A Late Gift The bus jerked, and Mrs. Anne Peterson gripped the rail with both hands, feeling the coarse plastic flex slightly beneath her fingers. Her grocery bag thumped against her knees, apples rolling dully inside. She stood by the door, counting down the stops to her own. Earbuds fizzed quietly—her granddaughter had asked her not to turn off her phone: “Just in case, Gran, I might call.” The phone sat in her coat’s outer pocket, heavy as a brick. Anne Peterson checked, all the same, to be sure the zip was fastened. She pictured entering her flat, setting the bag on the kitchen stool, changing her shoes, hanging up her coat and carefully folding her scarf. Then she’d unpack the groceries, put soup on the hob. Her son would stop by in the evening to pick up containers; he worked shifts and had no time to cook. The bus braked and doors parted. She eased herself down the steps, holding the rail, and stepped into her estate. Children darted around with a football—a girl on a scooter nearly clipped her before swerving at the last second. The entrance hall smelled of cat food and cigarette smoke. In the hallway, Anne set down her grocery bag, slipped off her shoes and pushed them toe-first to the wall. Coat on the hook, scarf folded neatly. In the kitchen, she sorted groceries: carrots with the veg, chicken in the fridge, bread in the bin. She filled a pan with water just until her palm could still touch the bottom. Her phone buzzed on the table. She dried her hands, pulled it closer. “Yes, Sasha?” she said, leaning in, hoping to hear her son better. “Hello Mum, how are you?” His voice was hurried, someone else speaking in the background. “I’m fine. Making soup. Will you drop in?” “Yes, in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum—there’s another collection at school, the nursery wants money for repairs. Could you… like last time?” Anne was already reaching for the drawer where she kept her little grey notebook of spending. “How much?” she asked. “If you can, three hundred. Of course, everyone’s chipping in, but you know…” He sighed. “It’s tough out there.” “I understand,” she said. “All right, I’ll give it.” “Thanks, Mum. You’re a star. I’ll stop by later for your famous soup.” As she rang off, the water in the pan was boiling already. Anne dropped in the chicken, sprinkled in some salt, added a bay leaf. She sat at the table and opened her notebook. “Pension” at the top, inked in ballpoint. Beneath: bills, medicine, “grandchildren”, “unexpected”. She wrote “nursery” and the amount, pausing a moment. The numbers shifted—less left than she wished, but not disastrous. “It’ll be fine,” she thought, closing the book. On the fridge, a magnet held a small calendar. Below the dates, an advert: “Community Arts Centre: Season Tickets—Classical Music, Jazz, Theatre. Senior discounts.” The magnet had been a birthday gift from her neighbour, Margaret, along with an apple pie. Anne often found herself rereading those words as she waited for the kettle. Again today, her eyes snagged on “season tickets”. She remembered years ago, before she was married, standing in queues for the symphony with her friend. Tickets were dirt cheap, if you braved the wind and joked to keep warm. Back then she’d had long hair in a bun, wore her best dress and only heels. Now, she pictured the auditorium—a place she hadn’t visited in years. Her grandkids dragged her to pantos and nativity plays, but that was different, all noise and confetti and shouting. Here… she didn’t even know what concerts they played nowadays—nor who went. She took the magnet down and flipped it over. On the back—a website address and phone number. The website meant nothing to her, but the phone… She put the magnet back. The thought didn’t go away. “Nonsense,” she told herself. “Better save up for a new jacket for Chloe. Kids grow, everything’s so dear nowadays.” She turned down the stove, sat again but left the notebook closed. Instead, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a battered old envelope, her “rainy day” fund. Not much inside, a handful of notes stashed over recent months—for the washing machine, for blood tests if she needed them. She fingered the money, counting, with that advert echoing in her mind. Her son arrived that evening, hung his jacket on the chair, unpacked the Tupperware. “Ooh, borscht!” he said, pleased. “You’ve done it again, Mum! Have you eaten?” “Yes, yes—help yourself. The money’s ready.” She counted out three notes from the envelope. “Mum, you need to keep track of what’s left,” he said, taking the cash. “What if you’re short?” “I keep records,” she said. “Everything’s in order.” “You’re the family’s accountant,” he grinned. “By the way, could you come by on Saturday? Tanya and I need to nip