accepted she’d never go back and been grateful there was
a man left to marry at all. Life with Robbie had been good- she’d made it good.
You had to. You found the magic. Anna had done that
for her this week. From the cottage, they’d set out to
look-outs and picnic spots, cream tea in Malvern. In the
evenings, candles and wine in the garden.
And, tonight, the pictures at the Regal. It had been closed
for years, Anna said, but recently restored to its full Art
Deco glory. Beautiful, on the website. She turned to Anna
now, but she’d vanished. She had blue hair, for god’s sake,
how could she vanish?
Esther stopped. Stared.
On the cinema steps, a hat in his hands, stood a man
whose hair was white now. He was still a foot taller than
her, though, still straight-backed.
“
O
kay, Gran, ready?”
Esther smiled as Anna helped her
from the car. She looked like the love
child of a sailor, Esther thought, and
a Disney mermaid. Her hair was
electric blue, blunt-fringed and tied
withginghamtomatch her pedal pushers. A 50s look –
rockabilly.Hertattoos brought the sailor to mind, of course,
butthere’dalwaysbeen a seaside air to Anna, freedom and
freshair:youcouldimagine her on a rock, sunning her tail.
Theyweren’tbythe sea, though. When Anna suggested
theygoawaytogether – she’d had her heart broken again –
EstherthoughtofCornwall; they’d sit on the beach, eat fish
andchips.ButAnnashook her head: “Would you trust me
toarrangea surprise?”
“Withyou,love,”she’d said, “I’d enjoy Wormwood
Scrubs.Justnoplanes – not at my age.”
“You’re89,Gran,you’re not old.” They’d cackled at that.
Annawasherfriend. She understood that inside this
wrinklyoldhide– her ‘walnut veneer’ – her mental life
wasasvividasit hadalways been. Three years ago, when
Robbiedied,allfourgrandchildren helped her move but
Annalistenedtothememories that sorting through a life
broughttothesurface, the ones that had become family
lore,andprivateones, too, long wrapped in tissue and
packedaway.Andshe had listened – really listened. When
Annatoldherwherethey were going, Esther had cried.
TheValeofEvesham. She’d never heard of it before the
LandGirls.She’dbeen sent here, aged 18, an Acton girl,
bornandbroughtupon the Central Line, to work fields
andorchardswatered by the Avon.
Thetimeofherlife – she could say that now. Freedom
andfreshair.Thework was hard – as her father predicted,
she’druinedherhands forever – but to stand straight
frompickingbeansand see the Malverns, a sky stretching
widerthanshe’dever seen it, away from London and his
controllinganger?Freedom. And possibility.
Langdon’sFarm,out by Eckington. Sharing a room with
JoanandHelen,thesisters she’d never had, comparing tans
andmuscles,goingto dances in Evesham and then, at the
end,threemagicalback-to-back Fridays, the pictures at the
RegalwithTomLangdon, a year younger but a foot taller,
straight-backed,funny. Soft-lipped.
Thenherfatherhad the stroke and she’d been called
home.They’dwritten but Tom had the farm, his family’s
forgenerations,andshe had her responsibility. Wheelchair-
bound,herfatherhad lived for 16 years, by which time she’d ILLUSTRATION: LARA PAULUSSENLucie Whitehouse read Classics at Oxford University and now lives in
Brooklyn, New York. She is the author of five books, including the
recently released Critical Incidents (4th Estate), an addictive literary
thriller. Her Simple Thing is “the pictures of my little nieces, Alice and
Margot, which my sister emails me”.FREEDOM — AND
POSSIBILITY
A shortstorybyLUCIEWHITEHOUSEBEDTIME STORY