Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Thirty

  Strength from the Past

  A scattering of photographs lay before Edith Moseley on her living room table. Every image, memory and emotion, which time, if it had a heart, should have erased and dissolved, remains constant as she subjects herself to the sepia and black and white reminiscences of an old biscuit tin. It is no exaggeration to say that Edith has not strolled down memory lane with pictures of her family since the day she was paid a surprise visit by her elder sister, Vera, but almost thirty years of life’s river has trickled away since then.

  It may only be two weeks since she confided in Arnold Matson that she has a secret son, but her thought process and assessment of the world she lives in, and the people she is surrounded by, has undoubtedly altered. Anger and resentment have been replaced by a warm cloak of serenity, and while it may be a bit too late in the day to place an advertisement in the local paper which states she would like to apologise to the entire village for her forthright grumpiness over the years, it is never too late for anyone to change; and at the ripe old age of eighty-two, the spectacles Miss Moseley adjusts on the bridge of her nose as she picks up a faded photograph of her mother are, at least, inclining towards the rose-tinted variety.

  Her upbringing is best described as strict but fair and the whole of the Moseley family, young and old, all helped to take a share of the workload from her father, who ran a reputable hardware business in a small village not ten miles from where Edith resides today. With six children to clothe and feed and the small matter of a World War to contend with, long hours and honest graft were the orders of the day.

  Losing her father while she was still a teenager elevated young Edith up the responsibility chain overnight, and the loss of her mother two years later, unquestionably through a broken heart, simply heaped more and more onto the two young girls in the family. Their four younger brothers were more than a handful and it was only the intervention and helping hand of an elderly aunt that brought the necessary stability to the homestead. Edith had looked upon it as grounding for independence and she never spoke a truer word. To this day, the individual that crosses her had better be made of stern stuff…

  Edith Moseley lovingly takes the framed photograph of her baby son from the wall and goes through to her conservatory to further reflect in her favourite environment. Potted plants and dazzling sunshine are her only company as she caresses a sixty-three year old photograph of an offspring who must remain a stranger. She takes a leaf between her thumb and index finger and gently wipes dust from a thriving plant before thanking her lucky stars for its simple beauty. Once she has settled on a comfortable white cane sofa, she plumps up the cushions, relaxes back with the photograph and stares longingly across the back porch and neat garden lawn.

  Her garden may be in a state of undress as it lies in the throes of early-winter, but it is not long before the warmth and cosiness of her conservatory begin to take Miss Moseley’s imagination to another place…

  A child, little more than four or five years, peeps out from behind a large shrubbery and goes into hiding again. His mother pretends not to have seen the boy and calls out as she continues her search for him. ‘Colin,’ calls Miss Moseley, very softly, from her daydream…The youngster’s face appears once again, this time from behind the garden shed. No sooner has the face emerged when it vanishes again, and tiny, mischievous giggles and laughter echo in the distance. ‘I’m coming to get you,’ whispers Edith, clutching the framed photograph to her bosom. The child stands stock-still as his mother quietly edges towards his hiding place. His eyes are glowing with excitement and expectation as the grassy footsteps creep closer… She slowly begins to count and the child waits open-mouthed, tingling with anticipation at the oncoming reunion…‘One…two…three…Boo!’

  Edith Moseley’s telephone startles the old lady back to reality and the image of the son she never witnessed playing in her garden, is lost until the next time.