Hen sat at the bus shelter in a blueberry coat with a tissue tucked in the right sleeve. Her carer stood just a few feet away, chewing gum and laughing down the phone. In her younger years, Hen had been an accountant to the Durands, an aristocratic family with French lineage. Five years in, they asked her to be Godmother to their two children, though it never came to pass. Hen was a diligent worker who only ever asked for two things: a pack of Gauloises and a bar of Roger Gallet soap. Other than that, she lived on the bare minimum, choosing to save her salary for a rainy day.
In her lap lay the brochure for the care home, glossy, and more something you’d expect from an estate agent. The suburban building centred itself between the finer details, a long arm of wisteria wrapped like a scarf. Hen was itching for a cigarette, but with her carer distracted, she reached around for her handbag. As she twisted round, everything began to spin. Lighter in hand, Hen fell face first onto the concrete.
“Oh, hold on, she just fell,” the carer said, trudging over.
Pulling her back into the chair, Hen’s carer returned to her phone call. Lip bleeding, she flipped through the life cycle. She had lived through many colours herself: red, yellow, white, and plenty blue. After a day at the races, Lady Durand admonished Hen for giving the children some money to spend at the sweet trolley. “You can’t improve the day with offers of bribery, Hen,” she said. Only then did she truly understand how fallible loyalty truly is. The two children never understood why Hen stayed behind during their outings, nor did they care to ask.
The blood painted her neck, as though she’d eaten blackberries. When the rain came, Hen’s carer yanked her chair further under the shelter, for which she was grateful. She observed a young couple fighting over an umbrella, shoving and tugging in turn. When they noticed her looking, the young woman crudely gestured. The carer laughed mid-call, “No, sorry, I’ll tell you later.” Hen cried into her blueberry coat, rubbing the rain from the brochure. For the first time she noticed the tagline:
FENNEY OAK,
WE’LL SCRATCH YOURS!
On Hen’s thirtieth birthday, Lord Durand’s father passed away. Ninety-eight years of age, Durand Sr. served in the First World War. He would take out his medals every Christmas Eve, hanging them from the pine tree. The evening of his passing, she found a clearly relieved Lady Durand talking to one of the servants. It was only when Hen shared a cigarette with the Lord that she discovered how costly his long term care had been. Since then, she forever said, “If I start wearing purple skirts and smelling of wee, shoot me.”
The steaming cry of the bus came rolling in. With her phone squished between her shoulder and ear, the carer grabbed the bags and tied them to the chair.
“Come on, I ain’t got all day,” said the driver.
As she pushed Hen onto the bus, her pack of Gauloises fell into a muddy puddle. She watched as they grew smaller in her vision until the doors closed and they were away. A passenger smiled at the carer.
“They don’t pack light, do they?”
Hen looked down at the brochure, poking a finger through the wisteria. She was getting too hot, but she didn't dare bother anyone ever again.
This was a heartbreaking perspective. Thanks for the read! I enjoyed this vignette.
Nice! I got hooked straight away.