to the shops—no one to watch the kids.” “I can,” she nodded. “What else have I got to do?” He told her about his boss, about work, new policies. At the door, he turned: “Mum, do you ever buy anything for yourself? Or is it all for us and the kids?” “I have everything I need,” she said. “What more could I want?” He waved it off: “All right, all right. I’ll pop by next week.” When he closed the door, the flat was quiet once more. Anne did the dishes, wiped down the table. Then glanced again at the magnet. In her mind, his question echoed: “Do you ever buy for yourself?” Next morning, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Grandkids at school and nursery, son at work—no one expected till evening. The day looked free, but was full of little chores: water the plants, mop the floor, sort old newspapers. She got up, did the stretching her GP had suggested: slow arms up, gentle reach, turn the neck. Then kettle on, tea in the cup. As the water boiled she took down the magnet once more. “Community Arts Centre. Season Tickets…” She picked up the phone, dialled the number. Her heart thudded. Three rings, then a calm woman’s voice. “Community Centre Box Office, how can I help?” “Hello,” Anne said, her mouth dry. “I was calling about… season tickets.” “Yes, of course. Which series are you interested in?” “I’m… not sure. What do you have?” The woman listed: symphony, chamber music, “An Evening of British Song”, children’s theatre. “Seniors get a discount,” she added, “but a season ticket is still a fair bit. Four concerts.” “Can you buy them singly?” asked Anne. “Yes, but it works out dearer that way.” Anne pictured her notebook, her envelope. She asked the price. The number sounded heavy in her mind—doable, but leaving her “rainy day” fund thin. “Think about it,” the woman said. “They do sell fast.” “Thank you,” Anne replied, hanging up. The kettle shrieked. She poured her tea, sat down, opened the notebook. On a clean page, she wrote: “Season Ticket”. Next to it—the price. Underneath: “Four concerts.” “How much would that be monthly?” she calculated. Not too bad. She could buy less chocolate. Skip the hairdresser this month, cut her own fringe. Faces of her grandkids swam up: the youngest wanted a building set, the eldest dance trainers. Her son and daughter-in-law sighed about the mortgage. And then—her own wish, suddenly shameful, as if concerts were a secret vice. She closed the book, undecided, and set to scrubbing the floor, sorting the washing, draping laundry on the radiator. But the thought of the hall wouldn’t go. After lunch, the doorbell rang. It was Margaret from next door, clutching a jar of pickles. “Take these,” she said, bustling in. “Nowhere to keep them. How are you?” “I’m all right,” Anne smiled. “Just thinking…” She trailed off. It felt silly to say aloud. “Thinking what?” Margaret settled with her knitting. “A concert,” Anne admitted. “They’re selling season tickets at the Arts Centre. I used to love concerts. But it’s too expensive.” Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Why ask me? It’s your business. If you want it, get it.” “But the money…” Anne began. “Money, money,” Margaret scoffed. “You’ve helped everyone all your life. Gave your son money again, right? And presents to the grandkids? But yourself—look at you, same old shawl, same winter coat. What’s wrong with a treat for yourself?” “It’s not a one-off,” Anne protested. “I used to go.” “Used to? When ice creams were ten pence,” Margaret snorted. “Times have changed. This is your own money—not theirs.” “They’ll say it’s silly,” Anne said quietly. “That the kids need it more.” “Then don’t tell them,” Margaret shrugged. “Or say you were at the clinic. Though—why hide? You’re not a child.” The words “not a child” stung. Anne felt something inside—a mix of embarrassment and pride. “I go to the clinic anyway,” she said. “But still, it’s scary. What if I can’t manage it, what if there are stairs, what if my heart…” “There’s a lift,” said Margaret. “And you’ll be sitting, not running around. I went to the theatre last month—survived! Legs ached but it cheered me up for a year.” They chatted about the news, medicines. When Margaret left, Anne again picked up the phone. Before she could lose her nerve, she rang the box office: “I’d like a season ticket for ‘An Evening of British Song’, please.” She took down the address, ticket office hours, pinned the note to her fridge with the magnet. Her heart pounded. That evening her daughter-in-law called. “Anne, you’ll watch the kids Saturday, yes? We want to check the sales at the shopping centre.” “I can,” Anne replied. “Thank you! We’ll bring you something—tea? New towels?” “No need,” she said. “I don’t need anything.” She checked the fridge note. The ticket