Now, smiling to herself she re-read the brochure she’d printed off on to what to expect during her fortnight’s stay at Break-Free. She’d already read the most important bits, like what she should pack. It was comforting to know that in her carry-on bag she’d managed to squeeze two leisure suits and a ten-pack of Marks and Sparks knickers. Gran always reckoned you couldn’t go wrong in life if you had a clean pair of knickers with you at all times.
Around about now…
The town was dying, Bridget Collins thought as she rubbed the condensation from her front room window with a tea towel and peered outside to the stretch of road that was Bibury’s High Street. The heavens had opened last night and despite it being February she’d had to get the fire going, hence this morning’s unseasonal condensation. People said it was global warming, but she knew better, most Coasters did. It wasn’t a new thing, this unpredictable weather; she’d known it to snow in February more than once. Still, at least the sun was trying to make a reappearance today.
Bridget had lived here her entire life and had seen the town through its boom times when the mines’ money had flowed, and the town was prosperous. She smiled recalling how she used to mince off to her first job in the offices of the Farmer’s building each morning, full of the joy of being young and pretty. What a pity one didn’t understand then that youth was fleeting and try to bottle some of that wonderful joie de vivre to bring out and sniff now and again in one’s golden years. That wasn’t the way life worked though, and this only became clear when time had faded every year, stretching them long and thin until they become worn and tired. A bit like knicker elastic, she thought.
The store where she’d once worked had long since departed, just like the money from the mines. These days the Four Square Supermarket operated out of the old Farmer’s building, and if you wanted a decent pair of pantyhose, a person had to go all the way into Greymouth. Today, the High Street was deserted apart from the campervan parked outside the Kea Tearooms. Mind you, Noeline had told her just the other day that most of the tourists only bought a pot of tea between them so they could use the loo.
‘Bloody cheek,’ she’d muttered in strident tones, her ample bosom puffing out in indignation.
Bridget had been assailed with a waft of Noeline’s perfume. She was heavy-handed with it, whatever it was. It was a shame she wasn’t so heavy-handed when it came to the amount of filling she put in her mince pies.
‘None of them want an egg and ham sarnie on white bread anymore. Oh no, it’s all bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese or goat’s cheese tarts. And don’t get me started on the Gluten Free Brigade. I don’t mind telling you Bridget; I’m about ready to hang up my apron.’
Bridget had been tempted to say that with Noeline’s niece, or whatever a second cousin’s daughter was called, installed in the café these days it had been awhile since she’d seen her don an apron and do any work. Annie was the girl’s name, and she’d arrived on the scene with the foreign fellow who’d taken the teaching post at the High School for the start of the new school year. She was determined to introduce some new ‘modern’ ideas to the tearoom. Thus far, Noeline was holding firm.
Bridget sympathized; she couldn’t be doing with all that fandangled food the cafés served in Christchurch and Greymouth for that matter either. As far as she was concerned those pumpkin seed thing-a-me-bobs that were sprinkled on the top of everything these days were for the birds and cream cheese gave her indigestion. She was with Noeline when it came to a good old ham and egg sarnie, although she was partial to cheese and onion herself. Cheese made from cow’s milk, thank you very much. And as for all these new so-called food intolerances, well … she shook her head. In her day if you had a square meal put in front of you once a day then you were grateful.
Bridget looked out at the lifeless street and sighed; the town had been like a tyre with a slow puncture in the years since the Barker’s Ridge mine had closed down. On one side of the tearoom across the street was Bibury Arts & Crafts, where local people could display and sell their wares. In competition with Noeline on the other side of her business, but with enough breathing space between the two thanks to a grassy Council owned strip of land, was everybody’s favourite Friday night takeaway, the fish & chippy. The Cutting Room hair salon was next to that.
The corner block was taken up by the Four Square’s brick building and gave the town’s kids the opportunity of an after school job. It was where Isla had worked as a teenager. Bridget could still see her in her blue zip-up smock sitting behind the till when she closed her eyes. Oh, how she’d moaned about wearing that uniform. It was ugly, she’d cried. Her granddaughter was nothing if not determined though and Bridget had nearly dropped her eggs in the aisle spying her one Saturday afternoon in a blue zip up mini. Isla had taken it upon herself to fold the hem up several inches before loosely stitching it. The memory made her smile as her gaze travelled on towards the butcher’s. It was owned by the Stewart brothers and competed with the supermarket for business. A narrow side street separated it from Mitchell’s Pharmacy.
The Valentine’s Day window display in the pharmacy urged the romantics of Bibury to pop on in and treat their sweetheart to something special. It was where Bridget’s daughter Mary worked as a Revlon Consultant, and the pharmacy’s only floor staff. Next to Mitchell’s was the two-pump Shell garage. The Robson family had owned it under one conglomerate’s umbrella or another for as long as Bridget could remember. From her front room vantage point, she could see Ben Robson’s broad, overall-clad back bent over the engine of a Ute. She’d been at school with his grandfather. Poor old Raymond had gone a bit dotty in the last few years and was now in permanent residence at a care facility over in Greymouth. The garage’s tow truck that Ben took out now and again was parked off to the side of the forecourt with a beaten up looking farm truck still hooked to its boom.
Ben had recently taken over the family business and his parents, Bridget knew, had swanned off last Friday on a month-long cruise to celebrate their newfound freedom. ‘Not everybody’s on struggle street in Bibury then,’ she’d said, pursing her lips when her friend Margaret had relayed the news.
Ben had been at school with her grandson Ryan. They were great mates, the two of them, and still kept in touch. He was a lovely lad, and she’d been pleased when Isla had begun to step out with him. She’d glowed with her first love and in her, Bridget had seen herself as a young girl once more. She’d never understood why Isla had given him the heave-ho the way she had. He’d moped around the town for months after she moved to Christchurch. He’d kept asking her and Mary when Isla was coming home for a weekend, but the times she had, she’d kept him dangling by keeping her distance. The pair of them had been so smitten with each other too, or that was the way it had seemed from the outside looking in. Then out of the blue Isla had broken things off with Ben by saying their long-distance relationship wasn’t working.
There was more to it, Bridget was sure, and she’d been hurt when Isla hadn’t confided in her. She’d always had a special relationship with her granddaughter. Right from when she was a little girl who’d pop in on her way home from school for one of her gran’s freshly baked scones or, if it was a special occasion, Isla’s favourite, a custard square. Bridget could still see the pigtailed girl she’d been, perched up at the kitchen table earnestly telling her about her day.
Bridget understood her granddaughter’s need to broaden her mind, and she knew it was all the fashion to put your career first and stay single well into your thirties these days. Women should have a career if that was what they wanted. Of course they should, and nobody could say Isla hadn’t done that. The thing that seemed to have been forgotten along the way though was that being a wife and mother was a worthwhile career too.
When had staying home to raise your children become a foreign concept?