The end of one thing always heralds the beginning of something new.  In the same way the beginning of something marks the end of an order.  In times of diminishment especially, we need to be made aware of other shores, even of eternal reaches.  For all of us, as long as we are alive there are always horizons (David Adams, Tides & Seasons).

She sat, hypnotised by the tide’s rhythm as it ebbed and flowed in a time set out at the dawn of creation, powerfully balanced between danger and safety.  That predictable journey of leaving one shore flowing into another and back again; perfect timing and nothing lost.

Waiting.  Not long now.  Patience.

Soon the causeway would emerge allowing them to cross.  Butterflies betrayed her composure and a smile tugged at her lips and her heart.  As the tides waited so did she.  There would be no rush.  Waiting was part of this journey.

Rolling down the window she breathed in deeply the crisp October air before exhaling slowly.   Practiced mindfulness played its part in every movement, every sensation, every unspoken request and response, as cool air filled her lungs again and again and again.  She squinted as the autumn sun captured her face and taking in the cloudless bright blue sky that she loved so much she couldn’t help but smile.  Lizzie felt good.

The traffic moved and as she crossed the causeway in her little white vintage car her spirit leapt!  She understood only too well how the wild and sometimes brutal elements could apply a vice like grip especially as the cycle of seasons turned autumn into winter. But there was also something magical, spiritual and beautiful about this island.  No one who visited left without being touched by its remarkable fortitude.  Stories of monks and Vikings, of raids and suppression, survival, journeys and community, laid the foundations for spiritual awakenings and pilgrimage over centuries.

Today was no different for there was a sense of the past and the present and the future in the air.

They were two silver-haired ladies, still stylish and still a little mischievous.

Kate and Lizzie could no longer be described as young but that didn’t matter, at least not to them.  It neither hindered nor worried them for they were also formidable and wise, vivacious and free.  Forces of nature some might say.

A lifetime ago they embarked on life’s rollercoaster knowing only too well that the presence of vulnerability and fragility would accompany them forever.  They would come to know feelings of exhilaration and excitement and the adrenalin rush that makes the heart beat faster and faster; fight or flight.  The fear and the tummy flips, the nausea, the holding on so tightly that knuckle bones are displayed and close to bursting through the skin.  The need to trust and rely on something other than self and the tears and relief knowing that, for another day, survival was to be permitted.

Life’s experiences: unique, precious and detailed.  Stories: not to be challenged or touched.  And never dismissed.

Today was a milestone.  Lizzie had some news and wanted to share it.

Kate’s squeals erupted.  Tears of happiness streamed down her face and she squeezed her friend so tight Lizzie thought she might pop.

Lizzie’s going to be published! 

It would seem that life had been breathed into Lizzie’s girlhood dream of being an author and it was closer to taking flight than she could ever have imagined.  She couldn’t contain her excitement and why should she.  But all she could think of saying was:

Definitely something to tick off that bucket list!

Kate and Lizzie had been friends after a comical first encounter had brought them together almost fifty years ago now.  A long time to be a friend.  They reminisced but this wasn’t a day for reality checks and things forgotten or lost.  Today was memorable and magical.  Today a dream was born and everyone celebrated.

Lizzie sat for a while after Kate left.

She understood her friend’s need to be doing things.  Kate always had a schedule, a list of sorts and meetings to attend for one of the many groups she volunteered with.  There was always something to do for The Rural or The Festival Group or the Church office where she helped out.  But today was her aqua aerobics day and Lizzie couldn’t help but smile.  She pictured Kate, leading the way, at the forefront of other women of a certain age.  All shapes and sizes, in swimsuits with some wearing hats to keep their hair in place for another day, bobbing up and down in the pool, stretching, running, pushing against the water, in time to music of a different era.  All desperately trying to follow the instructions of a much younger version of themselves with the additional extras of makeup, lycra and a body that was fit for public viewing.  More comical Kate moments.

Lizzie had a gentler approach to life.  She preferred to linger in the moment allowing her senses free rein to attune to the surroundings and to the thoughts in her head.  Sifting and sorting, organising and refreshing.  Unrushed.  Missing nothing.  Always time.