office closed at six. She’d need to leave early. That night she dreamed of the concert hall: plush seats, bright lights, people in dark clothes. She sat among them, clutching a programme, afraid to shift in case she disturbed her neighbours. Next morning she woke with anxiety. “Why did I get myself into this mess—so much trouble…” But the fridge note stayed put. After breakfast, she got out her best coat, dusted it off, checked the buttons. Chose a warm scarf, comfy shoes, packed her passport, purse, glasses, blood pressure tablets, and a bottle of water. Before she left, she sat on the hallway stool, listening to her body. No dizziness, no trembling. “I’ll get there,” she told herself, locking the door behind her. The bus ride was short, just a few stops. A young man gave her his seat, and she thanked him, sitting by the window with her handbag in her lap. The Arts Centre was only two stops from the High Street—a tall building with columns, bright posters across the front. Two women smoked outside, waving their arms as they chatted. Inside, the air smelled of wood polish and something sweet from the café. The ticket office was just in, a woman behind the glass with a kind voice. Anne handed over her passport and named her chosen series. “We have a seniors’ discount. There are still good seats in the middle,” the cashier smiled, pointing to a seating chart. Anne nodded, not sure what it all meant. When the price was given, her hand trembled. For a moment she almost said she’d come back next time. But the queue behind her rustled, someone cleared their throat, and she placed her notes on the counter. “There’s your season ticket,” the woman said, giving her the stiff cardboard pass. “First concert’s in two weeks. Arrive early to find your seat.” The ticket was beautiful: a picture of the stage on the cover, neat programme listings inside. Anne slipped it into her bag, wedged between her passport and the recipe notebook she always carried. She felt faint as she left, sat on a bench outside and took a sip of water. Nearby, two teens chatted about bands she’d never heard of. She listened, the words as remote as a foreign language. “Well then,” she thought. “I’ve bought it. No turning back now.” The next two weeks passed in chores. The grandkids caught colds; she stewed compotes, took temperatures. Her son delivered groceries, collected leftovers. She nearly confided in him about the concert, but switched topics each time. On the day of the first concert, she woke early, stomach fluttery as before an exam. She prepped dinner ahead, so she wouldn’t be stuck on the stove. She called her son: “I’ll be out this evening. If you need me, let me know beforehand.” “Out where?” he asked, surprised. She hesitated. She didn’t want to lie, but the truth felt awkward. “The Arts Centre. A concert.” A pause. “What concert? Mum, you need that? It’ll be full of young people, noise, all hustle.” “It’s not a disco,” she replied, keeping calm. “They’re performing English songs.” “Who asked you to go?” “No one,” she said. “I bought the season myself.” The silence stretched. “Mum… seriously? You know it’s not easy for us right now—those savings…” “I know,” she cut in. “But this is my money.” Her voice was firmer than expected, even to her own ears. She clenched the phone, bracing for an outburst. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your call. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if you need it later. And be careful—don’t catch cold. Remember your age…” “At my age, I can sit and listen to some music. I’m not climbing mountains.” He sighed again, softly. “All right. Ring me when you get in, so I don’t worry.” “I will,” she promised. She sat for a while, looking at the ticket. Her hands shook. She felt reckless, almost improper. But she wasn’t backing down. By evening, she dressed in her best: navy dress, neat collar, ladder-free tights, sensible pumps. She brushed her hair longer than usual, smoothing the wisps. It was nearly dark when she went out. Shop windows glowed, people queued for the bus. She clutched her bag—ticket, passport, tissues, pills inside. The bus was crowded. Someone stepped on her foot and apologised. She gripped the pole, counting stops. At her destination, she squeezed out, careful not to bump anyone. Outside the Arts Centre, all sorts queued—older couples, younger women, a few lads in jeans. Anne relaxed a little; she wasn’t the oldest there. In the cloakroom, she handed over her coat, received a numbered tag. For a moment she hesitated, unsure of the way, then followed an arrow for “Auditorium”, clinging to the rail. Inside, it was dim, just pin lights above the rows. An usher checked tickets. “Row six, seat nine,” she said. “Just along here.” Anne made her