Beyond the Storm. Diana Finley

didn’t like that.

      ‘You’re a terrible pessimist, Anna.’

      Such a fool. Did she think optimism would ensure eternal life?

      ‘Not at all. I’m not a pessimist – just a realist. We all have to die. In fact, at one day before my hundredth birthday, the chances must be quite high.’

      ‘Oh, Anna, do try to be more cheerful. We’ll all have a lovely day tomorrow.’

      Well, she has survived the night and ‘the great day’ has arrived. Eve appears soon after morning coffee. She settles Anna in the wheelchair in a quiet alcove off the main lounge, making sure the maroon cushion (matching the curtains) at her back is plumped up, her shawl symmetrical, and her skirt smoothed over her knees. On the wall opposite is a large mirror with a gilt frame, slightly chipped in places. Anna rarely examines herself in a mirror these days, but in this position she has little choice. The mirror is barely a metre away and shows her entire body, in cruel detail.

      She stares at her reflection. How tired she looks. And old – so very old, she realises with shock. Her face is small, almost childlike. The flesh, now pale and sallow, has loosened around the jaw, forming two soft jowls. The skin around her eyes has darkened, as if perpetually shadowed by fatigue. Yet, Anna notes with satisfaction, she remains scarcely lined. Always small, she seems to have shrunk into an almost gnome-like form, her body engulfed by the wheelchair. Her legs, discoloured and blotchy from poor circulation, dangle above the floor like a child’s. Her hair has been set in neat waves. Anna is very particular about it – very particular about physical appearance in general. People these days seem happy to look totally ungroomed. Anna tuts out loud to herself at the thought.

      ‘Mmm?’ says Eve. Anna shakes her head. The hairdresser comes every Thursday and Anna rarely misses an appointment. Her thick, dark curls were once admired by all. Even now, she notices, much black hair shows through the white. She turns her head from one side to the other and looks round to Eve with a soft sigh.

      ‘I’m getting so grey now.’

      Eve laughs. ‘Don’t you think you’re entitled to have some grey hair at a hundred?’

      The only image of herself Anna allows to be displayed in her room is a studio photograph arranged as a present for Sam, soon after they first married. In it, Anna looks film-star beautiful; her hair is sculpted in Forties’ style, her skin pale and smooth as milk. She gazes aslant at the camera from darkly sultry eyes, a faint, enigmatic smile on her lips. Even now, over seventy years later, it is how she likes to picture herself.

      The staff fuss around Anna. Eve crouches by her mother’s chair, always ready to be her interpreter. Anna knows she’s on show, expected to be the life and soul of the party, but she can’t hear, can’t make out what people are asking her.

      Doreen looms over Anna, stroking her hand.

      ‘Are you having a nice time, Anna dear?’ she shouts.

      Anna smiles uncertainly up at her, glancing at Eve for reassurance, working out what response is needed.

      ‘Very nice party, thank you,’ she says. Or rather, ‘sank you’. She’s never lost her accent, even after all these years.

      Doreen grins and nods. Behind her a nervous-looking young man is shifting from one foot to the other. Doreen stands up and grabs him by the arm. She pulls him down to the level of Anna’s chair.

      ‘Anna, this is Simon. He’s a reporter with the local newspaper. They’re doing an article about very old age.’ She speaks slowly and enunciates every word clearly. Anna grits her teeth. As though talking to a half-wit. She frowns at Doreen.

      ‘Simon would like to ask you a few questions, for the paper!’

      Anna shrugs and turns to the young man.

      He squats in front of Anna, notebook in hand. His knees crackle. Even she can hear them. From beside Anna’s chair, Doreen gesticulates to remind him to speak loudly.

      ‘Hello, Mrs Lawrence. How does it feel to be a hundred years old?’ he bellows.

      Anna searches his face and considers the question.

      ‘Well …’ she says, ‘I do feel very old. A hundred is very old, but so is ninety-nine, and ninety-eight. I’m not sure I feel much different just by being a hundred. In fact, it does not feel real to me. Of course I know I am a hundred, but it’s as if it is happening to someone else.’

      Simon scribbles furiously, then glances at her eagerly.

      ‘Do you have any secrets of long life you would like to share with our readers?’

      ‘It’s no secret. One minute you are young – like you. You think you will always be young. Of course, young people cannot imagine ever being old. But time goes on and on. Suddenly you are not so young, and you come to realise you will be old one day too, if you are lucky enough to live. And now … well, to be a hundred is extraordinary, for me too. Really it is too long to live.’

      Anna slumps back in her chair, breathing fast after this lengthy speech, as if exhausted. Simon has been writing with concentration. He looks up.

      ‘So … so you don’t have any health tips for others, who might want to … er … live as long as you?’

      Anna stares at him.

      ‘I used to walk a lot. I never learned to drive. My husband wanted to teach me, but I didn’t want to learn. Maybe that helped. I walked everywhere – well into my eighties. But people didn’t think so much about healthy eating when I was young. We ate anything we could and were glad of it. After the First World War, when the Allied Forces occupied Vienna, they allowed one child from each family to come to a soup kitchen to be fed. Of my sisters, I was the skinniest, so they sent me. I was only four or five years old. My sisters were so jealous! T’ja, we were all hungry. But I was terribly ashamed, even at that age, to have to stand in line with all the poor children and accept charity – charity from the enemy! I hated that soup kitchen. Vah!’ She pulls a face and shudders in horror, as if finding a disgusting, wriggling creature crawling on her body.

      Anna pictures the hall with its queues of children, Kaethe pushing her forward, muttering in her ear: ‘Smile at the gentlemen, say thank you.’ There at the high table she could hardly see over, soldiers had ladled out hot soup into her proffered bowl, grinning and saying words she could not understand. She had glared at them, those foreign soldiers. She wouldn’t smile, even though Kaethe had pinched her arm and hissed at her.

      Anna looks at Simon. He shifts his gaze from her to Eve, as if unsure whether her revelations should be included in his article. He smiles and nods.

      ‘You’ve always eaten a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables, haven’t you, Mum?’ Eve puts in loudly.

      ‘Oh right, fresh fruit and vegetables.’ Simon writes it down. ‘OK. And what did you think about your birthday card from the Queen, Mrs Lawrence?’

      ‘Well of course, it’s what she does. It’s a tradition. Once, maybe she wrote them all herself, when there were not so many people who lived to over a hundred. Now there are too many of us! I expect she has her assistants to help write and send them all. It doesn’t mean much to me. I prefer the cards I was given by my family and by people who care for me.’

      Simon appears disappointed by this reply. Anna is quick to occupy the pause in the questioning.

      ‘Have you worked long for this local paper?’ she asks.

      ‘No, about three months actually. It’s my first job after graduating.’

      ‘And you hope to work for one of the bigger papers one day? The Daily Mail, or The Guardian perhaps?’

      Simon laughs and seems to relax for the first time during the interview. ‘Well, that would be very nice, but right now I’m happy to be working for my little local rag – and talking to you, of course.’

      ‘What