From Rhona Gorringe: Chalk and Cheese

“And another thing, this house is far too large for one.   You ought to see Mr. Forsyth.   He’s the one for selling houses.   Did a good job for me, nice man although I don’t approve of beards.”

            Bridget hunched as though a giant whirlpool was going to suck her into its depths.   “Yes, I do know him.   He’s …” she paused, “But this is my home.   I remember Lawrence carrying me over the threshold.   What about Digger?   He’d never ben happy in another house.   I know you mean well but …”

           “Stop prevaricating.   Memories and dogs do not pay bills.   I know what it’s like to be a widow but you’ve got to move on.   Look at me.   After George went, I made a list.”   Flicking her elegant fingers Iris recited, “Contacted Mr. Forsyth, arranged the funeral, reinvented myself, cleared the house and Got On.”

            Bridget didn’t doubt that anyone or anything would not ‘Get On’ when confronted by such a tidal force.   No wonder Iris’s children lived on the other side of the world.

            Iris went on, “What you need is something like the new estate near me.   I’ll make some enquiries.   We could see more of each other.”

            Being the older sister, Iris had always bossed Bridget around but Bridget had some support now.   “What about a glass of sherry before our lunch, Iris.   This one is good.   Bunce’s delicatessen recommended it.”   Bridget continued, “and after lunch we could see the Bank Holiday street festivities.”

            Iris sipped her sherry and Bridget checked the casserole.   She heard Digger bark and then the wheeze of the sofa as he settled down.   Iris sauntered into the kitchen, “Yes, not a bad sherry”, she said dabbing her scarlet lips with an impossible piece of lavender lace and then snapping the jaws of her fierce handbag, “though I prefer it a bit more chilled.”          

            Fortified by an extra glass, Bridget consoled herself.   Then she felt guilty.   Refusing coffee, |Iris asked for green tea.    “It gives you a good flush, you know.”   But Bridget didn’t want to be flushed, not by green tea anyway!    She wondered when the right moment would present itself.

            They ambled to the street festival and when she heard tinkling music and applause, Bridget quickened her pace.   Pushing through the crowd she saw him.   A middle-aged and definitely athletic-looking man stood head above the others.   A billowing white shirt was tucked into black knee length trousers emphasising a muscularly trim calf.   Bridget’s heart quivered, matching the fluttering of his handkerchief and ribbons as he waved them above the miniature garden on his head.  The crowd joined in with the hey-nonny-noes and bells jingled wildly.   With a flourishing whoop and clacking of sticks the dancers stopped and wiped their brows.

            Seeing Bridget the man came forward and soundly kissed her.   “So glad you could make it.” he said, “It’s my solo next after a little rest.”

            Turning to Iris, Bridget said, “Iris, you remember Derek Forsyth, don’t you?” and suddenly Bridget realised that the right moment had presented itself.   “After Derek’s solo when we’re all home for tea, we’ll tell you our plans for the house and garden.”

            Lost for words, Iris goggled at her radiant sister.