way, mumbling “sorry” as people let her past. She found her seat, sat, placed her bag on her lap. Her heart pounded, now with anticipation. Around her, people chatted, rustled programmes. She opened hers, tracing unfamiliar titles. At the bottom she spotted the name of a composer she remembered from radio years ago. The lights went down. The compère spoke, but Anne barely heard—it mattered more that she was here, among these people, not at home beside the cooker. When the first music began, she shivered. The singer’s voice was rich and a little rough—songs of love, farewells, roads that led far away. Suddenly, they felt hers too; she remembered other towns, other times, sitting in just such a hall beside someone long gone. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry. She just sat, clutching her bag, and listened. After a while, her body relaxed, her breath slowed. Music filled the space—her life, for once, not just drudgery and counting pennies. At the interval, her back ached, legs stiff. She stretched in the foyer, people discussing the performance. Some bought cakes, some had tea. She allowed herself a small chocolate, though she usually skipped such things. “Lovely,” she said aloud, tasting a bite. A woman nearby, about her age, smiled. “Good concert, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Anne. “I haven’t been in years.” “Me neither,” said the woman. “Always something—grandchildren, garden. But I thought: if not now, when?” They shared a few words about the singer. Then the bell rang, and everyone returned to their seats. The second half swept by. Anne forgot about the cost or her savings; she just listened. When the music ended, she applauded till her palms stung. Outside, the air was chilly, fresh. She walked to the stop, legs tired, but with a small warmth inside—not euphoria, but the sense she’d done something truly for herself. At home, she called her son. “I’m home,” she said. “All fine.” “How was it? Not too cold?” “It was… lovely,” she said. He paused, then: “That’s all right then. Just don’t overdo it. We need to keep saving, you know.” “I remember. But I’ve already paid for three more concerts.” “Three?” he said, surprised. “Well, since you have, you’d better go. Just be careful.” She hung up, set her coat and bag in their places. Made tea and sat down. The season ticket lay before her, corners a bit bent. She ran her fingers over it, then transferred the concert dates into her wall calendar, circling them in pen. Next week, when her son needed money for another appeal, Anne opened her notebook, stared at the figures, and said: “I can only give half. I need the rest.” “What for?” he asked, automatically. She looked at his tired face, the dark rings under his eyes. “For me,” she said quietly. “I need it myself.” He looked like he might argue, then waved it off. “All right, Mum. Whatever you say.” That evening, left alone, Anne took out an old photo album. In one was a much younger her, in a white dress, outside a different concert hall, holding a programme and smiling shyly. She studied the face, linking it to her reflection in the mirror. She returned the album to its place. On the fridge, beside the magnet, she pinned a new note: “Next concert—15th.” Underneath: “Leave early.” Life didn’t change overnight. Each morning, Anne made soup, washed up, visited the surgery, babysat the grandchildren. Her son still asked for help, and she helped if she could. But now, deep down, she had her own pocket of time, her own little plans that needed no explanation. Passing the fridge, she sometimes touched the note with her fingers. Each time, a private, stubborn feeling grew: she was still alive, she still had the right to want. One evening, reading the paper, she saw an advert for a free beginners’ English class for seniors at the local library. You just had to sign up. She tore it out and slipped it next to her ticket. Then poured another tea, wondering, was this one wish too many? “I’ll hear my songs out first,” she decided. “Then I’ll see.” She tucked the ad into her notebook, but the idea of learning something new no longer felt impossible. That night, before bed, she drew back the curtain. In the courtyard, the street lamps glowed; a teenager walked by with headphones, a boy thumped a football. Anne leaned on the window, feeling calm settle inside her. Life went on, full of chores and sacrifice, but somewhere within, there was room for four evenings in the hall, and perhaps a few new words in an unfamiliar tongue. She turned out the kitchen light, went to her room, and pulled the covers up neat. Tomorrow would be as always—shopping, calls, cooking. But a little ring was on her calendar, and that changed something precious, even if nobody else ever noticed.

