Never Too Late

To my incredible family, whose love and unswerving faith in me kept me going when the going got tough.

Also, special appreciation for my husband, Chris, who taught me about a very special BSA and other important things in life. Without his immeasurable support I would never have got this far.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is never too late to become what we might have been.

George Eliot

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

March

Mr Jenkins leaned over his front garden gate, waving his favourite red baseball cap. “Hellooo! Mrs McTavish!” He recognised the green Ford Focus approaching the outskirts of the village of Holmsford and was hoping for a lift.

The driver, an attractive woman in her early forties, pulled over and slid the window down further.

“Good morning,” she smiled at him, a true smile that crinkled the corners of her grey eyes. “Now how many times must I tell you? If you want me to call you Ken then you must call me Maggie.”

“Oh, I know, I know. It’s either just the habit of my generation kicking in or Alzheimer’s – I’m not sure which these days.”

“Lord save us both from that, but I don’t think you need to worry about Alzheimer’s. You’re sharp as a new pin.” Maggie laughed ruefully. “It’s me who needs endless notes and lists to remember things. My short-term memory is atrocious lately.”

He chuckled and put his cap back on. “Would you by any chance be going to town, Maggie?” he asked.

“Sure – I’m just off to Sainsbury’s but I can drop you wherever you want.”

His face lit up. He knew if he went in to town by bus he had to use the cut price, no frills supermarket, as he needed money to pay for a taxi back home. He couldn’t manage several bags of shopping by bus, not with the arthritis in his hands and occasional asthma too. If he didn’t have the expense of a taxi he could afford the better quality and choice in Sainsbury’s.

“I don’t suppose you’d have any other errands to do while you’re there?”

From long association with him Maggie knew the subtext of their conversations. He needed time to do something else, but would not want to make her wait around just for him, so would not ask directly. She also knew it would spoil his whole week if she offered to take a list and do his shopping for him. For the older generation locally, Thursday was the traditional main weekly shopping day. It was the social highlight of the week for people who otherwise seldom went more than a few hundred yards from their homes.

“Actually, I do need to go to the library,” she improvised, “and a couple of other places too”. It would be lovely, in fact, to indulge herself with an extra hour in the library. “If it wouldn’t inconvenience you too much would you mind if I dropped you off in the town square? I could park up and do my ‘bits’, then I could meet you in Carlo’s for a coffee at 11 and we could go to the supermarket on the way back.”

Ken beamed at her, his eyes nearly disappearing into weather-beaten folds of skin. “It wouldn’t be an inconvenience at all!”

He stiffly eased himself into the passenger seat and settled back to enjoy the seven mile journey from Holmsford to Chetmere. The road meandered between ancient fields, and stretches of woodland embraced the road, just a hint of colour promising the green tunnels they would become. The sun was shining, they could smell spring in the air, and the birds were singing a joyful salute to the day.

“You’re a very special lady, Maggie, and no mistake.”

“Oh, get on with you Ken.” Personal comments had always embarrassed her. “I was going in anyway so it’s no bother to give you a lift.”

She looked at him briefly and they smiled, their long-standing friendship a mutual comfort and pleasure.

“I haven’t seen much of Iain around the village for some time,” Ken commented. “Is he still doing well?”

At the thought of her husband’s frequent, and increasingly prolonged, absences, the day lost some of its sparkle. Subconsciously, she fought down a dark fear to which she refused to give a name.

“I haven’t seen much of him either,” she admitted. “He’s as much a workaholic as he’s always been. Times are difficult for many businesses, I know that, but I can’t help wishing he wasn’t away from home so much.”

Maggie changed down a gear for a sharp bend, and there was a loud treble beep.

“Is there something wrong?” Ken asked, looking concerned.

“That wasn’t the car.” She pointed down between them, at her phone. “It’s just someone sending me a text message, probably James if he tried phoning home and didn’t get an answer.”

Ken shook his head slowly. “My grandchildren seem to absorb all these changes with the air they breathe, but me? I find it all a bit much.”

Maggie nodded sympathetically. “The world does seem to be speeding up, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not wrong. It was like a trigger, getting to the new millennium, and then wham! In just a couple of years everything seems to change. I thought it was bad enough before, but now - it’s too much, too quickly.”

 She touched his arm, appreciative of his concerns. “We’re struggling a bit with it all, but I’m sure it will all work out fine. It’s going to be a world with lots more opportunities, in many more areas, for our children, and their children.”

“I don’t suppose you see much of them now?”

“Oh, they get over as often as they can, James especially.” Her smile returned as she remembered James’ promise to pop home soon. She paused, weighing her words. “From what I can make out, Chloe is still leading a very hectic social life, plus long hours at work. But she’s young, so it’s to be expected.”

“They should remember who it was who gave them their chances though.”

Maggie glanced across at him. “The last thing I want is for either of them to feel tied to their Mum, or visit out of some feeling of obligation.”

“You must feel a bit lonely at times, though, up in that big house all by yourself?”

“But it’s not their job to fill the gap. They have to live their own lives in London now.” She smiled and glanced at him. “Anyway, I don’t lack for company with all the friends I have in the village.”

“Well pop in any time you fancy a chat and a cuppa,” he urged her. As a widower, he, too, often felt the need of a sympathetic ear.

