With thanks to Liz.
Sister and brother, Lizbeth and Henry, stand across the road from Dairy Cottage, on Main Street, Somerton. Their Gran’s home is a long low listed-building with white walls and golden thatch.
I see they’ve finally got it up, Lizbeth says, seeing the sign, For Sale.
Things were always slow down here in Somerset, Henry replies.
Better not let the locals hear you saying that.
Let’s go in, Lizbeth suggests.
The cottage is dusty and cold.
Are you still happy putting all her possessions in storage? Henry asks.
Yes. But it’s so upsetting, as if we were trying to say she’d never existed. I need time to decide what we should do.
Our kids will want a look.
They won’t want brown furniture; it’s out of date, Lizbeth says.
I can still smell her lavender perfume.
Me too.
Is that coffee still warm in your thermos? Henry asks.
Dust rises as they sit on the long slate bench in the dairy. They sip the coffee.
When was our last crazy summer holiday here with Gran? Henry asks.
I was ten.
I was nine, so, 1955.
So long ago, Lizbeth sighs.
How old was she that summer?
I’ll go and get the old family bible; by the way, can I take it home with me today?
Of course.
Lizbeth returns carrying the enormous, illustrated bible, and blows off the dust. She carefully turns the pages. Here we are. She was born in 1877. So, she was 78 in ’55. She was fun.
Or, maybe, crazy.
Not crazy. She lost the plot after that holiday and Mum and Dad said it wasn’t safe for her to look after us on her own again, Lizbeth says.
It made me sad at the time, but, I guess, mistaking beeswax for honey on toast wasn’t a great idea.
Or when the first supermarket in the village, the Coop, opened at the same time as Fish Fingers were launched; she thought frozen fish fingers were just like a ‘99’; she gave them us as a treat stuck in ice-cream cones full of vanilla ice-cream.
Somehow, she didn’t realise they were fish, Henry laughs.
She tried hers and thought it was a delicacy; we loved her, so, we ate on. Mum and Dad didn’t believe us.
But I had the evidence! I’d taken a photo on my little Kodak, Henry says. I miss her so much; we hardly ever saw her again after that summer.
Shall we go and see her grave? Lizbeth asks.
As they arrive at the grave, Lizbeth gasps, Oh, Henry! I never thought you’d make it.
I am a sculptor, after all.
They hug.
A beautifully carved ice-cream cone stands on a plinth, glowing in the sun. A rectangle of brown marble sticks out of the cone, with ‘Fish Fingers’ engraved at the top and ‘Gran was a real treat’, engraved in gold beneath. Do you think she’d be pleased? Henry asks.
If we stand very still, we’ll hear her laughing right now.
I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More
© Phil Cosker 2024
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Phil Cosker 