25 August 2018


I wrote the following story after witnessing an elderly lady gazing through her window, every day. She inspired me to write something.

The Anniversary

The mud-splattered wagon trundled away, closely followed by what appeared to be a clapped out JCB. The final operation in the building of my neighbour’s new wing was done. Flicking a faded yellow duster over the sill, I tried to envisage my house free of brick dust and the stink of wet cement. I watched the wagon until it was out of sight, willing it never to darken our street again. There were enough new buildings to take the entire Warwickshire population.

Across the road in the maisonettes an old chap wedged open his door. He did this when the Meals on Wheels woman was due and sure enough there she was, driving up Silhill Street with her Thursday fare. A robust woman, never without a hat, with a matronly chest that reached its destination minutes before the rest of her body. Seeing her reminded me that my faculties were on the blink, that one day she might be plying me with slender rations in foil dishes. The time might well come but I wasn’t prepared to admit it to the likes of her. She would turn up her snooty nose and gloat on account of the telling off I gave her the other week. I told her she needn’t think she could boss me into giving in. I said until I got the telegram from the Queen I wouldn’t be savouring any of her wares.

I tweaked the curtain to view the houses so long obscured by vans and diggers and mountainous heaps of bricks. Old Nelly and her friend Jess were attempting to reverse their car up the narrow drive and making a right meal of it. I couldn’t understand why they found such poor car control amusing but I envied their camaraderie. I had done ever since my Clive passed on.

Screwing the duster into a ball to retain the dust I turned away from the window, but hearing the honk of a horn twisted back again to see John Carrington getting out of his red Jaguar and making a fist at two scruffy urchins playing ball in his drive. Cheeky beggars pulled faces at him as they ran off. As soon as they were out of sight he retrieved the wheelchair from the back of the car, waving to me before easing Nancy from the passenger seat. She waved as John transported her into the house. They had been on an excursion to Blackpool. When I heard they were going, I appealed to the Almighty to keep them safe. Satisfied that once again he’d done a thorough job, I sent him my appreciation.

I first met the Carringtons, one wet, wintry day, in the supermarket coffee shop. Several years ago now. We shared a table. John manoeuvred the wheelchair so that his wife faced me. A woman of ample proportions wrapped in a blue wool coat the identical colour of her laughing eyes. She tutted as she pulled a wayward ringlet, irritated by its bounciness. That was Nancy, my prospective neighbour.

They called me Lizbet instead of Elizabeth, the name I was blessed with. It rolled off Nancy’s tongue like syrup off a spoon. I loved it. It made me feel special. God himself knows how I needed someone like her to latch on to…. her presence in my life went a long way to removing some of the loneliness.

I visited her every day when they moved in. My intention was to help her cope with the disabling arthritis but she was strong enough to handle her disability without my assistance. Nevertheless, she was happy for me to see to her hair. Whenever I brushed those dark locks I would remember the first time I saw her tug that obstinate curl and recall the words John had uttered in the coffee shop as he covered her hand with his: ‘I only promised to love her until she was sixty.’ I remember Nancy’s beaming face when she demanded that when the time came he would grant a ten year extension, and John’s choked reply, ‘You got it, lady.’

Finally withdrawing from the reverie, I noticed that John and Nancy’s door was closed. Normally I gave them the thumbs up before they disappeared into the house but I’d been so taken with reminiscing I missed the opportunity. I silently begged them not to take umbrage.

A cloudburst of loneliness washed my soul as I returned to the kitchen. The fire that had blazed before I began my prying window vigil had reduced to almost nothing. Seizing the poker, I stoked the dying embers until flames reawakened then threw on more coal nuts. I counselled myself not to be silly but it didn’t work and I rounded on poor Clive when I saw him grinning from his wooden picture frame on the dresser. It’s all your fault,’ I grumbled, ‘leaving me here alone.’

The rain roused me the following morning, I could hear it thumping on the garage roof and water whooshing from the down pipe onto the front slabs. It reminded me that the soak-away needed attending to. I was in the process of castigating the All-Powerful for designing such a rotten February when I heard footsteps on the path. Dragging myself from under the warm quilt, I advanced to the window and peered out. ‘Good Lord,’ I muttered. ‘It’s Postman Pat.’

The postman was holding a pink envelope. I was surprised because I had no reason to receive letters. Being childless and without relations to speak of my quota of mail had long since lapsed. Except for the bills! And there was no trash mail thanks to John arranging with the mail preference people to stop it.

Nervously, I descended the stairs to pick up the envelope, examined it front and back for evidence of the sender’s identity. The writing was sort of familiar. Slitting it open I extracted a card depicting a single scarlet rose. Curiously I looked inside. There was a photo of Nancy, John and me, taken one summer’s day in their garden. There was also an inscription......

“Ten years have elapsed since Nancy Rose and John William Carrington
adopted you as friend and comforter.
Happy Anniversary, dear Lizbet.
Please accept this invitation to share Nancy’s ten year extension.”

Can you imagine my delight?


  1. What a delightful story!!!!

    Again, I applaud your ability to tell a story. I have no such ability. Even though you said, just let your imagination run. Mine just doesn't run to fiction, I am afraid.

    Thank you for sharing...

    1. Seems I will just have to keep writing lol. Anyway, I am pleased that you enjoy reading my little tales.

  2. Thanks for reading. I wrote this so long ago, never once thinking I might end up in a similar position. Reading it now makes me feel quite sad.

  3. Yes there is a sadness about this story. Loneliness is something I think we all face in our lives, and I'm already preparing myself for that moment when the kids are gone and leading their own lives, and maybe my partner dies before me and I'm alone. I know then I'll wish I had more friends.

    1. Even friends cannot be relied on since they, too, are getting older. Don't think too long or too hard, Joe, you never know what lies ahead so it isn't worth brooding over. God bless!

  4. Valerie, this is yet another reason why I so admire your gift of writing because you can take a moment in time (such as seeing that elderly woman gazing through her window) and created a complete and FULL story that seems so real.

    So touchingly bittersweet. And even though fiction, it tells the story of something so real that eventually affects us all.

    Beautiful story, my friend.

    Have a super Sunday!

    1. Thank you, Ron. As always when I post a story I wonder whether I should have done so. You always make it worthwhile because praise is hard to ignore. This one is close to where I am now, unsure of what lies ahead but a little bit of praise is like putting on protective armour.

  5. Lovely ending to a great story.

  6. Super story Valerie, you have a lovely talent there.

    1. Good afternoon Valerie, hope your day is going well :) Just popping over to say hi and to thank you for visiting. Going to make myself a cup of tea now.

    2. Pour me one, Denise.... thanks.

  7. If there is one element I really like in your stories is the rhythm. I read that first paragraph a couple of times. There is a lovely sense of pace and timing, like music. Thanks.

    Greetings from London.

    1. Hi Cuban, I don't know what to say, except maybe THANK YOU. Someone once told me not to be so poetic.... I couldn't see it, but maybe your remark about rhythm is what she really meant. THANK YOU.

  8. You have such a way with words. This made me feel as if I were there. So utterly beautiful in a bitter sweet way, tender reminisces.

    "A robust woman, never without a hat, with a matronly chest that reached its destination minutes before the rest of her body. " Oh, I love this.

  9. Thank you, Susan. This story received more accolades than expected. I am thrilled.


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