A Belated Gift

The bus jolted, and Margaret Bennett gripped the rail with both hands, the rough plastic bending just slightly under her fingers. The shopping bag knocked against her knees and she could feel apples rolling dully inside. She stood near the exit, counting stops until hers.

Her granddaughter had insisted she keep her earphones in: Nan, just in case I ring you! The phone rested in the front pocket of her handbag, heavy as a stone. Margaret still checked that the zipper was securely shut.

She pictured herself letting herself into her flat: placing the bag onto the kitchen stool, swapping her shoes for slippers, hanging her coat, folding her scarf for the shelf. Then she’d unpack the groceriescarrots with the other vegetables, chicken in the fridge, bread in the bin. Soon she’d set a pan of soup on. Later, her son would pop round for the containers. He worked shifts, no time for cooking.

The bus screeched to a halt and the doors clattered open. Margaret carefully stepped down, steadying herself on the rail, and walked toward her block. In the courtyard, children chased a football. A girl on a scooter almost collided with her but veered off last second. By the main door she caught a whiff of cat food and stale smoke.

In the hall, Margaret set the bag down, slipped out of her shoes and nudged them neatly against the wall. She hung her coat on the hook and laid her scarf on the shelf. In the kitchen, she sorted her shopping: carrots with the veg, chicken in the fridge, bread in the bread bin. She filled a pot with water until it covered her hand, just as she always did.

The phone buzzed on the table. She wiped her hands on a cloth and drew it closer.

Yes, Alex? she said, leaning toward the phone as if that would help her hear better.

Hi, Mum, how are you? came her sons hurried voice, someone asking him something in the background.

Im all right. Just making soup. Are you coming by?

Yes, Ill be round in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum weve another collection at Harriets nursery, for group repairs. Could you, well like last time?

Margaret was already reaching for her grey notebook in the drawer, the one she kept for expenses.

How much do you need? she asked.

If you can, sixty pounds. Everyones chipping in, butyou know how tight it is. He sighed. Its tough these days.

I understand, she said. Ill sort it.

Thank you, Mum. Youre an angel. Ill pick it up this evening. And your soupmy favourite.

As the call ended, the water in the pot was already boiling. Margaret tossed in the chicken, salt, a bay leaf. She sat down, opening her notebook. In the Pension column, shed written the amount in tidy ballpoint; beneath it: bills, medicine, grandkids, unexpected.

She added nursery and the amount, letting her pen linger a second. The numbers shifted slightlyless than she’d hoped, but not disaster. Well manage, she thought, shutting the book.

On the fridge was a small magnetic calendar, the bottom advertising Community Centre. Season tickets. Classical music, jazz, theatre. Pensioner discounts. Her neighbour, Maureen, had given her the magnet, bringing over a slice of cake for her birthday.

Margaret found herself more and more often reading that advert while waiting for the kettle to boil. Today her eyes snagged again on season ticket. She remembered, years before marriage, queueing outside the Guildhall with a friend for concertstheyd laughed, stamped their feet in the wind, their best dresses under winter coats and hair pinned in elegant buns.

Now she pictured the concert hallshe hadnt been for years. Her grandchildren took her out for pantomimes and nativity plays, but it was always noise and balloons and clapping. This would be different She wasnt even sure who performed these days, or who went.

She turned the magnet over: a website and phone number were printed on the back. Websites were no help to her, but the phone number She replaced the magnet, but the seed was planted.

Nonsense, she told herself. Best to save for Rubys new coat. Children grow so fastand everything costs a fortune.

She stood, turned the heat down, but didnt reopen her notebook. Instead, she reached for an old envelopeher rainy day fund. In it were the notes shed painstakingly set aside over the monthsnot much, but enough if the washing machine broke, or for blood tests if needed.

Her fingers counted through the notes, mind drifting back to the magnets advert.

That evening Alex arrived, took off his coat and dropped it on the back of a chair, pulling Tupperware from a carrier.

Ooh, borscht! He grinned. Mum, you spoil me. Have you eaten?

I have, I have. Help yourself. Ive got the money ready, she said, reaching for the envelope and counting out sixty pounds.

Mum, you ought to keep a note of how much youve got left, he said, taking the notes. Just in case.

I do, Margaret assured him. Its all written down.

Youre our little accountant! He smiled. By the way, could you watch the kids on Saturday? Tania and I need to get to Tesco. Theres no one else

I can, she nodded. What else would I be doing?

He chatted about work, difficult bosses, new rules. Lacing his shoes in the hall, he turned:

Mum, do you buy yourself anything? Its always us, always the grandkids.

I have all I need, she replied. What more could I want?

He shrugged.

All right then, as you say. Ill pop by in the week.

