Last days of summer

Chele Crawley

Margaret ambled back to the stone cottage just as the sun began to melt into the hills, gilding the windows with a celestial light. She adored the way the cottage lay cradled in the valley – most of all on summer evenings, when long, theatrical shadows swept across the earth, threading a living tapestry of green: bottle, moss, pine, and olive.

She pushed open the rickety wooden gate. Chippings of its once emerald exterior served as a reminder of all the things she had chosen to put on the long finger. Her mind began to wander now, thoughts of recent evenings spent sprawling in between the bed sheets, legs interlocked, taking comfort in each other’s warm embrace.

Yes. A lick of paint wouldn’t go astray, she thought, letting it swing behind her. She’d get to it one of these weekends, or maybe he’d give her a helping hand.

In her mind’s eye, she could picture him – his chest peering out through a half-unbuttoned shirt, sweat pouring down his brow, a paintbrush in his rough hands as she brought him out a glass of pop and a marionette biscuit.

She continued down the cobbled path, then paused – almost instinctively – and turned to glance back at the gate. It hadn’t creaked. She retraced her steps, pushing her bony hand against the iron. The rusty hinges that had groaned with each gust of wind throughout the spring had now been rendered silent. That was odd. She pushed it again. The moment it quietly moved, the world seemed to shift around her.

She turned back to face the cottage and blanched. In the kitchen, the net curtains were already drawn. She never drew them before the darkness descended.

She knew this day would come, but it was yet another thing she had consigned to the long finger. She drew a deep breath before placing one foot in front of the other. The weight of her brown leather brogues pressed heavily against the arches of her feet.

A can of lubricating oil was perched on the raddled doormat. She pushed open the front door, spotting his long, dark green coat hanging on the peg, its hem grazing the tops of his mucky boots.

‘Hello’

The voice once so familiar had, of late, been relegated to the recesses of her mind.

‘Hello, Michael,’ she replied, stepping inside. ‘You should have written.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he bit back from inside the kitchen, ‘now come here and give your poor husband a long overdue kiss.’

Her throat went dry as she fumbled with the delicate buttons of her cream bouclé cardigan.

‘How long are you home for?’ she croaked hesitantly. The words hung in the air.

She struggled to shrug off the fabric, which felt heavier than before.

‘War is over. I’m not going back.’

Her shoulders dropped, the weight of it now becoming unbearable.

‘I fixed that gate for you. The place is badly in need of a man’s touch. Good thing I’m back before it goes to wrack and ruin.’

She swallowed hard, noticing her breath catching in her throat as she carefully placed the cardigan on a small wooden peg next to his coat. The cardigan, with its fine knit and pearl button detail, was expensive – too costly to be worn around the village on any ordinary day.

She’d come back and remove it after the formality of greeting him was done.

She peered down at her ivory collared blouse, checking for any noticeable scuff marks and once satisfied that all was in order, she proceeded to wipe any trace of red lipstick from her mouth. Winter might have been some months away yet, but hers was beginning.

• Chele Crawley’s debut novel, Lady Dixon’s Niece, was officially launched at Mullingar Library on Thursday May 21.

Inklings Writing Group meet on at Tuesdays 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Aspiring writers welcome; inklings.ie.