More tea Lizzie?

Yes please Alice.  The meringues were delicious! 

I wasn’t too sure at first.  I think I’m more of a sponge kinda person.  I was going to ask you about meringues … your secret weapon!

They both laughed.

No secret Alice, just practice.  She winked.

What’s the book about Lizzie?

Thin places.

Alice felt a sudden tugging at her heart and looked up.

I think I’ll need a spare cup. 

She looked around.  There was little noise.  And like slow motion Alice located a cup and saucer from the shelf, pulled back a chair and sat, taking her place beside Lizzie.  She poured them both a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea and with elbows on the table she rested her chin on her hands.

She knew this would be a good conversation.

‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to break down and a time to build up; a time to week and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to throw away; a time to tear and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace.’ ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

The few offices and shops on the High Street were closed and there was little activity as Maggie and Jan made their way along the narrow pavement, walking briskly, on their way to Golly Gosh for some cosy cheery chat on what was turning out to be a surprisingly autumnal day.

Their attention was drawn to two men exiting the local lawyer’s office; Mr Fraser, always Mr Fraser, was accompanied by a stranger, a younger man. They were deep in conversation as they stood by the side of a black shiny Range Rover parked outside. The younger man’s hand rested firmly on the door handle demonstrating his eagerness to be gone. Mr Fraser waved and smiled in their direction but the stranger appeared to be distracted by his own thoughts and paid them no heed; he opened the door and disappeared into the blackness. As he did so Jan thought she recognised him as the man with the sunglasses and dishevelled hair who’d helped Noah with his kite on a blustery day at the beach. He’d looked different then, more approachable. There had been no time for any meaningful introductions and now she wished she’d at least asked his name.

Mr Fraser was well known in the village; a respected man, not only for his brilliant legal mind, but also a generosity and willingness to share his expertise with individuals for very little remuneration. Rumour had it that sometimes he provided a crucial service to people in need for nothing in return.

Mr Fraser could only be described as the jolliest of men with a cheeky sense of humour that won him friends easily; a raconteur of sorts who held court masterfully whether as an after dinner speaker or in entertaining the few people gathered in the hall for tea after church on a Sunday. He was small and portly in stature with plump rosy cheeks and sparkly blue eyes that looked playfully through round silver-rimmed spectacles. He preferred three piece grey suits with a splash of colour, today in the form of a red handkerchief to match his tie, the colour alternating depending on the day of the week, his mood and what was in his diary. In his waistcoat pocket hung a watch and chain that belonged to his great-grandfather of whom he had endless stories to tell. On occasion Mr Fraser’s silver curly hair got a little wild when a visit to the barbers was due and Maggie had teased him about it only last Sunday. In contrast, his now silver moustache, a remnant from his army days, was always neatly trimmed and tickled when he wished as many ladies as he could ‘happy new year’ or ‘happy birthday’. Maggie had grown fond of this older gentle man particularly over the last eighteen months when she sought his counsel.

This stranger seemed incongruous to his surroundings. He didn’t fit in. Maggie rolled her eyes as Jan, predictably, was drawn to the well-groomed dark head and smart suited appearance not to mention the height and confidence of his gait and the tanned skin. At ease with himself. He knew he looked good. Not that she’d noticed, not really.

There was also something familiar about him; indefinable from the distance and the smoked coloured windows of the vehicle as he drove passed them. She was hardly going to peer in now was she.

Maggie also thought he looked a bit too full of his own importance.

That was the first time she saw him.

The second time she saw him she was in a hurry. Always in a hurry. But she had to make the post office before it closed. She had to post the letter. Her smart working shoes clippety clopped on the concrete and she tried to concentrate on the red postbox at the end of the street. Inside her head a conversation was happening and she feared, for a moment, that she had spoken aloud. Nearly there. People are right. I need to slow down. Make time for myself. Catch my breath. I will. But I need to get this posted. She’ll be waiting for it and I promised her I’d write.

An important letter to an important person and the one she loved most in the world. Her grandmother.