*

Iain’s attention was caught by a most unusual bracelet in the new window display of Fortuna’s. The linked rectangular platinum sections were set with outer bands of onyx and central bands of opal. It would look magnificent with that black cocktail dress he remembered her wearing at the Poulton-Smythes’ last dinner party. He enjoyed having the woman on his arm standing out from the crowd. He favoured the simple elegance that subtly spoke of the wealth needed to achieve it, confirmation of his success.

He checked his watch. Yes, there was time before his meeting. Decision made he entered the jeweller’s plush premises. The interior was shielded from the casual gaze of passing pedestrians by dark blue, intricately etched glass. Iain smiled slightly as the elegantly coiffed and attired assistant moved gracefully towards the door and greeted him by name. She signalled to the junior assistant to bring a chair and coffee for him.

“No, not today, Francine. Just wrap that bracelet and put it on my account.” He casually indicated the window display. Francine knew his tastes well and needed no other cue as to which one he wanted, not that there were many items there. Francine knew her job well – just a few choice items to tempt the correct class of clientele were all that was needed. She spent hours each week selecting the best items and settings.

“Mrs McTavish is certainly a very lucky woman,” she remarked, with only a slight stress on his wife’s name. She retrieved a small key for the window display case from a drawer in her small rosewood table. Iain watched the subtle lighting flash fire from the diamonds in her ears as she crossed the thick midnight blue carpet. She reverently removed the bracelet from its black velvet display holder and glided back to her table. “I hope she enjoys wearing it.” She was always careful to reassure her clients their secrets were safe with her.

She handed Iain an embossed card and he took out his fountain pen to write a message for the intended recipient. He started to write, then hesitated, momentarily undecided. He took a new blank card and wrote an entirely different message.

Francine considered that any woman would love to wear such an item. It lay there, curved perfectly around the moulded ivory satin liner of the case. She paused a moment before closing the lid, placed on top the elegant card with Iain’s message, and deftly wrapped it in their signature midnight blue tissue, tied with azure ribbon.

Christmas was long gone and too many items were bought by Mr McTavish each year for them all to be birthday gifts. When he left the shop Francine retrieved the discarded message.

Stolen hours and
she read.
And what? What was he about to write, and why did he change his mind?

Tapping the card on two slender fingers, watching him on the CCTV monitor as he strode down the street, she wondered about him, and his life.

For all his money there always seems to be a hint of some sadness in his eyes. If only I were to be given the chance to make such a handsome man happy, especially if it meant such gifts for me. I could handle being a mistress if it gained me a life of luxury. Wives may get the status, but they don’t get the fun side of relationships.

She sighed and turned back to her work. There were many people about on this fine spring day. She needed to tempt them to part with their City bonuses across her counter. Her own bonus depended on it.

*

Her initial plan for the day had not included a visit to the library, but as she was totally incapable of lying Maggie had to make a truth of her earlier words and her plans were always flexible. It was no hardship to visit Chetmere library, a gift to the town in the 19th century by the Lord Mayor of the time. Sir Joseph Mellor had made his fortune from importing spices, silks and porcelain, both for the aristocracy and the growing class of industrialists who increasingly had the money to afford such luxuries. A graceful curved sweep of steps led up between classical pillars to the domed entrance, all newly renovated thanks to local donations. A County Council grant had allowed the addition of a new wing at the rear, too, which now housed a dozen computers with internet access. With the technology safely out of sight, the main body of the library retained its gracious, relaxing ambience. It was, in its entirety, an aesthetic treat after negotiating the mediocrity of a town centre which had suffered the indignity of its guts being ripped out and rebuilt in the 1960s.

Maggie knew the modern buildings had been the acme of town planning in their day. She felt sad, seeing how unloved and uncared for they now were... The out of town shopping centre had drained the town’s lifeblood year by year. Without the volume of trade they once had, many small shopkeepers had given up and moved on. She missed the independent greengrocers and bakers. Now the town boasted just one butcher, and the only hardware to be had was in the small indoor market. The remaining shops were all small branches of national chains, all homogeneous throughout Britain, individuality sacrificed on the twin altars of profit for the retailers and convenience for the consumers.

We’re all guilty,
Maggie thought as she entered the library
. We’ve all let ourselves become dependent on the supermarkets and out of town shopping complexes, so it’s our own fault the town centres are dying.

She made her way to the local history section to see if there were any interesting new additions. Her eye was immediately caught by a small display, at the centre of which was a slim volume published to celebrate the bicentennial of Sir Joseph’s birth. There were reproductions of views of the town, illustrating how it had changed over the last two hundred years, including the construction of the library. There were books about the notable people of the area and their contributions to their county and their country.

Maggie was fascinated. On the way out she spoke to the chief librarian, Sophie, whom she knew well. They discussed the paucity of local knowledge and the apathy of the general population.

“Is there any chance of borrowing some of this material?” she asked. “I’ll have to discuss it with Sharon first, but I’d like to help her efforts to get the village school children interested in their roots.”

They both knew it would be agreed with enthusiasm. The headmistress of St George’s Primary and Junior School in Holmsford was tireless in trying to encourage her pupils to have enquiring minds.

The three friends enjoyed their regular get-togethers. Sharon, in particular, appreciated the chance they gave her to blow off a little steam, and Maggie was staunch in her support, both of Sharon and the school.

Sophie nodded agreement. “This display is only until the end of the month. How about the three of us meet up one evening at your house so we can discuss it more fully?” An evening at Maggie’s house was always a treat as Maggie was an excellent cook and seemed to be programmed to always feed whoever walked through the door.