April 12th Ashwick
I stood before the old bathroom mirror, tracing the lines that have deepened over the years. A proper old lady, thats what I am now, I muttered, noting the double chin, the creases that map out six decades of laughter and loss. At sixtysix, life hasnt been gentle, and I could feel the weight of it as I tried to slip a set of hair rollers, still damp from this mornings preparation, onto my head. My daughter had tucked them in for me before she left for work.
Today Ashwick is buzzing. The village is marking the 50th anniversary of the opening of Ashwick Primary, the very school I walked out of as one of its first pupils. The hall is being trimmed with bunting, and a few of the head teachers from Bristol will be arriving. Some former classmates promised to make the trip, though most live far away now and many have already passed on. Time has slipped by, relentless as the tide.
A bark from Buster, my Jack Russell, pulled my gaze to the garden gate where a silhouette lingered. I pulled on my faded cardigan and stepped outside. At first I didnt recognise her, but when she spoke, the voice carried a familiar lilt. It was my old school friend, Marjorie Barker, who had moved to the city years ago.
Got the invitation and thought Id come back for once, she said, a hint of resignation in her tone. I dont have anywhere else to stay. My familys long gone. She looked at me with hopeful eyes.
Of course youre welcome, I replied, and we embraced, the tears that followed a mix of joy and the ache of years apart.
You look splendid, I whispered, admiring the chic coat she wore.
Its all city living, she laughed. My husband was a senior manageralways had to keep up appearances. If Id stayed here, Id probably look just like you now. She winced, realizing she might have hurt me.
Its fine, I said, smiling. Youre fifteen years younger than I feel, even though were the same age. I could feel the truth of it in the gentle warmth of my tea, the small difference in our reflections.
As evening fell, the women of Ashwick, dressed in their best, walked together to the school. Only eight people from Bristol made the journey, and many struggled to place familiar faces after so many years. After the formal speeches, we gathered around long tables, poured pints of ale, and toasted the reunion. Laughter rose, stories were shared, and before we knew it the clock struck midnight and the crowd drifted away.
Marjorie lingered, unwilling to part with the night. We settled on the front steps, talking until the first light of dawn crept over the hedgerows. She spoke of her life in the city: a good husband who had died three years ago, a daughter living in London who works as a solicitor and is happily married. They have chosen not to have childrena decision Marjorie described with a mixture of pride and resignation, explaining that childfree is a term used by people who deliberately opt out of parenthood.
Its hard, she admitted, but my daughter only visits a few times. Even her own fathers funeral she couldnt attendher job is demanding. She sends money, and thats how I can afford a short break at a health spa. My state pension is tiny; I never built up enough credits because my husband kept me at home.
I asked, I heard youre also widowed. Was it because Nikolai drank too much? Any children?
She sighed, Yes, he was a heavy drinker, as were most of the village lads after the quarry closed down. When work vanished, the men turned to the bottle. My husband was quiet when sober, but drunk he became a different beast, angry and unpredictable. I fought his temper, kept the farm running, raising two piglets and selling the pork. By the time he finally gave up the drink and the cigarettes, his health was gone.
My own story unfolded in the same breath: My son, Tom, stayed in the village, teaching at the primary school. My daughter, Lucy, finished college and now teaches at the local secondary. My soninlaw, Peter, is the headmaster and also the village councillor. He fought hard to keep the school open when the council wanted to cut it down to nine year groups; he wrote to London and saved it.
My twins served together in the army and now work on the offshore platform at Vankor, I added, earning decent wages. We have six grandchildren, two in each of the families, and they love the chaos of a full house. The men in our family hardly drink, only on special occasions, unlike the old days when the whole village would drown its sorrows.
The next morning, I saw Marjorie off at the bus stop. I packed a portion of smoked ham with layers of fat, and a jar of raspberry jamher favorite. She looked sharp in a sleek down jacket, a furtrimmed hat, and lowheeled boots. I, in my worn coat and felt slippers, wrapped my woollen shawl tighter around my shoulders.
The bus hissed to a stop. We hugged, promising to call, and watched her hop aboard with an ease that belied the years wed both carried. I trudged home, heavyfooted but lighter in heart.
P.S. We started life on almost the same footing, yet our paths have diverged dramatically. Was it chance? Luck? Some hidden force that steers a womans destiny? Perhaps nothing is as clear as it first appears. I find myself wondering who, after all, is the happier one.
