Published: 24 Apr 2017

Alice wasn’t feeling bright and hadn’t been so for a number of days, not since Awen’s previous visit. Between dizzy spells and shortness of breath she spent most of her time in her favourite chair listening to the wireless, or searching through drawers and cupboards for the photograph she had promised to show Awen. Alice liked listning to the wireless, especially the National Broadcaster’s Sunday programme aptly named The Village Glee Club, with its reference to past days and music fitting the old woman’s frame of mind. She would muse at their stories, their pride for reaching such advanced ages and the announcement of who was having a milestone anniversary, listing each one in turn before playing their favourite music from some bygone decade.

Alice had thought of calling Doctor Edwards but he was a busy man and would have more important appointments than to concern with an old woman with a wheezing fit. Besides she had had bad wheezing before, even when Awen visited and it went away after a cup of tea and some relaxation. She smiled, remembering what Doctor Edwards prescribed, ‘a nice cup of tea, a bex and a good lie down.’ The doctor prescribed bex to all his ladies, calling it ‘mother’s little helper’, guaranteeing little if any side effects from its daily or twice daily usage.

After a glass of water without the bex, she felt much better, yet subconsciously Alice knew this time there was more, noticing a slight pain along her left arm and numbness in her fingers. Within a minute or so the pain went and she felt almost normal. She remembered her mother often had the same condition and it always dissipated. Besides it wasn’t the heart that eventually took her mother from the family, but some illness Alice had not heard of nor could she spell or pronounce its title.

Feeling somewhat improved Alice remembered she had been searching for Bert’s photograph to show Awen. She wished to share their likeness and similar nature with her great, great nephew. To Alice it was as if her brother had reincarnated in Awen, yet there were subtle differences, enough to discard such a conjecture, besides she knew it could not be so but could not impart her reasoning, not even to her trusted nephew.

Eventually, in a dark forgotten corner beside her bedroom wardrobe she found a crumpled shoe box, covered in years of accumulated dust and daddy-long-leg spider webbing, resting besides a number of journals she had placed aside to dispose of. Alice smiled. The box once contained her first pair of high-heal shoes; black patent leather with small silver buckles in the shape of butterflies, or were they heart shaped. It mattered not, as the shoes had long gone, only the memory remained and as clear as if it was yesterday.

Back then she had danced nights away in those very shoes and never once faltered, how her ankles ached with the morning, having to soak her feet in hot water laced with condy’s crystals, believed by many to have soothing and antiseptic qualities and how the concoction stained the skin.

Now she had difficulty standing in slippers and her dancing day were but past and happy recollections. She smiled, her mother being a devout Baptist did not approve of dancing, nor did she approve of entertainment of any sort, unless it was uplifting of the spirit and singing prase to the lord. One day young lady your frivolous antics will be the death of me, she always exclaimed when Alice returned from a dance night, carrying her shoes because of aching ankles and not wishing to announce the earliness of the morning.

Yet Alice’s frivolity wasn’t her mother’s downfall, it was the unpronounceable condition that sent her to bed and soon after to the grave. Nor did it bring the wrath of the lord down upon Alice with thunder bolts, fire and brimstone or plagues of locusts, although there was the year of the mouse plague but that was after the good woman’s demise and surely the lord would have forgiven Alice by then, as she had become her father’s carer, a deed of devotion she undertook until he willingly joined her mother some years later.

Alice became excited as she retrieved the box. Removing the surface dust she carried it to her chair. Inside were a multitude of ancient photographs, all colourless and fading like her memory.

“It has to be in here.” Alice assured herself.

The box lid fell apart as she removed it. At the very top of the pile was the photograph of her parents on their wedding day. Once again she smile; how serious and stiff they appeared, as did they all and how beautiful her mother was in her flowing white dress and bouquet of flowers. How nervous her father appeared in his borrowed suit and starched collared shirt, his chin high and proud, his moustache groomed and full. He held that moustache throughout his life and she had watched it transform from black, to pepper and salt to grey but was always proud and trim.

Alice gently placed the photograph on the table beside the box and continued her search, pausing at individual images as memories like liquid sunshine flowed across her thoughts.

“It’s not here.” Alice exclaimed quite loudly and disappointedly on reaching the last photograph in the box, a small but poignant image of her father mounted high upon his horse, dressed in his finest, preparing to ride fifty miles to attend the funeral of a friend. Again she admired his moustache and remembered suggesting Bert should grow his own but Bert could not, even in his final teenage year Bert didn’t need to shave but was such a handsome lad, his black hair shone in the sunlight, while his lips wore a permanent smile, even when sad or bothered.

“I wonder if Awen could grow a moustache.”

“I think it would suit him.”

“Oh Bert you were so young.” Alice sighed as her thoughts wandered back to her long departed younger brother.

“And handsome,”

“You were,”

“No I’m not just saying that,”

“I know but I’m looking for something.”