But her beloved grandmother was of the old school. No internet or email for her. No, she preferred to receive mail in the form of beautifully handwritten notes, on ivory paper tucked inside matching ivory with chocolate lined envelopes; to be savoured and opened with care for therein lay fragile secrets. Quintessentially romantic and very sweet and Maggie loved her for it. She also loved that, despite her hurried life, her grandmother’s wishes made her take the time to sit down and write a letter. Like the old days. And Maggie obliged, every month, updating her on her progress and the goings on in the village her grandmother had left many years ago as a young wife and mother.

Maggie’s mind was racing with purpose as she brushed passed him. Had she taken time to notice she would have seen a glimmer of recognition and a smile in his eyes, the floral fragrance she’d sprayed as she left the office playing with his senses and evoking distant memories. But she didn’t want to notice, didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see.

Maggie made it just in time and as the postman picked up the mail and she was able to place the precious communication inside the big grey bag. At least that was something ticked off the ‘to do’ list. She could visualise her grandmother; rummaging around to look and find lost spectacles, making herself some iced tea then settling herself in the shade in the garden before opening Maggie’s much awaited envelope with tenderness and anticipation.

Today, of all days, hadn’t been the day she’d expected. Nevertheless she needed to clear her head. The anticipated swelling of grief, associated with an anniversary of the most defining moment of her life, hadn’t arrived. She felt confused, perhaps relieved but definitely not numb. Putting the key in the lock she could do nothing but smile.

She took the stairs two at a time and headed straight to the wardrobe, changing into jeans and warm walking socks, pulling a navy jumper over her head as she made her way downstairs. She hurried, stepping into bright blue wellingtons with bursting yellow suns, grabbed an orange waterproof and slid her arms inside. She made her way along the beach and soon stood at her favourite place beside the waves, wrapping the oversized jacket, his jacket, around her to protect from the wind and light drizzle. It had been a full day and people had kept her busy. Now she needed time on her own; to be.

Maggie stood staring into the distance enjoying the sound of the waves and feeling them splash against her boots. She looked down and saw the sand cover her feet.  It was then the tears were released. Silently she allowed them their freedom.  Memories of what had been and what there could now be. Not for what she’d lost but for the life she’d now gained; filled with potential and opportunity, grace and love.

If she’d only known she was being observed and protected from a distance. A stranger from a house on the hill.

The third time Maggie almost missed him.

Kate had offered her an old fashioned bicycle with a big basket on the front that she used to carry groceries and books from the library.  Maggie enjoyed cycling but couldn’t afford a new bike so thanked Kate for the offer.  This would certainly help perpetuate her reputation and image further.  It even had a bell!  What else could a girl need?  As Maggie pulled the old white bike onto the pavement and opened the gate she heard barking in the distance. But her attention was drawn to the window where Maggie, Sally and Alice stood. Like schoolgirls they giggled and pointed towards the beach, enjoying the show; a man throwing a stick and a dog doing what dogs do. Remarkable.  Is that it?

She noticed that the dog could have been Harry, Mr Crawford’s boxer. But that wasn’t possible because Mr Crawford, the retired headmaster, had died recently and she’d heard someone had inherited his dog.   It was definitely Harry.  Now curious she rested the bike against the wall and stood just for a moment.  That moment turned into five minutes, then ten minutes, rooted to the spot, spellbound.

A summer memory exploded into her mind in glorious colour and excitement; a bouncing dog and throwing sticks, taming kites and chasing the wind, laughter and new friendships, a wonderful voice and dark brown hair, a place in her heart and never forgetting.

He looked up and began to walk towards her and the knot that had dwelt so long in her stomach lost its power and supremacy. It gave way to something else; something new and old, something unknown yet known, something far away but within reach.

She knew him.

Tom.

And she thought her heart might just burst!

‘If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is; Infinite.  For the man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern’ ~ William Blake

When the time came Maggie was more than happy to be stepping down from the bus and waving thanks to the cheery driver as he reversed and drove off.  This shopping trip had lasted a liftetime and Jan’s effervescence and indecision left Maggie weary of stumulus, of vibrancy and zingy Jan-like things!

