The evening light fell heavy on the kitchen window as Eleanor Thompson stared at her reflection, the one that seemed to have slipped a little further into the past.
Old age really does get under your skin, she muttered, tracing the double chin, the deepening lines that marked sixtysix years. Its not a bit of fun, especially after a life like mine. She sighed, then fumbled with the curlers her daughter had slipped onto her hair that morning.
Today was the villages golden jubilee fifty years since Oakley County Secondary first opened its doors. Eleanor had been among the first cohort to graduate. The old schoolyard had been strung with bunting, the mayor from the nearby town was due to arrive, and the whole hamlet would be buzzing with former classmates, many of whom would never make the journey back. Time had taken its toll; dozens of faces were gone forever.
A bark tore through the quiet from the garden. Eleanor peered out; a lone figure lingered by the gate. She pulled on a threadbare coat and crossed the driveway. At first she could not place the woman, but as the stranger spoke, the years melted away. It was her schoolfriend, Margaret Maggie Bradford, who had left the village long ago.
Received an invitation and thought Id finally come home, Maggie said, eyes bright with a mixture of hope and resignation. Ive got nowhere else to stay. My familys long gone. Will you let me stay?
Of course, Eleanor replied, and the two women hugged, tears slipping down their cheekswhether from joy or sorrow, neither could tell.
You look splendid, Maggie, Eleanor admired, taking in the sleek coat and citysized handbag.
Ive been living in the city, married to a respectable manan accountantso I had to keep up appearances, Maggie replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. If Id stayed here, Id be just like you. Sorry if that sounds blunt.
Eleanor chuckled, No offense taken. I see the difference now. You look about fifteen years younger, even though were the same age.
That night, the village women, dressed in their Sunday best, marched to the school. Only eight city folk had managed the trek, and many struggled to recognize each other after so many years. After the ceremony, tables were laid out, tea was poured, and glasses clinked in a toast to reunion. Laughter rose, stories were exchanged, and by midnight the hall emptied, leaving a lingering warmth in the rafters.
Maggie returned to Eleanors cottage, but sleep was a stranger. They talked until the first light of dawn. Maggie spoke of her life in London: a good husband, a happy marriage, until three years prior when he passed away. Their only daughter, Amelia, lived in the capital, a university graduate now married, both opting for a childfree lifestylea term Maggie pronounced with quiet pride. Eleanor, unfamiliar, asked what it meant; Maggie explained that some people choose deliberately not to have children.
The decision had left Maggie uneasy, but she accepted it. Her daughter visited only a few times, always on business, never able to attend her fathers funeral because of a demanding role. Maggies pension was meagre; her late husband had never encouraged her to work, and without years of service she scraped by. Still, thanks to the modest support from Amelia, she could afford occasional stays at a local convalescent home and keep the roof over her head.
Tell me, Eleanor, Maggie asked, youre a widow too, arent you? I heard Nikolai drank heavily. Where are your children?
Eleanor laughed, a dry humor bubbling up. Like most village folk, weve seen more than our fair share of drink. The men here were rough as nails, especially after the timber mill closed and work vanished. My husband was a sober manquiet as a mouseuntil he turned to the bottle. Then he was a different beast altogether, angry and cruel. I fought him like a fish against ice.
She went on, describing how she had taken over the farm, rearing piglets, selling them, and how her husbands health deteriorated from years of drinking and smoking. He quit at the end, but it was too late. The damage was done, she said, eyes glazing.
Her son, Thomas, now a school headmaster, had fought to keep the village school from being cut down to nine years. He wrote to officials in London and saved it. Her daughter, Lydia, taught at the local primary school, her husband a council deputy who had defended the schools future. Their twins served in the army together and now worked offshore, earning good wages. Six grandchildren, each with two children, kept the family tree sprawlingno one in the line rejected the idea of children.
The next morning, Eleanor escorted Maggie to the bus stop, handing her a parcel of smoked bacon, thick slices still glistening, and a jar of raspberry jam. Out on the streets, the contrast between the two women was stark. Maggie, slim, wrapped in a fashionable down jacket, a plush fur hat perched jauntily, wore lowheeled boots and lips painted a bold crimson. Eleanor, sturdy and solid, wore a coat long out of fashion, thick felt boots, and a woolen shawl draped over her shoulders.
The bus shuddered to a halt. They embraced, promising to call, and Maggie hopped on with surprising lightness. Eleanor, her steps heavy, watched the vehicle roll away, feeling the weight of the years settle once more.
Two friends, born under similar skies, whose lives diverged like two rivers after a common source. Was it chance? Luck? Some hidden force pulling at the threads of their fates? The answer, perhaps, lies not in the grand design but in the quiet moments they share, each carrying her own measure of happiness.