“The photograph of you Bert, it was taken on your nineteenth birthday.”

“No it isn’t here, you haven’t removed it – have you?”

“It must be here somewhere; I don’t wish it lost as it is the only image I have of you.”

Once again Alice searched through the collection of photographs without success before realising it could not be in the box as it was only recently she had viewed it.

“No it’s not in the kitchen drawer; I looked in there when Awen moved the table; now where can it be?”

Alice replaced the broken lid but kept the photograph of her parents wedding separate. She thought of having it framed. Maybe she could present it to Margaret. Then remembering Awen’s account on cluttered surfaces she thought not.

“I’ll make myself a nice cup of tea,” Alice declared sounding as if it were the brightest suggestion she had all day, “and a biscuit.” As the kettle boiled she once again searched through the kitchen drawer.

“I know I said I had already looked but maybe I missed it.”

“I want to give it to young Awen.”

“He was here the other day; you must remember he move the table for me.”

“The small table with the drop-sides – gate leg,”

“I know it belonged to our grandmother but Barbara always admired it and she has just the spot for it in her hallway.”

Lacking success Alice gave up her search and made the tea. Back in the living room she reclined once more, puzzled where she could have placed Bert’s photograph. She remembered having it on the anniversary of her brother’s death being also his birthday, his twentieth. She had set it beside a vase of flowers freshly cut from her garden, or was it at Christmas or only an occasion to recall his handsome face.

The flowers had long wilted and the vase washed and put away but the photograph was no longer on the side table.

“What were the flowers?” Alice announced loudly and bothered, thinking if she could remember the blooms, she would remember the time of year. “They were pink roses.” She recollected “but I bought them from the florist.” Alice shook her head, “no they were yellow, or were they carnations?’ She released a sigh, “I can’t even remember the flowers.” She continued her search.

“It is important I wanted to show it to Awen, as he looks like you.”

“I thought it was a true likeness.”

“Awen would be your great-great nephew.”

“I think Awen’s a nice name – Awen Pen.” Alice repeated the name and smiled.

“No I think Reg Pen’s family was Welsh.”

“Well I have things to do.”

As Alice spoke there was a knock to her front door. Slowly she closed the drawer and managed the passage, “Coming,” she called in a croaked voice, “who is it?” She asked from behind the door’s high leadlight panel. She could see the distorted image of a woman through the glass.

“Alice it’s Barbara Kemp, I’ve come to thank you for the table.”

Alice opened the door and allowed entry, “I’ve made tea would you like a cup?” She offered standing to one side.

“No thank you I am on my way to the shops, I won’t come in.”

“It’s a nice table, belonged to my grandmother.” Alice declared as if attempting to assure its age and value.

“It’s a lovely table but you shouldn’t give it away.”

“You always admired it Barbara, besides I’m only too pleased for it to go to someone who would appreciate it.”

“But you have your family.”

“There is only Margaret and she hasn’t appreciation for old things.” Alice huffed.

“Once again thank you,” Barbara Kemp appeared anxious to leave, “I must hurry to catch the butcher; I’ll call in for tea Wednesday afternoon if that suits you.”

“Righto then I will see you Wednesday.”

Alice stood at the door watching as Barbara quickly walked to her vehicle. Smiling she remembered a gregarious girl with an infectious smile who lived next door. She had been a sweet child with ribbons and red ringlets and freckles. The freckles may have faded but not the smile. Even now in middle age Barbara held her girlish manner and obliging personality. Only the hair was no longer naturally red but from a bottle but suited her well.

“I should leave her something nice.” Alice sighed and closed the door.

“What do you think Bert, what should I leave Barbara?”

“No not the house, I have other plans for the house.”

“Wednesday, I must remember that.” Alice displayed a measure of annoyance, as her short term memory had begun to weaken. Only that week she had twice bought bread, twice milk and a pound of pork sausages, forgetting she had already a good supply of all. She fed the excess bread to her friendly magpie at the back door and watched in delight as a flock of apostle birds arrived to finish the crumbs. She had counted the birds and arrived at seven, realising she had never seen twelve, sometimes more often less but never twelve but they were stupid birds and she would have to wait as they pecked away at the crumbs, or be taken by the neighbour’s cat.

“I’ll mark it on the calendar.” But she couldn’t find a pen and her almanac was as old and faded as her youth but she liked the picture, it was of a team of draught horses pulling a wagon loaded with large forest logs, besides one day was like the next, one year was like the last.

“Bert you could remind me.” She suggested with a sigh.

In the kitchen Alice washed her few mixed matched dishes. Some were her mother’s even her grandmother’s. The full original sets had long gone, broken by boisterous boys and clumsy girls who had no value for good bone china, or lent to fetes piled high with homemade biscuits and cakes but never returned.

Holding up a cup she admired its pattern, it had been her mother’s favourite. There were once four cups and saucers along with bread and butter plates but long since broken.