Too many choices.  Too little time.  Too much chat.  Too little planning.  Not enough focus on the clock quite frankly.

But she wasn’t cross, just tired, and a smile touched her lips as she observed her best friend.  Her practiced posture and obligatory high heels stubbornly uncompromised despite being on her feet all day and she wondered how on earth she did it. There really was no stopping her. Maggie had always admired her, always a little in awe of the intensity she displayed for life. It appeared that every second of every day she looked for opportunities to be happy, choosing to embrace rather than doubt or caution, thankful for the abundant gifts and relishing the challenges.  Harmonious and happy.  Simply Jan.

She wished she was more like her.

But Jan was also insightful and knew she’d pushed Maggie’s patience beyond the limit today … procrastination and girlie nonsense, excitement and the desire to have fun. And she knew, absolutely without doubt, that the new champagne bar suggestion had been the last straw!  Maggie was patient but she was no walkover.  Indeed she was more than capable of surprising people and shattering their perceptions. Maggie: smart, honest, beautiful, grounded, with a steely determination for justice.  An enigma that captured attention.  She was the friend you’d want most in your life and on your side.

She wished she was more like her.

The morning sunshine had long since gone, predictably replaced by dark clouds rolling in across the sea and in the distance they could see boats bobbing in the water, their sails rippling.  No wonder the natives were obsessed with the weather.  The wind was gathering speed as they walked briskly towards the high street and in unison they buttoned jackets and pulled up collars.  The bright bags flapped and struggled for freedom.

The end of another summer.

When are you going to be able to wear all this … stuff?!

Jan made a funny face and stuck out her tongue. Holidays need new things Maggie!  If you weren’t so stubborn you could still come.

As they headed for Golly Gosh, Maggie played out the scenario in her head.  It would be how it always is.

The room would light up because, suddenly, Jan had arrived and everyone loved her.  Maggie would order while Jan showed off every item of clothing with an exaggerated pose then a discussion on the topic of holidays and crash diets would ensue. Her excitement would ignite everyone else’s and there would be requests for more drinks and probably extra helpings of Alice’s to die for Victoria sponge and everyone would agree that the healthy eating plan could start on Monday. They’d ask Maggie if she was going too and she’d make up some excuse or other to satisfy their curiosity. It was all a game and everyone knew to play it.

After a year, the goodwill of people encouraging her to get a life was beginning to slightly irritate. Give it time they said and continued to say when they couldn’t think of anything else to say. She knew they meant well and appreciated their kindness.  She knew but for these people she’d never have made it in one piece.  But.  Honestly.  Sometimes saying nothing was better.

She knew she was stronger.  Resilient.  Ready.

An anticipation growing in the new knowledge that life was better, brighter, sacred and that happiness would come if she let it.

If she dared believe; limitless.

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley ~ Sting

Each stop saw the bus empty and in time there would only be Maggie, Jan and the driver left. They were the last stop and as usual the driver was in no hurry. This really was the most beautiful of places and Maggie was grateful for being in this place at this time. She never wanted to be anywhere else.

She had grown quieter throughout the journey, mulling over the numerous action lists and things that needed to be done, the letter that had arrived in the post that morning lying unopened on the kitchen table, the end of another summer that always left her a little sad.

Maggie leaned against the window and shut her eyes tightly to block out the external distractions and remembered one glorious lifetime ago summer.  Maggie and Jan.  Jan and Maggie.  Inseparable.

A summer of bright red shorts and red satin ribbon tangled in her blond curly hair; yellow cornfields and the wrath of a checked shirted farmer; jumping waves and chasing the wind; running as fast as they could along the beach; climbing and hiding and bumps and scrapes; riding bikes and swings and dizziness and giggles; standing on tiptoes and two  boys they would never see again. A memory of shiny dark to black hair, of golden skin not of these parts, of straight white teeth and a voice and accent that could only be described as posh. She’d never forgotten.  Smiling and eyelashes glistening.

One glorious summer in childhood; one treasured memory.

