that they will be back for a smoothie at eleven, after which they intend to take us to an archery session. 

‘I want to go home,’ says Jack.

Enter Don and Ingrid in vests and shorts, cheeks glowing. ‘What you need is a fitness schedule,’ says Don, unloading bags of carrots and kale from the fridge. ‘All this lying about in bed is no good for you.’

I love the archery field, green and leafy, a row of distant targets perfectly placed. While Don lectures us on the technicalities I try to recall what I learned from Zen and the Art of Archery. Something about not trying too hard. My first arrow misses the target, but I don’t care. I feel powerful, concentrated. Don drones on about technique while I recall the Zen master’s advice; let the arrow release itself.

Ingrid keeps missing and is getting upset.

‘Not Ingrid’s strong point, archery,’ says Don unhelpfully.

‘Why don’t you give up trying to hit the target,’ I say to Ingrid, ‘just let the arrow…’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Don. ‘Giving up is for losers.’

Ingrid turns to Don, her bow loaded. She says, with terrible calm, ‘I have given up everything.’

For a moment I think she’s going to kill him. She turns away slowly, takes aim and releases the arrow to the target. Bull’s eye.