Marjorie from Number Six always fashioned the latest in pensioner trends. How she could make a “shop mobility scooter” look elegant was frankly perplexing to Brenda.
Bill positively glowed at Marjorie as she glided effortlessly through Penistone market, but Brenda prayed for a minor fall from behind the net curtains. Dennis grunted with disdain at the mere mention of anything vaguely scooter related, but her pangs of jealousy wouldn’t subside.
“You’ll look decrepit” he said, ushering her away from the window.
“I am decrepit, you’ve seen to that”
In times gone by, she had been a remarkable dancer and cricketer, celebrated for her grace on the dance floor and her finesse on the playing field. Brenda had been formidable in her day.
This was about freedom, you see. But her aged bones were now brittle. Her hips had been replaced twice over. Her spine had been bolted in a vain attempt to keep her upright
And he didn’t exactly help matters. Last week’s phone call had caused uproar.
“Why do you tell tales?” he sniped.
“If you weren’t a bully, I wouldn’t have to” she said.
June’s intervention had occurred just in time.
“Mum! Good news! It’s arrived!”
Brenda beamed. This was her escape route.
“I’ll come and collect you on Saturday and we can test it out in Barnsley”
As she placed the phone on the receiver, they bickered. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.
Brenda watched the blue tits jostling for prime position on the bird bath outside. She imagined jostling with Marjorie for prime position at the market. This gave her the best laugh in ages.
June arrived at 12:30 precisely and hurtled through the house.
“Have you got your coats on? Are the back doors locked?”
“We’re in here, June,” hollered Brenda, excitedly.
“Ooh mum, you do look toasty. Give us a kiss”