Maggie’s enjoyment of nostalgia was to be short lived as Jan interrupted, landing herself with a bump into the free space beside her. Multi-coloured shopping bags full to bursting, spread out and now resting on their knees. Jan’s excitement clearly reflected in the break-neck speed chitter-chatter. Maggie found it hard to keep up.  Oh for a little quiet. But it was not to be.

Let’s drop in to Golly Gosh for a quick cuppa … and I can show Sally my holiday things!

Maggie.  Forced to let go of the memory.

“I have to be alone very often.  I’d be quite happy if I spent from Saturday night until Monday morning alone in my apartment.  That’s how I refuel.” ~ Audrey Hepburn

She’d joined in. This was a significant step, a sign perhaps. She knew what to look for and this afternoon’s contribution to a brief conversation with Kate was definitely a sign. When she spoke her voice sounded different than she remembered but then it had been several months now without communication and she was out of practice. Then, quite unexpectedly, the silence had been broken.

Six months ago she’d embraced a self-imposed exile making solitude her new best friend. She and solitude existed together in a place of darkness and pain, filled with disturbances that played over and over in her head usually in the middle of the night when sleep couldn’t be found.

On the days they could make it out of the house she and solitude would visit Golly Gosh where they knew they’d be left in peace.  Sitting in the corner they were allowed to exist in their preferred world devoid of emotion or meaningful social interaction.  Playing at being invisible; playing into the hands of self-pity.

But without her knowledge or understanding or agreement something greater was at work.  Something that knew how to heal and restore; gentle in presence and perfect in timing.  And over the months that pitiful darkness had slowly begun to ebb away.  Light had come in the presence of the people around her and she felt a strong connection.  She smiled and breathed deeply.  Closing her eyes she silently thanked God for the life and spirit they displayed and for the strength and comfort she’d received but had failed to acknoweldge out loud.  If there was a God she was grateful.

Today she didn’t want to give up. Today she felt alive and asked solitude to take a step back.  Just for now.

Today a new sense of purpose was emerging.

She watched as Sally and the others gathered around the window, laughing; something about a man and a dog and Maggie.  And they waved.

She lifted the cup to her mouth and drank soon realising her tea was cold and she’d been sitting thinking for a while.  Looking down at the beautiful purple notebook gifted to her in another time and place she knew the blank pages longed to be filled.  That was its purpose.

Beth wanted to write the story.  She couldn’t let go of that precious, precious, thought.  Holding on tightly, she held it captive, for fear that it would escape and slip away and, in doing so, take away the hope it inspired along with it.  This time she wouldn’t let it happen.

I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow. ~ Jane Austin, Pride & Prejudice

The first time he saw her she was with a friend and they were smiling.  He recognised the friend as the young woman who walked with the poise of a dancer.  Like his mother had.  He couldn’t remember the dancer’s name but he’d met her on the beach one day with her nephew, Noah.  It had been a blustery afternoon and he’d helped them tame a bright blue, red and yellow kite.

It was the day he came home.

It reminded him of other endless summer days he’d spent here: picnic baskets and red and white gingham; windbreaks and obligatory flasks of hot water for tea; noisy seagulls and snatching sandwiches; new friends and giggles and finding a lighthouse; sunburn and freckles and being buried in the sand. And how could he ever forget the never ending palaver of Uncle Ralph’s old camera; the precious results of which were now stored in a green and red box under the stairs.

The second time he saw her she’d passed by, only inches away, walking briskly and with purpose, head down, unaware of people around her . He remembered the floral scent that lingered after she’d gone and curiously thinking it suited her.

The third time he noticed her was from his uncle’s window; the house at the top of the hill. He’d caught sight of her on the beach after a summer storm; a lonely figure in wellington boots and a waterproof jacket that was more than a few sizes too big. Borrowed perhaps. She stood at the edge of the water as it ebbed and flowed but, unlike excited and carefree children who jump the waves, she stood motionless allowing them to wash over her feet while she stared into the distance; her fragility and vulnerability emphasised by the power and vastness of the sea in front of her.  He suddenly felt protective towards her.

