Down Dog

When the Land Rover pulled into the carpark, a line of grey and silver heads turned in unison, like synchronised swimmers. The restored 1958 diesel engine was a literal conversation stopper. Given the list of equipment the instructor had told them to bring – foam exercise mat, a pair of one-kilo hand weights and plenty of water – Alan decided they should drive the ridiculously short distance to Netherwood Community Centre, a move that Heather pointed out, somewhat defeated the object of the exercise class.

The Fan Club formed a guard of honour for Alan and his rolled-up mat, leaving Heather to wrestle with hers, which seemed to be having an identity crisis, believing it was a queen-sized mattress rather than a simple rectangle of thin foam. What with the shoulder-dislocating struggle to get her arms through the right holes of her new Lycra top, by the time she reached the foyer, she’d well and truly put the Sweaty into Betty.

The new leopard print work-out gear might have provided suitable camouflage on the Serengeti plains, but not so much against the plain white walls of the main hall of the community centre. She caught her reflection in the glass doors. The leggings gave the illusion of two hotdog sausages sprouting from her torso. Heather felt ridiculous. Having already removed the price tags, there was no backing out now. Her body was on show to all and sundry.

She blamed menopause. Although her overall weight had not changed, her body had subsided, settled like an old building into something still functional and solid, but barely recognisable from the original plans. Slim shoulders, broad hips had become large chest, no hips. The boobs she’d always longed for had arrived as more of a hindrance than an asset. Thank you, Mother Nature. The one saving grace was that the other women lining up for Friday morning Pilates only had eyes for Alan.

Victoria Dankworth, sergeant-at-arms of Alan’s Fan Club, was first to pounce on him, saying how refreshing it was to have a man join the class. She always introduced herself as Victoria-Like-The-Sponge, claiming it was because she was light as a feather, deliciously sweet and had a naughty hidden layer. Heather thought it more likely to be due to her all-year-round perma-tan that made her look as if she’d just stepped out from thirty minutes in a 180-degree oven.

Alan was soon surrounded by adoring fans, as if he was striding onto a stage with a Fender rather than a purple yoga mat. With so many familiar faces it was like looking around the waiting room on a Monday morning. One by one, they told Alan how well he was looking, and asked him how he was enjoying retirement.

All thirteen and a half days of it.

‘So far, so good,’ he said brightly.

The post-coital good cheer would soon wear off, but Heather was enjoying the more animated version of her husband while it lasted. With Alan lapping up the attention from the ladies of the village, Heather positioned her mat in what she thought was a suitable spot for a beginner in a beginner’s class: in the second row from the back and slightly off centre.

‘That’s Gail’s spot,’ said a woman called Annette Petersham from the back row. ‘We call it the G spot.’

Cue a chorus of giggles from behind.

‘Sorry, I didn’t know,’ Heather apologised, preparing to move her mat.

‘Don’t worry, she’s still in hospital.’

Oh, that Gail. The one who’d had the alarming reaction to the new tablets. Heather’s cheeks coloured. Safe to say the G spot would be vacant for a few more weeks.

A pink-faced woman nearby did a double take as she unpacked her equipment. Heather pretended not to remember the gold glitter she’d found on the speculum after she’d performed her well-woman check last Christmas. The next hour was going to be awkward to say the least.

Meanwhile Alan looked to be having the time of his life as the fan Club fussed around him, insisting he place his mat in what was considered pole position. The instructor, a lean, muscular young man called Aaron welcomed any newcomers to the class and took a roll call of injuries. Knees, shoulders, backs, necks. Between them they boasted an impressive number of artificial joints.

‘I doubt we’d make a single useful human between us,’ joked Annette Petersham. In her case it was true. Hypertension. Diabetes. Two hip replacements. One pacemaker.

The class began with a simple warm up to music, during which Heather sized up the other participants. She wasn’t the youngest, but she wasn’t the oldest either, by a long way. Annie Shortland was well over ninety and while Heather had trouble reaching her knees, Annie touched the floor with ease and sprang back like a sapling.

The instructor’s energy and enthusiasm were infectious. Here was a man who enjoyed his job. And here was a group of older women who clearly enjoyed Aaron. To them, he must be worth every penny of the ten-pound entry fee. For a man who’d made a career out of handling life-threatening situations, however, Alan looked uncomfortably out of his depth with Pilates. It was as though he were doing the class via satellite delay, always half an exercise behind everyone else.