When hed gone, silence settled on the flat again. Margaret washed dishes, wiped the table. Then her gaze landed on the magnet. Alexs words echoed in her mind: Do you ever buy anything for yourself?

In the morning, she lay in bed looking at the ceiling. The grandkids were at nursery and school, Alex at work. No one would visit until evening. The day stretched ahead, filled with watering plants, mopping floors, sorting old newspapers.

She did her physiotherapy as the doctor had shown her, carefully stretching arms, rolling her neck, setting the kettle. While waiting for it to boil, she lifted the magnet from the fridge again.

Community Centre. Season tickets

She dialled the phone number, heart thumping. Several rings, then a woman answered:

Community Centre box office, how can I help?

Good morning, Margaret said, her mouth dry, Im enquiring about season tickets.

Certainly! What type are you interested in?

Im not sure. What do you have?

The woman listed orchestral concerts, chamber music, Evenings of Song, childrens programmes.

Pensioners get a discount, she added, but the season pass is still quite a bitit covers four concerts.

What about single tickets? Margaret asked.

Theyre more expensive each. Its better value as a season.

Margaret thought of her figures in the notebook, the envelope in the drawer. She asked the price. The sum dropped into her mind like a weight. She could pay it, just, but then the rainy day fund would be trimmed down worryingly far.

Have a think, the woman said. They go quickly.

Thank you, Margaret replied, hanging up.

The kettle was whistling. She poured tea, opened her notebook, and wrote on a fresh page: Season Ticket. Next to it, the amount. Underneath: Four concerts.

How much per month? she wondered. Divided, it wasnt so bad. She saw places to economisefewer biscuits, put off the hairdresser, trim her fringe herself.

Faces of the grandkids surfacedyoung Jacob had wanted a new Lego set for ages, Ruby wanted dance shoes. Alex and Tania worried over the mortgage. And then her own longing, which somehow felt improperas if attending a concert was a secret indulgence.

She closed the notebook undecided, turned to mopping the floor, sorting laundry, hanging things to dry. But the idea of the hall wouldnt leave her.

After lunch, the doorbell rang. Maureen stood in the hall, a jar of homemade pickled onions in hand.

Take these, love, nowhere for them at mine. How are you?

Getting on, Margaret smiled. Been thinking

She hesitated, embarrassed.

Thinking about what? Maureen sat, pulling out her knitting.

A concert, Margaret blurted. Theyre selling season tickets at the community centre. I used to go to the Guildhall. Wondering if I should try againbut its dear.

Maureen raised an eyebrow.

Why ask me? Its up to you! If you want to go, be off with you.

Its the money Margaret began.

Money, money Maureen waved her off. Youve spent your life helping others. Just gave your son some, didnt you? Bought the grandkids presents? And what about you? Same old shawl, same coat for shopping. Cant you spend a bit for yourselfa bit of music?

Its not the first time, Margaret objected. I went years ago.

Years ago! Maureen snorted. When an ice lolly was five pence! Different world now. Youre not asking them for itits your money.

Theyll just say its a waste, Margaret said quietly. Say I should have spent it on the grandkids.

Then dont tell them! Maureen shrugged. Say you went to the doctors. Well, really, why should you hide? Youre not a child.

The words stung. Margaret felt a tangle of hurt and shame rise inside.

I go to the doctors plenty, she muttered. But stillits daunting. What if I cant manage the walk? What about stairs, my heart?

Theres a lift there, and youll be seated, not running a marathon. Maureen waved dismissively. I went to the theatre last monthmy legs ached, but I came back with enough stories for a year.

They chatted about the news and the price of painkillers. After Maureen left, Margaret picked up the phone once more, dialled the box officebefore she could chicken outand said:

Id like a season ticket for the Evenings of Song.

She was told to come in person, with her ID. She wrote down the address and hours, fixing the note on the fridge with a magnet. Her heart was pounding as though shed rushed the stairs.

That evening, Tania rang.

Mrs Bennett, is Saturday still all right? Were hoping for a deal at Currys.

Of course, Margaret replied.

Thank you, well bring you something back! Maybe some tea? Or towels?

I dont need anything, Margaret assured her.

Afterwards, she checked her note on the fridge. The box office closed at six; shed need to leave early, take her time.

That night she dreamt of a hall: plush seats, lights, people in smart clothes. She sat in the middle, a programme in her lap, too nervous to move.