Watching. Waiting. Wishing.

He needed some respite from the heavy stillness of his uncle’s house with its thin layer of dust and dependable grandmother chimes.  The tick-tock he’d found hypnotic and reassuring in childhood on quiet Sunday afternoons after church now began to irritate him; like an intruder its sound seeping into his consciousness and disturbing the peace.

Fancy a walk Harry?

He sat on the wall watching Harry run flat out towards the sea before screeching to a halt.  It amused him and he laughed out loud at his antics.  He knew he didn’t like his feet wet!  With typical boxer-like curiosity he investigated scattered pieces of driftwood and seaweed then proceeded to playfully demolish various works of sand-art created earlier that day. He’d inherited a house that came with its own faithful friend; a brown and white bundle of fun that now bounced mischievously up the beach towards him, barking for attention and carrying something in his big smiley mouth. I really hope it’s not a dead thing.

He looked around him and concentrated his gaze on the attractive white cottage. Like an artist he captured quickly its style and elegance and committed it to memory; the glossy blue door, shuttered windows with white cloth and vibrant boxes blooming with colour and the name Golly Gosh over the door. There was activity at the window and he realised he was being watched.

He smiled and waved. He knew he would visit this place. But not yet.

He joined Harry on the beach, throwing sticks for him to catch, trying to wear him out.

Tom almost missed seeing her for the fourth time.

A person who has no-one would be well advised to cobble together some passable ghost.  Breathe it into being and coax it along with words of love.  Offer it each phantom crumb and shield it from harm with your body.  ~ Cormac McCarthy, The Road

She had to go back. To decide.

The rattle and hum of the city took her by surprise and she couldn’t help but compare its pace to the gentle steady rhythm of the small town she’d lived in the last two years. She was struck by how bright everything was; shiny and superficial, busy and impersonal, focused and without interaction. Souless. She looked around and wondered why she’d found this all so exciting, so vibrant and so full of opportunity. But she was younger then, less cynical. Now it irritated and set her teeth on edge, making her want to scream out for the quiet. Just for a minute she wished it would all stop.

Sally didn’t like indecision and the untidiness going on in her head. She preferred certainty and order but over the last two days her thoughts seemed chaotic and devoid of any real formation or structure; hard to separate. Conflicting options buzzing and blazing loudly; a blend of tinnitus and fast cars, dazzling zig zag lines and bright headlights making her feel out of control.

She fought back the memories of a past life: the pressure; the image and perfection; the hours of endless meetings and networking; the competition and unrealistic deadlines; the fighting to be heard and never feeling good enough; the big money that made her feel nauseous; the hate and deceit and false relationships; the insomnia and pretence and hiding the exhaustion; no time for food or a social life; stress and profound loneliness.

Her frown deepened and she knew her mood was different here.

Emptiness and noise. Ghosts and shadows. Almost broken. But not quite. She remembered.

One moment had made her realise life was about choices and in that moment her present became her past. A leap of faith some people call it. An awakening.  In the beginning she had no-one. Until, out of the blue, Kate arrived. Thank God for Kate and for the safety and sanctuary she eventually found in Golly Gosh and its people.  But Golly Gosh seemed a long way off now, almost surreal.

Time was running out and a decision had to be made by the end of the week. To carry on or move on.

What’s it to be Sal?

She felt burdened by the weight of her decision because she knew life wouldn’t be the same.  This was no longer transitional and self-serving, something for her to do, a project to focus on to get her back on her feet.  It wasn’t just about her.  Her decision involved lots of people; all with gifts and talents, idiosyncrasies and foibles, bad days and good, grumpiness and gratefulness.

Tears slowly tickled down her cheeks and she felt her heart would burst with emotion; letting go and possibilities and risk.  She smiled remembering the small place by the sea and the conversations; privileged to be trusted with innermost secrets, heartache and joy.  She realised that in serving she had found her special place.  Love and reciprocity.

She reached for a tissue, blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

I need to be home.

Vulnerable and out of her depth she knew she had work to do.

