September Starlings Read Online Free
Author: Ruth Hamilton
smile is bright and brave. ‘No, I’m just dying an inch at a time. I’ve no regrets, Laura, none at all. Will you wash the dishes for me?’
‘Of course.’ I stand, lift the tray. ‘Thank you.’
The kitchen is tiny. In the parlance of today’s estate agents, it might well be a ‘galley type’ or a ‘kitchenette’. There’s a porcelain sink, a gas cooker, a 1950s-style unit with glass doors in the top, two shallow drawers, a letdown centre cupboard, two further drawers, then a couple of cupboards at the base. Tomato plants flourish on the tiny sill next to a miniature brown, blue and cream teapot with DEVON announced on its belly. Home-made recipe books are propped on a shelf, their covers made from school drawing paper, yellow, purple, fading magenta. There’s a rack of pans, a kettle whose whistle has been lost, an aged toaster, a colander on a hook. So clean, so poor.
Her garden is long and narrow, is not suffering. Someone has cut the grass, weeded the borders. No, she is not poor. They come and look after her, keep up her standards, love her for educating their families. This lovely lady is rich beyond measure and deservedly so.
‘Many of them have gone, moved on.’ She is behind me, reading my mind. ‘The cottages are mostly sold, bought by first-time buyers with babies and cars. But the farms have been handed down, you know. It’s the farmers who look after me. I miss your aunt.’
‘So do I.’ Auntie Maisie Turnbull was a wonderful woman, a giver of love. She was the only real mother I ever knew. ‘Anne’s living in Bromley Cross.’
‘She sends me flowers and plants, ruins me.’ There’s a catch in her voice and she covers it with a quiet cough. ‘And she takes me to her home at Christmas. She never married and that’s a pity, because she would have made an excellent mother. Have you kept in touch with her?’
I smile grimly. ‘Oh, yes.’ Without Anne, I would have been insane years ago. Anne does not discuss me, has not shared my troubles with Miss Armitage. Like her mother, Anne is caring, trustworthy.
Alice Armitage walks back into the sitting room, shuffles as she goes. ‘He might have lingered for a while longer,’ she mutters quietly. ‘But I was unable to calculate my own span. Perhaps it was all for the best.’
I replace the Doulton, pile it carefully into the top of the unit where a mixture of china gathers in happy confusion. Did she help him on his way? Did she?
She is tired, has placed herself in the armchair. ‘Is this jeweller husband of yours going to get better?’
Ben’s face leaps into my mind. ‘No.’ I bite back an unexpected sob. ‘He suffers. Like … Richard did.’
She smiles sweetly. ‘God is good. Be His messenger.’
Again, she is asleep. I creep from the house, tiptoe past the window, have almost reached the Black Horse before I breathe normally. Something is working in a mysterious way today. Questions, answers, an old woman who drinks flat cider and smokes a pipe.
I shall not go up to McNally’s, because my father is not there. But I’ll visit his grave, drive through Bolton, head for home on the M62. In Crosby, I shall rest until the morning, then the future will begin. But first, I shall wade through my past, look through the pages of my life and try to make some sense of it.
They’ve done things to my town. I always feel proprietorial about Bolton, wonder why I haven’t been consulted by developers. How dare they tart up the oldMarket Hall, get rid of the Palais de Danse, stick a fast-food place just yards from the Victoria Hall? I can’t drive through the main square, as it’s been pedestrianized, but I can see the clock. When my insecurity showed, Dad used to say, ‘Laurie-child, I’ll leave you when the Town Hall clock strikes thirteen.’ It never did strike more than twelve, but my sweet father went softly into his own night.
I’m going to my other home now. And I’m going to write everything on bits of paper. Elsie
‘Of course.’ I stand, lift the tray. ‘Thank you.’
The kitchen is tiny. In the parlance of today’s estate agents, it might well be a ‘galley type’ or a ‘kitchenette’. There’s a porcelain sink, a gas cooker, a 1950s-style unit with glass doors in the top, two shallow drawers, a letdown centre cupboard, two further drawers, then a couple of cupboards at the base. Tomato plants flourish on the tiny sill next to a miniature brown, blue and cream teapot with DEVON announced on its belly. Home-made recipe books are propped on a shelf, their covers made from school drawing paper, yellow, purple, fading magenta. There’s a rack of pans, a kettle whose whistle has been lost, an aged toaster, a colander on a hook. So clean, so poor.
Her garden is long and narrow, is not suffering. Someone has cut the grass, weeded the borders. No, she is not poor. They come and look after her, keep up her standards, love her for educating their families. This lovely lady is rich beyond measure and deservedly so.
‘Many of them have gone, moved on.’ She is behind me, reading my mind. ‘The cottages are mostly sold, bought by first-time buyers with babies and cars. But the farms have been handed down, you know. It’s the farmers who look after me. I miss your aunt.’
‘So do I.’ Auntie Maisie Turnbull was a wonderful woman, a giver of love. She was the only real mother I ever knew. ‘Anne’s living in Bromley Cross.’
‘She sends me flowers and plants, ruins me.’ There’s a catch in her voice and she covers it with a quiet cough. ‘And she takes me to her home at Christmas. She never married and that’s a pity, because she would have made an excellent mother. Have you kept in touch with her?’
I smile grimly. ‘Oh, yes.’ Without Anne, I would have been insane years ago. Anne does not discuss me, has not shared my troubles with Miss Armitage. Like her mother, Anne is caring, trustworthy.
Alice Armitage walks back into the sitting room, shuffles as she goes. ‘He might have lingered for a while longer,’ she mutters quietly. ‘But I was unable to calculate my own span. Perhaps it was all for the best.’
I replace the Doulton, pile it carefully into the top of the unit where a mixture of china gathers in happy confusion. Did she help him on his way? Did she?
She is tired, has placed herself in the armchair. ‘Is this jeweller husband of yours going to get better?’
Ben’s face leaps into my mind. ‘No.’ I bite back an unexpected sob. ‘He suffers. Like … Richard did.’
She smiles sweetly. ‘God is good. Be His messenger.’
Again, she is asleep. I creep from the house, tiptoe past the window, have almost reached the Black Horse before I breathe normally. Something is working in a mysterious way today. Questions, answers, an old woman who drinks flat cider and smokes a pipe.
I shall not go up to McNally’s, because my father is not there. But I’ll visit his grave, drive through Bolton, head for home on the M62. In Crosby, I shall rest until the morning, then the future will begin. But first, I shall wade through my past, look through the pages of my life and try to make some sense of it.
They’ve done things to my town. I always feel proprietorial about Bolton, wonder why I haven’t been consulted by developers. How dare they tart up the oldMarket Hall, get rid of the Palais de Danse, stick a fast-food place just yards from the Victoria Hall? I can’t drive through the main square, as it’s been pedestrianized, but I can see the clock. When my insecurity showed, Dad used to say, ‘Laurie-child, I’ll leave you when the Town Hall clock strikes thirteen.’ It never did strike more than twelve, but my sweet father went softly into his own night.
I’m going to my other home now. And I’m going to write everything on bits of paper. Elsie
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