Matilda Warner’s eyes slowly flicked open at the subtle clink of china on china. The nurse, the pleasant one with the shining auburn hair -- she couldn’t remember her name – had set a cup of tea down on the table before her.
She watched from beneath crêpe-paper lids as wispy curls of steam rose from its milky-brown surface, rising upwards and dissipating like jet-streams on a clear sunny day. Clinging onto the saucer’s side -- looking for all the world like two ears -- were scones. Jam no cream – unfortunately cream gave her heart-burn these days.
She gave a sigh; another of life’s pleasures stolen from her along with her looks, her thick-chocolate coloured hair and her ease of mobility. Closing her eyes briefly she remembered the girl she’d once been; the vibrant, lithe, carefree young woman. Leaning her head back, a ghost of a smile graced her tired face as the familiar clinking and jangling which signified morning tea tinkled around her.
In-between the squeaking of the nurse’s shoes, faint murmurs reached her ears, as the others who shared her long-standing home noisily reminisced about times long-past to people long gone.
She knew without turning away from her view of the gardens that Mr Thomlin would be gesticulating wildly with age-worn hands about his ration of dunking biscuits. Apparently he was a three biscuit man, and not two, as the ‘forgetful’ nursing staff insisted every day at 11am that he was.
“Never mind Mrs Hancock, it’s only a small spill. How about I take your cup from you while you eat your scone?” Matilda heard the nurse’s aide say kindly.
She smiled and the wrinkles in her face deepened.
Her hands fluttered like discarded autumnal leaves into her lap unconsciously fidgeting with the fine linen of her pretty lilac dress. She always insisted the staff dress her nicely and apply a light touch of lippy and powder every morning.
“Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I have to drop habits of a lifetime,” she whispered conspiratorially to the ghosts of her past. They sat serene and silent across from her, nodding and smiling kindly.
A frown crossed her face as she felt the old familiar twinge in her fingers. Her hands pained her more nowadays. The arthritis which inflamed her joints was particularly bad in wet-weather.
But the nagging pain was worth it. She loved to watch the rain snake down the glass and bounce off the foliage which lay just beyond the french doors. The garden was a delightful symphony of colour and perfumes. But today, under grey skies it’s beauty was more subdued, the bright colours whispering instead of shouting.
Matilda saw the rose-blooms bobbing as the drops hit delicate petals and the Bird-of-Paradise danced sensually in its shady patch in the corner as the breeze picked up. Tall groupings of pink, red and burnt-orange Lilies bravely stood tall against Mother-Nature’s weeping, drinking in the precious liquid.
A movement from beneath the shelter of a young frangipani caught Matilda’s eye and she watched as a mottled-grey lizard stealthily crept out. It paused and opened its mouth, and from the depths flicked a rich blue tongue.
Looking to her friends sitting opposite she raised a twisted finger and pointed.
“See the blue-tongue, Mary? A garden’s best friend. Yes indeed. My garden used to have a family of them living in it. I remember the first time I saw one….”
She blinked and tipped her head to the side, listening. “Yes I thought the same thing. They look nothing like a snake, do they?” She laughed, the sound like the delicate fanning of a wren’s wing, and turning away she gave her attentions back to the tiny Eden.
As her tea grew cold and her scone hardened around the edges she watched.
The light dimmed and around her lamps were switched on. They cast their warm golden-glow onto weary faces, eyes surreptitiously closing for naps as behind wrinkled eyelids vivid images ran in happy, eternal loops.
The choice of films were always the same; take the best and happiest moments and splice them all together: Et voilà, on a le film du jour.
Matilda’s film du jour was her wedding day.
Her life and wedding day had been quite the scandal around the small country town where she’d lived all of her 24 years. For instead of walking down a ribbon-bedecked aisle in a church filled with rarely seen relatives and gossiping stickybeaks - necks craning to get a glimpse of the blushing bride - she’d walked down a grassy path in a meadow alive with delicate wild-flowers.
No cold grey-stone walls, no stern disapproving family, no snide whispered judgements.
Just the two lovers and the retired Justice-of-the-Peace who’d agreed to marry them for four bottles of fine Bordeaux – a feat which she’d long forgotten how they’d managed to pull off in those lean times just after the war.
Matilda felt the hot lone-tear trickle down her cheek and with a trembling hand, she wiped it away. Dropping her hand once again into her lap she closed her eyes and as she drifted off she remembered. Across from her, the ghosts of her past rose and crouching by her side they linked their arms through hers as she dreamt.