Jan and Maggie sat by the window and admired a glass jug filled with beautiful pink roses fresh from the garden; full and in bloom and softly scented.  Sally’s favourite had become  theirs too.  They were enjoying their usual choice of tea with Alice’s award winning lemon cake.  In cahoots.  Like when they were little and mischief was in the making.

I’m a bit jealous of her you know.   

Who?

Sally. She’s sort of … unflappable and I’m, well, more the Calamity Jane type without the horse and Howard Keel.  Guess it’s all part of my charm!  Aunt Kate knew her before she moved here and seems really fond of her but won’t go into any details. And you know what she’s like, she’d never give any information away.

There might not be any ‘details’.   And I thought you made a great Calamity Jane in that school production, actually.

Look at these! Silk, pure silk! I’ll bet her mother spun ‘em!  ~ Calamity Jane

They giggled like two school girls, reminiscing; opening night in the school theatre, the badly fitting costumes and the wobbly scenery, the primadonnas, trying to keep a straight face singing Once I had a Secret Love, the boy who played Wild Bill Hickock and the gloriously camp and wonderfully funny director.  And wanting to do it all over again.

Their eyes followed Sally about the room admiring her grace and confidence.  In awe of a woman not that much older than themselves but in many ways older and wiser than anyone they’d ever known.  Charismatic.  Energising.  Always hopeful.  That’s what they saw.  This was their experience.

I really like Sally.  She’s lovely without being  full of herself. 

Honestly?  I think she’s formidable.  Maggie reflected on an earlier conversation she’d had with her boss that day; appraisal time.  Bet Sally’s got a five year plan!

She reminds me of you a bit Maggie but with a better taste in shoes and probably a social life.

Ouch.

Anyway … the only thing that Aunt Kate told me is that Golly Gosh wasn’t meant to be a long term thing and that’s the reason Sally has never moved into the flat up above the cafe.

I thought it was because she didn’t want to be available to everybody 24/7 and who could blame her? So, since your Auntie Kate’s the font of all knowledge, what’s next? Surely she can’t sell up?

We could always just ask her but I don’t want her to think we’ve been gossiping. Let’s ask Alice instead.

They laughed knowing that Alice would be the last person to tell anything.

Jan and her best friend sat down to afternoon tea.  It was an unscheduled stop after a short day at work; an unexpected opportunity to catch up, so why not. Jan sensed an unspoken weariness in her friend and admired her for concealing it so well from others if not herself. Give it time. Time heals. Apparently. No ungratefuless meant but how many times had she heard that; ad nauseum.

Noah was with Aunt Kate and her friend had lots of space in her diary to do what she wanted when she wanted; if only she used it to her advantage.  Jan only wanted the best for this beautiful young woman who preferred sensible shoes these days.  They often laughed about the shoes thing; sensible and safe and comfy. Jan waited patiently for a glimpse of personality that would identify her friend as the carefree, happy, adventurer child she knew.   Nowadays there was nothing to stop her living the life she’d dreamed of but maybe she simply had to learn how.  Permission.  I don’t even know what that means for heavens sake and who am I to  be giving advice anyway …  maybe she just likes things the way they are?

Alice’s favourite lemon cake was the perfect accompaniment to the tea they ordered and they savoured every bite; choosing silence over speech, concentrating their senses on the memorable scent of citrus and a tangy taste that tingled their taste buds, melting away with the warm tea, ready for the next bite.  Delicious.  This lemon cake deserved their full attention and was far too tasty to be distracted by superfluous chat.

Jan noticed small cards on the table and picked one up, turning it over in perfectly manicured hands; recently applied burgundy nail polish, her favourite.  Maggie looked at her own hands and self-consciously removed them from the white linen tablecloth and hid them from sight.  She hadn’t really noticed before but today her hands seemed out of place and the thought saddened her.  Silly really.  

She lifted her head and caught Jan’s eyes; recognition but nothing was said.

It was no secret that Jan was forever seeking out nicely put together things and these delicate invitation cards were perfect.  They were embossed with images of books and her curiosity sprung into life. 

Oh these are nice! Sally’s handiwork?