breathing life back
Pay homage to nature’s beauty
and circle the blooms daily
And take peace as yours
Blessed be
As the wind whispered through the plants, did she feel a sense of ease settle upon her? Or was it her imagination? What had she expected, some sort of pumpkin-changing, mice-into-footmen, glass-slipper magic?
‘Yoohoo.’
She started.
‘Ella. There you are. Is everything all right?’ Doris’s head popped up over George’s fence. ‘I saw Devon taking your dog away with his lady friend. And I saw your gentleman friend.’ Coy curiosity filled her faded blue eyes.
‘Hello, Doris.’
The older woman swayed a bit and then disappeared before popping back up again like a determined jack-in-the-box.
‘Sorry, love. Damn wheelbarrow moved. So what’s wrong with the dog?’
‘Tess has had a bit of a . . . ’ Ella found she was able to say it without bursting into tears, ‘ . . . mishap. She ate chocolate.’ To her relief, she felt a lot calmer. ‘Did you know it’s poisonous to dogs?’
‘Well I never. Oh, you poor love. Don’t you worry. Devon’s a good vet. Might not have the kennel-side manner but he’s good. She’ll be fine.’
‘I had to leave her behind.’ Ella hadn’t wanted to do that. Bets said that someone would be checking on her at regular intervals. How often was that? It seemed heartless. Tess might just be a dog but she’d be lonely.
‘You come right over. I promise you Tess will be as right as rain. I feel it in my bones. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Come on. You can’t mope there by yourself. I’ve got some lemon cake. And if you’re really good. I’ll show you some photos from my dancing days.’ She waggled her eyebrows with great gusto.
A refusal was at the ready, tipping her tongue – she’d rather be on her own – but something, possibly Doris’s hopeful expression, made her say, ‘Thank you,’ and swallowing and dredging up a reluctant smile, she added, ‘That’s an offer I can’t turn down.’
‘I’ll have you know my lemon drizzle cake brings folks over from Long Marston when the Spring Fayre’s on.’
‘I meant the photos.’
‘I was a Tiller Girl, you know.’ Doris drew herself up with pride.
‘Were you?’ Ella asked politely, not having a clue what that was. Probably nothing to do with farming; her only frame of reference to the word came from some song: ‘we till the soil.’
‘See there. That’s the London Palladium. On the bill, we were, onSunday Night at the London Palladium. Appeared on ITV.’
‘Wow, these pictures are amazing,’ exclaimed Ella as she studied the black and white shots of a long line of girls in identical costumes, their legs kicking in perfect unison. She was glad to focus on the pictures as the lounge contained a rather distracting Aladdin’s cave of stuff. Who’d have thought that Doris would have such a large television screen or a state of the art Bose sound system?
‘Some famous photographer came in and took those.’ She turned the pages of the album. ‘That’s us on Broadway. And at the Folies Bergère in Paris.’ With a perfectly painted fingernail she tapped one of the pictures. ‘That was us on the Eiffel Tower. Lord, we had so much fun.’
‘Gosh, Doris. I had no idea. You were quite famous in your day.’
‘Had a lovely time, I did. Of course I’m not nearly as famous as Alice Benthall, the WI treasurer.’
‘Did I meet her yesterday?’ The talk seemed a lifetime ago and with a sudden thrill, Ella remembered Margery Duffle.
‘Yes, you would have done. Pink rinse, with a tinge of purple.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember her.’
‘Hair like that, you’re not going to forget her,’ observed Doris with a cheerful grin that robbed the words of any malice. ‘She, Alice, was a world-famous cellist. Contemporaryof that Jacqueline du Pray woman. Soloist with the New York Philharmonic.’