When Aaron helpfully suggested that the best way to find his pelvic floor was to ‘imagine you’re wading out into icy cold water,’ Alan drew his breath in audibly through his teeth and clutched his chi balls defensively. Unfortunately, his early success in lying horizontal and locating his pelvic floor did not translate to the vertical. Marching on the spot was an easy enough exercise, one would have thought, and yet the basics of lifting his left leg at the same time as swinging his right arm were suddenly beyond him. When Aaron added a step to the side and a clap, he folded in two, hands on his knees in defeat.

It continued downhill from there, and Alan was forced to offer a heartfelt apology when his rubber resistance band catapulted into Mrs De Costi’s down dog. Aaron sensibly suggested he not even attempt the chi ball exercises. Later, during hundreds, he surrendered at sixty and lay flat on his back with his eyes closed, hands clasped over his chest as if he was laid out for viewing in a funeral home.

But Heather wasn’t having a better time of it. The clock on the wall must be slow, she thought as they moved onto the animal-themed exercises. Cat, snake, cow. Up-dog, down-dog. Dog peeing up a tree. She gave it her all until finally, Aaron turned off the music and told everyone to lie face down on the mat for back-extension. Unfortunately, Heather found herself face-to-face with Mrs Di Costi. A quick glance around the hall told her she was facing the opposite way to everyone else. The odd one out. It was too late to change round.

‘I’m sorry I missed you before you left, doctor,’ whispered Mrs Di Costi, straining to hold her Superman pose.

‘That’s alright,’ Heather whispered back.

‘The chemist says you’re behind with my scripts. I’ve run out of repeats, and I can’t get an appointment for another week. What am I supposed to do?’

Heather’s superman collapsed, the mat cool and rubbery against her cheek. ‘I’m sure if you phone and explain, Rita will sort something out for you.’

‘And I’m still waiting for the results of those blood tests you ordered. What was my cholesterol?’

‘I can’t remember off the top of my head, sorry.’

Another woman, two rows away, whispered sotta voce. ‘Dr Winterbottom, I saw that new doctor yesterday and he didn’t even measure my blood pressure. Remember how concerned you were about my diastolic creeping up?’

Aaron reminded everyone to concentrate. Heather concentrated extra hard on the clock, willing the lazy, sluggish hands to get a move on. Move! What was it that six ten-minute appointments could pass in a flash and yet a sixty minute exercise class felt endless. She could bear the physical discomfort, and even welcomed the stretch and release of her underused muscles. It was these four walls and the other bodies within them. She knew these bodies well, had probed and palpated their undressed flesh from a safe professional distance. This was different. The same bodies now bending, yielding, opening beneath layers of stretchy fabric felt oppressively close and intimate. She was trapped, not only in this Pilates class, but in this village.

Aaron reminded everyone to control their breathing. Heather tried to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth as Aaron instructed. The breathing in was fine but the air refused to leave, filling her lungs with more and more air. Each breath fought for more space against an unyielding bony cage. She lifted her head to give her lungs more room, the air rushing up to her throat, strangling her, choking her with her own breath.

Several participants had turned to watch Heather’s exaggerated breathing. Far from  the state of relaxation and well-being she’d hoped to end this class with, she was about to have her very first panic attack. In public. In front of the Fan Club.

Luckily, the class came to an end with a series of sun salutations, and a ripple of applause for Aaron’s abs.

While the women of the village rolled their towels inside their mats with all the precision of a sushi master, Heather had to help Alan get up off his. She was just about to suggest she fetch the car and meet him right outside when a woman named Bridget Hall pulled Heather aside. Heather had always liked her as a patient. Not only did she listen to every word of advice Heather had to offer, she usually made notes too.

‘Excuse me Dr Winterbottom,’ Bridget Hall said, pulling her notebook and pen from her gym bag. ‘I hope I’m not overstepping the mark here, but I’ve heard it’s possible to cure osteoporosis by jumping up and down on the spot two hundred times a day. Do you think I should try it?’

‘Look, I can’t see it would do any harm,’ Heather said. ‘I suggest you give it a go.’ She smiled politely and turned back to help Alan stuff his chi balls into a Sainsbury’s carrier bag.

Bridget grabbed her by the arm. ‘Does it matter what kind of shoes I’m wearing?’

‘Whatever’s comfortable,’ said Heather, forcing another smile.

‘Does it make a difference what surface I jump on? Would you recommend concrete, grass or carpet?’

‘Look, I’m sorry Bridget but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can I think about it and get back to you next time?’

Bridget looked satisfied with this and closed her notebook. Heather was 99% sure there wouldn’t be a next time.