“It was our mother’s favourite.” Alice acknowledged.

“I know it was an accident but you broke the rest.” She lightly scalded.

“You did I saw you do it, you pulled the tablecloth and they all fell to the floor and only this cup survived the tumble.” Alice gave a shrug while placing the single cup high out of harm’s way.

Reaching above her head she felt the muscles in her shoulder give and as her arm fell to her side, the cup came with it falling from her grasp, smashing onto the linoleum floor. She burst into tears. “Bert what is becoming of me?” She collected the broken pieces. Maybe they could be glued back together. She would ask Awen, he was cleaver with his hands. As a young boy he made plastic models of aeroplanes and boats using something he called Tarzan’s Grip. Alice nursed the broken pieces in the palm of her hand as if they were a fragile bird and was in fear of crushing its life away. She thought not and dropped the shards of crockery into the kitchen tidy. “Oh well,” she sighed.

Alice wasn’t afraid of death. It came to all things; she accepted that. Often revealing in her baroque way, life was like a voluminous book and each person’s time but a short chapter with the rest of the story missing. If interested you could read about previous chapters but it was the final chapter that was undefined and she wished to know how the whole damn thing ended and not having religion, believed there wouldn’t be anyone there to greet her final arrival to explain how it all panned out, how the human race conduced or finally self-destructed.

As for her own chapter, she could no longer enjoy her pleasures. Once Alice had been a fine gardener and her spring blooms the pride of the show. Her needle work was surpassed by none and cakes the envy of the Country Woman’s Association but now she couldn’t bend to pluck the many weeds, nor see to thread a needle. She remained a reasonable cook but her stove was as ancient as herself and no longer held its heat.

“It won’t be long before I join you Bert.” Alice sighed. “I remember that dreadful day as if it were only yesterday.” She shook her head in disbelief. Even after so many passing years she could not understand how folk could be so cruel and uncompromising.

“Yes Bert you were innocent and I believe they all knew it to be so but someone had to be held responsible. People aren’t happy unless they have someone to blame.” Alice removed a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away her tears. “Yes I must arrange something nice for Barbara.” She sighed casting her eyes around the room for inspiration. “Maybe she would like the Staffordshire figurines; she liked them as a girl.” Another smile as memory prevailed. “She would arrange them all upon the floor like dolls and make up stories about each character and never even chipped a single one.”

Alice picked up a small porcelain dog. It was a hunting dog, tail outstretched with one leg cocked in pointing position. “Gladys gave that to me, she won it at the show when she was just a girl.” Alice returned the figurine to the side table, then changed her mind and placed it in the box with the rest of her Staffordshire.

“No you never met Gladys; she was born after you had gone.”

“She was our niece and Awen’s grandmother.”

“No she was a troubled child, our sister; her mother wasn’t a kind person and had no love. You remember how she treated us.”

“She hit me also.”

“Enough Bert, I’m tired now and need to rest.”

Back in her chair Alice’s thoughts once again turned to Barbara and her promise to visit. “It was to be Wednesday, wasn’t it?” She paused. “Bert did I say Barbara was coming to tea on Wednesday or Thursday?” She paused once more. “Never mind I’ll be here no matter when. I could make a batch of pumpkin scones, or that orange tea cake she so likes so much. I will have to go to the shops.”

Outside her window late afternoon shafts of sunlight danced upon the deep green foliage of a Lilly pilly enhancing the redness of it berries. It was becoming unruly and on windy nights the branches scraped along the outside wall and scratched at the window glass.

“I will have to call John Ashe to do some pruning and the lawn needs cutting.” Alice stood and for no apparent reason gently tapped her fingers on the window glass. As she did so a black bird took fright from eating the berries and fluttered clumsy through the foliage. She smiled. As a girl her mother would have her collect the berries and make Lilly pilly and apple crumble. Often Alice thought of doing likewise but there were never enough berries on her single remaining bush, besides why deprive the black birds as she loved their morning song.

“What have I done with Mr. Ashe’s telephone number?” Alice found a slip of paper near the telephone. She slowly dialled the number.

“Mr. Ashe, it’s Alice Thomas, I was wondering if you have time to do some pruning for me.”

“No anytime, I’m not in a hurry.”

“And the lawn needs cutting.”

“No not Wednesday afternoon, I have Barbara Kemp coming for tea.”

“Friday’s fine.”

“No really Mr. Ashe Friday would suit nicely.”

Alice replaced the telephone receiver and smiled pleasingly. She had remembered Barbara was coming for tea on Wednesday. “Bert it is Wednesday when Barbara is coming for tea.”

“Mr. Ashe is such a nice man, so obliging and always ready with a smile.”

“Yes I’ve heard that but so were you.”

“No I didn’t mind, it was your way and loving you as a brother I respected that.”

“It was a long time ago and things have changed.”

“I’m tired now and don’t feel too well, I think I’ll have a lie down.

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