Violet Harper stared mournfully at her own reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Old maid, old maid, she muttered, noting the sagging skin, the double chin, the river of wrinkles that traced her sixtysix years. She sighed, trying to wedge the stray curlers her daughter had left on the counter onto her thinning hair. The curlers had been a morning gift, a reminder that today the village of Little Willow was to mark the fiftieth anniversary of its old secondary school. Violet had been among the first cohort to graduate from that very building.
The schoolyard was being festooned with bunting, and officials from the county town of Bath would be arriving, along with the handful of former classmates who, despite promising to come, would never make the journey. Time had already whisked many away, some never to return. A low bark echoed from the garden; Spot, the family terrier, was whining at the gate. Through the frosted window Violet saw a thin, shrouded figure lingering by the gate. She pulled on a threadbare coat and stepped outside to greet the visitor. At first she could not place the woman, but when she spoke, the words rang familiar: it was her school friend, Gwendolyn Gwen Clarke.
I got the invitation and thought Id finally come back home, Gwen said, clutching a battered suitcase. I might not have anywhere else to stay. My familys long gone. Will you let me in?
Of course, Violet replied, and the two women fell into an embrace, tears slipping down their cheekswhether from joy or sorrow, the dream could not tell.
You look splendid, darling, Violet whispered, admiring Gwens cityslicked attire.
Living in London was a different world, Gwen replied, smoothing her coat. My husband was a respectable manager, a proper gentleman. I had to keep up appearances. If Id stayed in the village, Id be just like you! Oh, I didnt mean to wound you, she added, biting her lip.
Dont worry, love, Violet said, sipping tea that seemed to glow in the dim light. You look fifteen years younger, even though were the same age.
When evening fell, the village women, dressed in their Sunday best, marched to the school. Only eight city folk had managed to arrive, and recognition was a tentative thing. After the formal speeches, long tables were laid out with platters of roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, and steaming pots of tea. Glasses were raised, laughter rose, memories spilled like warm milk, and the clock struck midnight as the guests drifted away.
Gwen lingered with Violet, refusing to surrender to sleep. They talked until the first pale light of dawn brushed the thatched roofs. Gwen spoke of her city life: a good husband who had died three winters ago, a single daughter who lived in London, a university graduate who had married well. The daughter and her husband were childfreea term Gwen pronounced with a mix of pride and bewilderment. Violet, puzzled, learned that childfree described those who deliberately chose not to have offspring.
Gwen confessed the ache of her daughters rare visits; even the funeral of Gwens own father she could not attend, bound by a demanding job. Her pension was a thin ribbon of pounds, the result of a career she never pursued because her late husband had kept her at home. Money from her mother helped her afford occasional stays at a seaside convalescent home, a luxury beyond her modest means.
Is it true youre also a widow? Gwen asked, eyes flickering. They say your Nicholas drank too much. Where are the children?
Violets voice softened. Just as it was in the village, men drank heavily, especially after the timber mill closed and work vanished. My husband was sober, a gentle soul, but the otherswhen they were drunk, they turned into beasts. I fought against that, raising piglets, selling pork, trying to keep the farm afloat. My youngest son fell ill and died, and I only gave up the bottle when it was too late. The poison had already seeped into my bones.
Her story unfolded like a tapestry of loss and stubborn endurance. Her daughter, Lily, had finished teacher training and now taught at the local primary school; her soninlaw, the headmaster, had become a councillor who successfully defended the schools nineyear programme from cuts. Her twin sons served together in the army, now stationed at a base in Vanquish, sending home a steady stream of earnings. Six grandchildren, each with two children of their own, kept the family tree humming. We may not have chosen a childfree life, but we cannot imagine a world without them, she said, smiling despite the tears.
The next day Violet escorted Gwen to the bus stop, handing her a parcel of thick cuts of bacon, a slab of crisp cheese, and a jar of raspberry jam. Outside, the wind tugged at Violets oversized coat, making her look even more like a relic compared to Gwens sleek puffer jacket, furtrimmed hat, and modest heels. Violets own attirean outoffashion coat, rubber soles, and a woolen shawlstood in stark contrast.
The bus rumbled to a stop. The friends hugged, promising to call, and Gwen leapt aboard with ease, while Violet shuffled home with a heavy, shuffling gait.
In the lingering haze of the dream, it seemed that both women had begun life on almost identical tracks, yet the rails had twisted in wildly different directions. Was it chance, luck, or some unseen force steering the destinies of women? The answer, like the mist over the English countryside, remained elusive, leaving the question of whose heart was truly lighter unanswered.
