The Woman Who Kept Everything. Jane Gilley

of fun ever again, Glor, would we? Remember those tea dances we all used to go to? That’s all finished, now, my love. We – we’re kinda near the end of those times now, aren’t we, Glor?’

      He reached out and stroked Gloria’s scarred hands.

      ‘Can’t we – look! Can’t we just have this one last wonderful day to remember for the rest of our lives? We’re not gonna get another chance like this to create a new mem’ry now we’re nearly in our eighties, are we, Glor?’

      Gloria shrugged, thinking he was probably right. Life was over when you hit a certain age, she knew that much.

      ‘And, you’re right, me scooter probably won’t last much longer but I truly believe it will get us to the beach … Just for that one last time, eh, Glor?’

      Tilsbury noticed that tears were starting to form in Gloria’s eyes.

      ‘Oh Tils!’ Gloria said, dabbing at her eyes with a serviette. ‘You’ve got me thinkin’ about things again, ducks. And, yes, we did have some crackin’ times, didn’t we? All of us together: you, me, Arthur and Jocelyn once upon. They were good times. You’re right. But we’re a couple of old fogies now. I ain’t got the energy to be tearin’ around all over the place. Look we’d best be off, now, Tils. I’ve truly had a lovely time, today, though. And it’ll still be a wonderful mem’ry to look back on.’

      Gloria slowly rose from her seat and struggled into her coat again with Tilsbury’s help.

      He looked so downbeat Gloria couldn’t meet his gaze. But she was reliving the past, now he’d mentioned it. She was thinking about how their lives were, indeed, fluttering towards the bottom of the hill they’d once climbed so eagerly in their youth. She let out a sigh as they ambled down the steps of the café, arm in arm to steady themselves and across the freshly cut lawn to where Tilsbury had parked the scooter.

      Gloria studied the etched, weather-beaten lines across Tilsbury’s sunburnt face. She knew her seventy-nine-year-old face had its own share of lines both from worry, when Clegg was a boy getting into scrapes, and those joyous times when Clegg and Val had angelic babies of their own. She’d known some very happy as well as some very sad times.

      But Tilsbury was right.

      There really wasn’t much else to look forward to, now, at their time of life. Gloria also realised that Clegg wouldn’t want her to live with them for the rest of her life, either, whatever her hopes might once have been for that. And from what she’d learned recently, she was certain he’d make darned sure that an old people’s home, somewhere, would soon start calling her name …

      So she came to her second big decision of the day.

      ‘Oh stuff it! Crumblies be gone! C’mon then, Tils. Start the motor. Let’s see where this old heap’ll take us one last time …’

       Chapter 11

      ‘Wheeeeeeeee –’ Gloria shrieked as the little scooter sped along at an eye-watering forty miles per hour towards the azure sea, the wind batting her new hairstyle, that warm July morning. She’d misplaced Jocelyn’s helmet at the gas station, when Tilsbury had filled up for the rest of their journey, so her eyes were, indeed, watering with all the wind and grit. But they’d grabbed some sandwiches, a couple of cans of fizzy pop and two cheap beach towels and she’d paid for the lot with the credit card – the one Cleggy had got for her, which she’d never actually used before.

      ‘And this’s on you, Miserable Son! Well, you give it to me for essentials and emergencies, so I vow that I will spend it on all the essentials we need – things for the beach – and any emergencies that might befall us, like making sure this crappy moped thingy gets us from A to Z. In other words, my dear Tils, we’re gonna enjoy today!’

      In fact, Gloria had happily decided to shut down her worries for today. Trepidation of all things unknown was no longer her concern and nor was getting back to Cleggy and Val before they got home. Whatever the rest of the day brought, so be it. There was no way Gloria was going to be dictated to by her son. She was the mother, after all, and so she’d do as she darn well pleased.

      Oh yes! Gloria Frensham was enjoying this. She was actually having fun. Gloria Frensham couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any fun. When you hit that mysterious age that some youngsters deem ‘old’ – and which could be any age over thirty (or even less) – you weren’t supposed to be having fun, were you? You were supposed to be sitting down in a comfortable armchair, somewhere, sipping tea, watching TV reruns, and being perfectly respectable, calm and fuddy.

      That, she could now see, was what Clegg and Val had been trying to make her do – conform to that ideal. ‘Keeps ’em quiet!’ she’d actually heard a youngster in Green’s Nursing Home say.