Open Writing

‘Ladies day tomorrow! My treat, Mum,’ cried Emma, whirling through the house, shedding lightness and luggage in every room. ‘Find me a list of local spas!”

‘Spas love, well I don’t know. Lunch will be fine. It’s lovely just to have you visit.’

‘No, I’m here to show my appreciation. I want you to sit back and relax.”

It’s always like this when Emma visits.

She brought me up to date with all her news that evening over supper.

‘Sorry Mum, can’t eat this. In fact - can’t eat anything with flour, milk or sugar.” She scratched her arms, ‘Allergies!’

‘Allergies love, but you always ate like a horse.’

‘Exactly Mother!’

Red meat was also off. Ditto - most unexpectedly - alcohol. As she sipped water and tucked into some lettuce, we went over her recent travels, her latest romance and the way her life was turning out.

‘I should have studied Math at University, Mum. You should have persuaded me - not sat back and watched me sign up for medieval literature.’

‘But you were dead set on it!’

‘Was I? Well, if you hadn’t made it so obvious you didn’t like Damian, and tried to set me up with Tyler.’

‘Tyler?’

‘You know - the swot - your friend what’s’erface’s, son.’ I thought back, but couldn’t remember Tyler, or ever having had much influence on anything she did, whether it was dating, trying out for a rowing team or planting trees in the far north.

‘But you never listened to me!’ I said.

‘Oh, I did Mother. Your word was law! And to prove it, tomorrow, we’ll go shopping for you.”

‘Top floor only,’ she said, as we waltzed into the biggest mall in town, next day. Most of my shopping is carried out below ground, in the gloom. The light upstairs was marvelous. We browsed in exotic boutiques and Designer Rooms, with me being careful not to look at price tags or mention how far a dollar used to go.

‘Today is for you, Mum!” Emma laughed, pushing me, and armfuls of swish clothes into gilded changing rooms I could have lived in.

‘Try these, and yell if....’ Her voice tailed off in Melanie’s Models, as her eyes lit on a chic black top on a side display.

‘Hang on a minute. Look at this.’ I turned back.

‘Oh, I couldn’t wear that.’

‘No, for me! It’s egggsactly what I’ve been looking for.’

She picked up a black, skinny-rib sweater with a crossover, high-cut, fringed front. Grabbing it, she darted into my dressing room.

The top fit Emma perfectly. The six-inch strings of tiny, sparkling beads forming the fringes, swung with every hip twitch. ‘Yes!’ she breathed. ‘Purrfect.’ Holding it whilst she redressed, I noticed some of the beaded-strand knots were fraying.

‘These look a bit dodgy, Em,’ I said when she emerged.

‘Agh, that’s nothing. I’ll soon sew them back.’

Sew beads? I doubted she knew one end of a needle from the other. Not that she wasn’t up to tackling anything, but more - who sews these days? But it didn’t matter, the saleslady, seeing her chance, offered an-end-of-season discount and that was that. As if swaddling a newborn, the lady wrapped the item in tissue and presented it to the happy shopper.

Back home, Emma put the top on immediately, humming as she ironed her wash loads, rummaged through the house closets, repacked her suitcases, showed me how to make up my face properly and joked over a last coffee, all the time stroking her new piece of clothing. The fringe danced with every move she made.

‘I love it, Mum. It’s such a good buy. A great souvenir of our day together!’

I trod on the first bead as I set the table for supper next day, and on a second as I washed up. Another lodged between my toes in the shower, and I picked a couple more off the carpet beside the guest bed. How many beads that wonderful fringe had contained! How seductively they’d tinkled. How they’d pleased her. How she cheers me up, I thought as I went to find a jar to put them. I’ll be picking up beads until she returns!