She woke with heaviness in her chest. Why am I doing thisso much faff, she thought.

But the note on the fridge remained. After breakfast, she took out her best coat, brushed it, checked the buttons, picked a warm scarf and comfortable shoes. Into her bag she put her passport, purse, glasses, blood pressure tablets, and a small bottle of water.

Sitting on the kitchen stool before leaving, she paused, checking her head wasnt spinning, her legs didn’t wobble. Youll be fine, she told herself, closing the door behind her.

The bus stop wasnt far but she walked slowly, counting steps. The bus arrived quickly. Inside it was busy, but a young man gave up his seat. She thanked him and sat by the window, clutching her bag.

The Community Centre stood two stops from the high street; stone pillars on the front, posters in glass cases. Two women at the door gestured, deep in animated chat. Inside it smelt of polish, old wood, and the sweet waft from the café.

The box office was to the right; a pleasant woman sat behind the screen. Margaret handed over her passport and said which tickets she wanted.

Good news, pensioner rate for you, the clerk smiled. And youre luckygood seats left in the middle.

She tapped a seating chart. Margaret could make little sense of it, just nodded.

At the quoted sum, Margarets hand trembled as she counted out the notes. For a second, she wanted to say shed changed her mind. But the queue behind shuffled and someone coughedshe laid the money down.

Heres your season ticket, the woman said, handing her a sturdy card embossed with dates. First concert in two weeks. Come early so you can find your seat in good time.

The ticket was beautiful: a photograph of the stage on the cover, a neat list inside of the scheduled performances. Margaret slipped it between her passport and the recipe booklet she always carried.

Leaving, her legs felt faint; she sat on a bench outside, sipped her water. Nearby, two teenagers were talking loudly about music shed never heard of. She realised she was listening to them as though eavesdropping on a foreign language.

Well then, she thought. I’ve bought it. No going back now.

The next fortnight passed in routine. The grandchildren had coldsshe watched them, made apple compote, checked temperatures. Alex dropped off groceries and picked up soup. She almost told him about the ticket, but always changed the subject at the last second.

When concert day arrived, Margaret woke early with butterflies. She prepped dinner ahead, just in case, phoned Alex:

Ill be out tonight, she told him. So if you need anything, please say sooner.

Out? Where to? he asked, surprised.

She hesitatedshe hated lying, but the truth felt daunting.

To the Community Centre, she said. A concert.

A pause.

What concert? Mum, is this necessary? Itll just be full of young people, busy, noisy.

Its not a disco, she replied calmly. Its an evening of song.

And whos invited you?

No one. I bought a season ticket myself.

Silence stretched, long.

Mum, Alex finally said. Are you serious? You know times are tight. That money could go to

I know, she cut in. But its my money.

Her voice surprised even herself with its steadiness as she gripped the phone.

All right, Alex sighed. Its yours; I wont argue. Just dont complain later if you come up short. Take care not to catch cold. At your age

At my age, Im allowed to sit in a seat and listen to some music, she replied. Im not climbing a mountain.

He sighed again, a little softer.

Okay. Just let me know when youre home, so I dont worry.

I will, she promised.

Afterwards, her hands shook; she gazed at her season ticket. It felt mischievous, even wicked; but she didnt want to back out.

That evening she put on her bestnavy dress with a neat collar, tights with no ladders, comfortable shoes with a slight heel. She brushed her hair carefully.

It was dusk as she left. Shop windows glowed in the streetlights, the bus stop buzzed. She clutched her bag holding her pass, passport, tissues and tablets.

The bus was crowded. Someone trod on her foot and apologised. She held the rail, counting the stops. At hers, she squeezed out, murmuring excuse me.

Outside the Community Centre, people of varied ages milled aboutretired couples, younger women, a sprinkling of students in jeans. Margarets nerves easedshe wasnt the oldest.

In the cloakroom, she handed over her coat, accepted a tag, and stood uncertain, following the hall sign, gripping the rail as she went.

Inside, everything was dim except tiny bulbs above the rows. A steward checked her ticket.

Row six, seat nine, she declared. Just along there.

Margaret inched along, apologising as knees knocked and people stood. Finding her seat, she carefully sat, bag in her lap. Her heart hammered, now in anticipation.

