Valerie Whitaker stared at her reflection with a sigh that seemed to pull the very air from the room.
Old woman, old woman, she muttered, tracing the sagging skin, the double chin, the map of wrinkles that marked sixtysix years. Its no small thing, this age, not when youve lived the way I have. She tried to fasten the loose curlers her daughter had left on the pillow that morning.
Her daughter had slipped them on before dawn; today the village of Ashford was holding a jubileefifty years since the local secondary school first opened its doors. Valerie had been among the first cohort to walk across that stage. The school was being spruced up for the occasion; officials from the county town would arrive, the whole parish was gathering. Former classmates were promised a trip from the city, though most would never make it. Many had already passed on; the years had taken their toll.
A bark rattled from the garden. Valerie peered out the window. A silhouette lingered by the gate. She threw on her worn cardigan and moved to greet the visitor. At first she didnt recognise the woman, but when she spoke, the memory snapped into place: it was her schoolfriend Gillian Gill Parker.
Got the invitation and thought Id come back home. I might not have a chance again. Ive got nowhere to stay. My familys long gone. Gills voice trembled.
Come in, of course, Valerie replied, and the two women embraced, tears minglingwhether from joy or sorrow, they could not tell.
You look splendid, Valerie said, admiring her guest.
Thats because I lived in the city, Gill answered, smoothing her coat. My husband was a senior managerhad to keep up appearances. If Id stayed in the village, Id be just like you. She laughed nervously. Sorry, didnt mean to upset you.
No offense taken, Valerie said, sipping her tea. I can see the difference. You look about fifteen years younger, even though were the same age.
That evening the ladies in their best dresses made their way to the school. Only eight city folk had managed the journey, and most struggled to recognise one another after so many years. After the ceremony the tables were laid, glasses raised in a toast to reunionhow else could they commemorate? Stories were swapped, laughter broke the years of silence, and by midnight the crowd had scattered.
Gill stayed with Valerie; neither wanted to sleep. They talked till dawn. Gill described her city life: a good husband, a life closeknit, until he died three years ago. Her only daughter lives in London, a university graduate, happily married. The couple are childfreea term Gill pronounced with a hint of pride that made Valerie blink in confusion. Its what they call people who deliberately choose not to have children, she explained.
The news pained Gill. Her daughter visited only a handful of times, always busy, even missing her fathers funeral because of a senior role at work. She never invited her mother to stay, but she sent money. With that support Gill could afford a week at a seaside convalescent home, something she could not have managed on her modest pensionher husband had never let her work.
Tell me, youre a widow too, arent you? Gill asked. I heard your husband Nikol was he a heavy drinker? Where are your children?
Valerie laughed bitterly. Just like everyone else here, the men drank. When the local timber mill shut and jobs vanished, the lads turned to the bottle. My husband was the oppositequiet, respectable, but when he drank, he turned into a monster, spitting rage through every crack. I became the one who fought back, sometimes hiding in the shed with the children, waiting for the drunken storm to pass.
She went on, describing how she kept a small piggery, selling piglets and meat to make ends meet when her husband finally fell ill and died. He quit drinking and smoking too late. The damage was done.
Kids are all still here in the village, she continued. My daughter Lucy finished her teaching diploma and now runs a primary class. My soninlaw is the headmaster and a local councillor; he fought hard to keep the school from being cut down to nine year groups, even writing to London to defend it.
The twins I have both serve in the army; theyre now posted together at a base in Wankor, earning good wages. Six grandchildren run around, two each, and they love having a full house. The men here only drink on holidays now; theyve learned from the older generations mistakes.
The next morning Valerie saw Gill off at the bus stop. She handed her a parcel of thick bacon, a slice of good old Yorkshire ham, and a jar of homemade raspberry jam. Outside, the wind cut sharper, reminding Valerie of how she still seemed the rustic counterpart to Gills sleek city attire.
Gill, slim in a stylish down jacket, a furtrimmed hat, and lowheeled boots, looked every bit the modern visitor. Valerie, in a faded coat long out of fashion, her feet in sturdy felt boots, a woolen shawl draped over her shoulders, appeared the very picture of the countryside.
The bus hissed to a stop. They hugged, promising to call. Gill leapt aboard with ease; Valerie, heavyfooted, turned back toward the narrow lane that led home.
Their lives had started from almost the same point, yet the roads they travelled could not have been more different. Was it chance? Luck? Some unseen force that pulls at womens destinies? Perhaps the answer, like the lingering echo of the village bells, is not as simple as it first seems. Who, in the end, can say who is truly happier?
