A SORT OF ANNIVERSARY

The memories that sorting through a wardrobe can give birth to

Daisy stood in front of her mirror and squinted at herself. It was a sort of anniversary and she was going through her wardrobe and trying to decide which clothes she would never wear again on account of her being a different size and they being inappropriate for her age because, and she shuddered when she thought about it, tomorrow she would be eighty.

The wardrobe really told the story of her life because she’d always been loath to throw anything away and had accumulated so much stuff that a great deal of it was in a huge cardboard box, bursting at its seams, on top of the wardrobe.

But tomorrow marked a coming of old age, as she put it, and eighty was the point at which she would finally be forced to acknowledge that she was no longer a teen.

With that last thought in her mind she picked up a pair of shorts. She had loved these shorts once upon a time, and the lovely Ralf, long since cremated sadly, had told her just what he thought of her when she was wearing them.

They’d been somewhere… where was it now? Ah yes, on the beach at Skegness and she’d bought these shorts, pale blue, and the air had been filled with a new feeling of freedom, of a woman’s rights to choose her own fashion, and she’d paraded daringly on the beach wearing them, much to the delight of half a dozen louts who thought whistling at her legs was the greatest of compliments. And in a way she supposed it had been! At least they had noticed and, yes, her legs hadn’t been half bad. At least, that’s what she had thought back then.

Dared I?

Yes I dared! They fitted her back then and she was half sure they’d fit her now.

And they did! A bit tight, maybe, but tight was saucy, wasn’t it, and why shouldn’t a lady of eighty be a little bit saucy?

She tugged them up a little higher, and winced at the sound of the seam splitting. That meant taking them off, didn’t it? And throwing them in the bin, maybe taking to the charity shop that took old clothes in and weighed them for scrap, to be recycled.

But no. That would never do. These shorts held in their fibres a thousand precious memories. What was it Ralf had said when he saw her in them? She could almost hear his voice as his eyes opened wider than wide and the monosyllabic “cor” escaped from his mouth.

“What’s wrong with them?” she had asked, knowing that nothing was and really wanting to hear him say it. And he had. Then, proudly, he’d wandered down to the sea at Skeggy with her wearing those shorts and felt that he was the c**k of the walk, holding her hand and loving every romantic second of it. It was then that he had said it.

“You will marry me, won’t you?”

No getting down onto one knee and going through a rehearsed routine but words, so meaningful, doing the job much better.

“Is that a proposal?” she had asked.

“I suppose,” he had grinned back, and it had been. They got married before the next summer and Faith was born before the summer after.

And it all started because she was wearing these shorts.

“I’ll mend them,” she told herself, and put them on a pile for sewing, telling herself that there’s more to a pair of shorts than wearing them. They encapsulate a time in a woman’s life, these shorts the time before the woman actually became a woman in the mature eyes of the early sixties. But she had been a woman all right. And to prove it had gone on to marry Ralf, lovely, cuddly Ralf.

She went back to the box of really old clothes and picked up a pleated skirt, tartan and with a pin that made it look at if it might fly open with the least whisper of the wind, and cheekily show all to anyone near enough to see.

“I loved this skirt,” she whispered.

And she had. In an age when mini skirts were all the rage, this was more mini than mini, and Ralf had bought it for her, before they got married. And she had worn it proudly out and about in the town.

“Better make sure you don’t forget to put your panties on,” he had joked.

“As if I would!” she replied, and giggled, lifting the tartan skirt up to show him just how modest she could be.

She pulled the skirt on and had to let out the adjustable waist band on account, she grinned, of too many chips and too much g and t. Not that she ever had more than a little of either!

It fitted still… just. And didn’t it make her feel like she had back, then, for a moment or two. She could almost imagine she could hear Donovan’s voice inviting her to catch the wind!

Ralf had told her just how proud he felt when he walked the streets into town with her in her what he called “kilty skirt”. And she felt proud of herself now as she gazed into the mirror. But the skirt had to come off because the years had passed and she couldn’t get maudlin over every scrap of cloth in the box, and she found her wedding dress and the smart little frock she had worn when she and Ralf had gone on their honeymoon. That wedding dress was white and not much more than what it was. She’d nervously married in it on that perfect day. She picked the frock up and smiled again.

“The sixties were supposed to be an era of sex and drugs and rock and roll but it wasn’t until I was wearing this on honeymoon that we did any proper sex. And I never did drugs, not once, and neither did Ralf, but we both loved rock ‘n’ roll,” she told herself.

She pulled the dress on, the honeymoon going-away dress, and sighed. Everything had been perfect back then. Ralf’s parents had liked her parents and her parents had liked them. They got on beautifully at the reception, and she knew they got on until firstly Ralf’s parents had passed away followed all too soon by her own.

But I had felt good when I wore that as we walked hand in hand into the honeymoon hotel and Ralf tried to go through the routine of carrying me over the threshold of our room, only to let me dress fall to one side and flash my special wedding knickers for all to see. But we hadn’t cared! He lay me on the bed in that room, and believe it or not we did it for the first time in our lives there and then, before we went down for the evening meal and dancing that the hotel was famous for. And it was there than we met Jill and Dave, also newly weds, and we still send each other Christmas cards. At least Jill and I do. Both Ralf and Dave have passed away. How short a life is!

She wiped a tear from her eyes and sat on the edge of her bed. Then she picked up the tiny mini skirt and the shorts and went down stairs. She suddenly felt thirsty, not the kind of thirst that calls for a cup of tea but the kind that calls for something a bit stronger.

One sip of her gin and tonic and the doorbell rang.

“Now who on Earth…?” she wondered.

At first she didn’t recognise her, then she did. Maybe it was the going-away dress that did it, but “Jill!” she exclaimed.

“What a coincidence!” exclaimed Jill, “after all these years… and I’m wearing the self same dress that I wore when we first met… I was coming this way, I’ve got Tony outside, my new friend, though nobody will ever quite replace darling Dave, and we wondered if you fancy a drive into the country to a country pub and a bite to eat, to remind ourselves of old times. Well, it wasn’t Tony’s idea, but when I saw Brumpton on the road signs I just knew I had to pop in and see how you were!”

Daisy smiled back at her. “I reckon I’m dressed for it,” she murmured, “I was sorting through my wardrobe… I’ve got so much stuff I’ll never wear again, and I got to thinking… I even tried these on, but they split!”

She held up the pale blue split shorts and poked a finger through the split seam.

“Another coincidence,” smiled Jill, “I’ve got a pair not unlike those, and if I were to try them on I’ll bet the seams would split too! The cotton they’re sewn with just hasn’t stood the test of time!”

The man, Tony, sitting in the car, grinned when he saw the two of them. “Now this is a proper treat,” he said.

But he wouldn’t have understood, not properly. He can’t have been a day older than fifty.

© Peter Rogerson 25.04.23

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Reviews

[DIVYA]

Loved this story on life and how it must go on till the last breath. Two old women, one in the throes of the past and the other showing her the way out of it. Reading this one feels, tomorrow is indeed another day. always. I loved how you took a few items in her wardrobe and with their aid opened her entire life's journey. Wonderfully written and enjoyed so much! Some day you must tell me where you get all your inspiration from.

[Peter Rogerson]

Inspiration? I start with a name, male or female, imagine what they're like and let them tell me their story, or part of it.

[DIVYA]

Your stories are enjoyed so much. Thank you for sharing. :)