People around her whispered, leafing through programmes. She opened hers, running her finger down titlesmost unfamiliar, but one composers name reminded her of songs shed heard on the radio, long ago.

The lights dimmed to nothing. The compère spoke a welcome, but Margaret barely registered the words: it was enough to be here, among these people, not home over a stove.

The first chords rippled through the air, gooseflesh pricking along her arms. The singers voice was deep, a little husky. Songs about love, heartbreak, journeyssuddenly, they all felt part of her. She remembered another hall, another city, another lifetime, someone sitting beside her who was long gone.

Her eyes prickled, but she didnt cry. She just satknuckles white on her bagand listened. Gradually, the tension left her body. Her breathing eased. The music filled the roomand in its presence, her life no longer seemed a patchwork of penny-pinching and chores.

After the interval her legs ached, so she shuffled into the foyer to stretch. People drifted, chatted, some ate fairy cakes, others sipped tea from plastic cups. She bought herself a little bar of chocolateusually shed consider that frivolous.

Tastes good, she murmured aloud, breaking a piece.

A woman beside her, smart in a pale trouser suit, smiled.

Good concert, isnt it? she said to Margaret.

Yes, Margaret nodded. I havent been for years.

Nor have I, the woman replied. Always busy, grandkids, the allotment. But I thought: if not now, then when?

They exchanged a few words about the singer, the songs. The bell rang, and they all filed back in.

The second half flew. Margaret forgot about how much each number cost. She listened. When it ended, applause thunderedshe clapped until her palms tingled.

Outside, the night air was sharp and clear. She made her way to the bus, legs tired but with a quiet warmth insidenot euphoria, not elation, but the feeling that shed finally done something kind for herself, however small.

At home, she rang Alex.

Im home, she said. All fine.

So how was it? Not frozen, I hope? he asked.

No, she replied. It was lovely.

He paused, then said,

As long as youre happy. Just dont go wild. We still have to save up for house repairs.

I remember, she answered. But Ive paid for the season. Three more to go.

Three? He sounded surprised. Well, since you’ve bought it go on then. Just take care.

She hung up, hung her coat, put her bag away. She made a cup of tea, sat at the table. The season ticketslightly crumpled nowlay before her. Gently, she entered the concert dates in the kitchen calendar and circled them.

Next time Alex asked for help with a collection for nursery, Margaret opened her notebook and stared at the figures before saying,

I can only give half this time. I need the rest.

For what? he asked automatically.

She looked at him, at his tired face and dark circles.

For myself, she answered calmly. I need a little bit for me too.

He started to protest, then just waved his hand.

All right, Mum. If you need it, you need it.

That evening, alone, Margaret took out an old photo album. There she was, smiling shyly in a pale dress outside the Guildhall in another city, programme in hand.

She gazed a long moment, trying to connect that girl to her reflection now. Then she closed the album and returned it to its shelf.

Next to the fridge magnet, she pinned another note: Next concert: the 15th. Underneath, she scribbled, Leave earlynot to forget.

Her life wasn’t transformedshe still made soup in the morning, did the laundry, went to the surgery, looked after the grandkids. Alex still needed help and she helped, as much as she truly could. But inside, shed found a space for her own time and plans, ones she didnt have to explain.

Sometimes, passing the fridge, her fingers brushed the date sheet. And each time, she felt a quiet, stubborn certainty: she was still livingshe still deserved to want.

One evening, flicking through the paper, she found an advert for English conversation classes at the local library, free for over-sixties but sign-up required.

She tore the ad out and placed it beside her season ticket. Then poured herself some tea and wondered if perhaps she was going too far.

Ill finish my concerts first, she decided. Then see.

She tucked the newspaper clipping away, yet the idea that she might still learn something new no longer seemed impossible. At night, she drew back the curtain and looked out. The streetlights glowed; a lad wandered past with headphones, a boy thudded a ball against the pavement.

Margaret leaned on the window sill, feeling a content, quiet calm. Life continued as ever: busy, bounded, full of small demands. But somewhere in the midst of it, she had carved out four evenings just for herselfand perhaps, soon, even a handful of new words in another tongue.

She turned off the kitchen light, shuffled to bed and tucked herself in. Tomorrow would be the same: shopping, calls, cooking. But now, the calendar bore a little ring, and that changed something subtle but importanteven if only she herself felt it.