Five French Hens. Judy Leigh

– Sylvester Donavan is always out there with hot coffee and rolls, in all English weathers, the cold, the freezing, the ice and the snow.’ He smiled, his eyes crinkling. ‘But I want to spend some time with you today, look into your beautiful eyes across a table and…’

      ‘… eat fish and chips,’ Della spluttered.

      Sylvester was serious. He held up Della’s jacket, waiting for her to slip it on. ‘I want to show my appreciation for my wife. Then we’ll go for a stroll along the headland, just like we did when we were twenty-something and we used to go walking together.’

      ‘When we were twenty-something we were young and energetic, living in Stepney, strolling through the streets in the dark, with nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was lovely though. We were so poor then. That seems so long ago.’ She sighed. ‘We’re still not well off though…’

      Sylvester reached for his coat, shrugging it on and pushing his hat on top of his head. ‘I am a rich man, Della. Rich with love. And I can afford to take my lovely wife out for a romantic lunch.’ He offered the crook of his arm. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s paint Exmouth red.’ He cackled. ‘We can put ketchup on our chips.’

      Jen moved her coffee cup out of the way to the side of the desk and wriggled the mouse. An image came up on the laptop screen – a wedding outfit website, a page showing a glamorous woman in her thirties wearing a cream suit, nipped in at the waist, neat, knee length. The suit was expensive and not available in size ten. Jen sighed and clicked the mouse again. Perhaps she’d try something less conventional. Last night’s celebrations with the girls had left her pulse racing. She felt a twinge of rebellion. She could be any kind of bride she liked. It was her wedding, after all.

      She clicked on another page. An ivory dress, long, sweeping to the floor, caught her eye. Short sleeves – she’d be too cold in March. Besides, the model in the photo was clearly in her twenties and Jen was seventy-three. She should pick something more appropriate. Eddie would have a smart suit on, impeccably groomed. Jen thought about how she would look by his side: she’d need to be neat, traditional, well presented, in a pale suit and a stylish hat.

      She whirled the mouse again. An image caught her eye. A bride was wearing a long red dress, a coronet of tiny flowers in her hair. Jen gasped. The robe was scarlet, vermilion, and in plush velvet with wide sleeves. The woman looked like a sprite, or one of the Celtic brides in the Middle Ages, her hair in ringlets down to her waist and her eyes huge with happiness. Jen wondered what she would look like in such a dress and how Eddie might react if she arrived at the register office looking like Lady Macbeth. She stifled a smile and reached for her coffee. She’d get herself a refill, maybe a sandwich. She didn’t want to eat too much. She was going round to Eddie’s for dinner tonight. They were going to talk about the wedding. He‘d prepared a spreadsheet of all the costs involved and they were going to plan the day and finalise the details. Eddie had said they should consider getting married sooner rather than later.

      Jen picked up her mug and headed for the kitchen. She imagined herself in the long dress, her face luminous, glowing, and flowers in her hair. A smile widened across her face. She was going to have a wonderful wedding – it would be her day, and she was really excited about every single thing to do with it. She actually felt like a bride-to-be.

      ‘I think I might be coming down with something, Elvis. My throat is a bit sore.’ The little black spaniel yapped from the back seat of the car as Pam brought the Volvo to a halt. She held out a hand and he licked her fingers, his tongue slobbering across her palm. ‘I’ll only be a minute. Stay here – be a good boy. I’m only just in the shop here.’

      She locked the car and Elvis watched her walk away. His eyes were round and he leapt against the window, putting his paws against the glass. Pam felt the usual tug of guilt at her heart whenever she left him, even for the briefest of moments. But dogs weren’t allowed in Earth Grains Wholefoods. The doorbell rang with a tiny jingle as she rushed into the shop. Everywhere was stacked with goods: toiletries to the right, bagged-up dried foods to the left. Two women were standing at the counter. The taller one, her hair tied in a bright scarf, was weighing out spices for a short woman in a mackintosh. The other, a woman in her thirties with gold-rimmed glasses and short dark hair, was writing something down. Pam approached her. ‘Hi, Anthea – I need some Echinacea.’

      The dark haired woman straightened, pushing her glasses back against her face, and grinned. She twirled round and found a packet from a shelf, holding it up.

      ‘This is the best if you feel a bit under the weather. We use it all the time in here.’

      Pam rolled her eyes. ‘I was out on the town last night. I went for a run this morning and felt a bit fuzzy around the edges.’

      Anthea winked behind the glasses. ‘Are you sure it’s not alcohol related?’

      ‘Oh, it definitely was.’ Pam beamed. ‘An engagement party. We had a whale of a time. But my throat is a bit sore so…’ She reached for her purse.

      ‘What about some yogi tea? I recommend the spice mix for sore throats.’

      Pam nodded. ‘I’ll go and have a look. I won’t be a minute.’

      She strolled over to the tea display, gazing along the rows of colourful boxes. Chamomile tea, fennel tea, women’s blend. She picked out a box called Throat Comfort. Behind her, the doorbell pinged. She turned round with her purchase. A man in a smart coat was talking to Anthea, his back to her. Pam thought she recognised the voice, although the man was talking in almost a whisper.

      ‘… so I wonder if you could recommend something to help – you know – the older man.’

      ‘What did you have in mind?’ Anthea pushed a hand through her short hair. ‘Do you mean a vitamin supplement to increase energy levels?’

      ‘Well, yes.’ The man paused. ‘Energy and – well – I need something to make me more, you know, active. Er, active as in – virile. You see, I’m getting married soon and I’ll probably need to…’

      Pam compressed her lips, stifling a smile. She recognised the man, his handsome, confident appearance. She’d seen him once before; the colour and texture of his coat were familiar. Elvis had leapt up at him when she was jogging on the beach and the gentleman had been arm-in-arm with Jen. Pam wondered if she should call out to Eddie and remind him that they had met.

      Anthea was reassuring. ‘Oh, yes, I have the very thing. These are specifically designed for all aspects of male health for gentlemen over forty.’ She handed him a packet of something that looked like vitamin pills. Eddie reached for his wallet, handed over a note and slipped the magic pills in his pocket. Pam hovered behind him, grasping the tea, trying not to smile.

      Eddie turned brusquely and lurched forward, brushing against Pam. ‘Oh – so sorry – I didn’t see you.’ He showed no sign of recognition or remorse as he blustered towards the door.

      ‘Oh, don’t worry – it’s the story of my life,’ Pam called after him. She grinned as she heard the doorbell jingle and moved to the counter. ‘Women become more and more invisible as they get older.’ She held out the box of tea. ‘Thanks, Anthea. And the Echinacea and a packet of healthy doggie treats, please. How much do I owe you?’

      6

      Eddie had prepared a delicious dinner with red wine. He’d placed a bowl of salad with tomatoes and cucumber to one side of the table, another bowl of new potatoes with a knob of butter and then his showpiece, the boeuf bourguignon, in the centre. He’d put out crystal glasses, silver cutlery and white serviettes. Jen wondered if this was how they would eat when they were married. It was quite formal and it felt special, cultured, but Jen doubted that it would suit the mid-week meals she usually served herself, which were quite relaxed affairs in front of the television.