TWO SISTERS
Once upon a time, there were two sisters. The elder, Charlotte, was stunningly beautiful, successful, and wealthy. The younger, Evelyn, was known by all as the town drunk. By the time this story takes place, there wasnt much left to say about Evelyns looksat thirty-two, she resembled an aged crone more than a young woman. Gaunt and swollen of face, her eyes were barely visible between puffy lids. Her hair, once thick and lively, now hung in greasy tufts, never seeing soap nor a brush.
Charlotte truly did what she couldshe spent thousands of pounds on her sisters recovery, sending her to costly private clinics in London, even trying folk healers in nearby villages, but nothing worked. Shed bought Evelyn a charming flat, but wisely kept it in her own name, so Evelyn wouldnt swap it for a pint. Within half a year, all that remained of the furnishings was a filthy mattress on which her dying sister now lay, when Charlotte came to bid farewellshe was moving to live abroad, permanently.
Evelyn could no longer speak, only open her eyes a sliver to catch a faint figure silhouetted against the mucky, streaked window. Empty bottles were strewn about the floor, gifts of generosity from local drunks. Charlotte couldnt bring herself to leave her there to die alone. How could she ever live with herself? So, for her consciences sake, she resolved to take Evelyn to their Aunt Margaret in the countryside. The sisters had hardly kept in touch with Aunt Margaret, their late mothers solitary sister, but Charlotte still remembered the name of the villageAppleford. Years ago, Aunt Margaret had visited now and then, bringing jars of gooseberry jam, fragrant, rosy apples, and bundles of dried wild mushrooms.
Reasoning that if no one sent news of her funeral, then their aunt must still be alive, Charlotte enlisted the help of an old friend. They wrapped Evelyn in a blanket, laid her gently across the back seat, and drove out to Appleford. The village was little more than four cottages strung along a faint bend in the lane. They found Aunt Margarets house easily enough. Evelyn, still bundled in her blanket, was settled into Margarets own bed. Charlotte counted out a neat stack of pounds on the kitchen table and spoke quietly: She wont last long, Aunt Margaret, and I must be off. The moneys for a good resting place and maybe a headstoneI might like to visit the grave, one day. She left the keys to Evelyns flat in her aunts carewho else could she trust? Declining tea, she left in haste.
Aunt Margaret, sixty-eight and still sprightly despite her solitude, checked to see if Evelyn was breathing, then went to set the kettle on the Aga. As water bubbled, she mixed dried nettle and mint from linen pouches into a flask, dropped in a handful of wild berries, poured over the boiling water, and left it to infuse beneath a heavy lid.
For three days, she nursed Evelyn with spoons of honeyed herbal tea, half-forcing each mouthful. Even through the night, she kept vigil at the bedside, every half hour. By the fourth day, goats milk from her own Matilda joined the regime, again, a spoon at a time. Stews of vegetables and hearty chicken broth followedMargarets hens gave up two for the cause, and she didnt regret a single feather.
A month later, Evelyn was able to sit up by herself. Margaret bundled her into a thick shawl, and, it being winter, pulled her to the bathhouse on a little sledge. There, shed wash Evelyn with warm herbal water, the scent of summer meadows drifting through that steamy haven. Carefully, she brushed Evelyns hair until it shone like silk and smelled of wild thyme and clover.
Slowly, Aunt Margaret poured into her niece all her stored-up kindness and care, nursing her back with teaspoons of herbal brew and fragments of her own gentle soul. Private clinics and faith healers hadnt managed to save her, but steadfast, ordinary Margaret did. Evelyn recovered. She grew strong on Matildas fresh, clover-scented milk, on morning omelettes of the days collected eggs. Her hair shone once again, and the flush of youth returned to her pale cheeks. Beneath the pall, she was beautiful, her eyes a striking blue.
She tentatively began to help around the house and with the animals, learning to milk Matilda and gather eggs each sunrise. Most of their meals were simple, hearty, and fresh from the garden. Having returned from the brink, Evelyn forgot her past and found delight in her second chance: she saw golden sunrises, gauzy clouds racing across the sky, the slow unfurling of springtime blooms. Down by the rivers rushes, Evelyn discovered a mother duck with downy ducklings, and each day shed bring them bread from the pantry.
She uncovered a talent tooAunt Margaret taught her to crochet. It began with simple doilies, but soon they visited the market in town for armfuls of colourful wool, and Evelyn fashioned grand, sweeping shawls in intricate, English patterns. Orders poured in for her uniquely beautiful work, and soon, she was earning a good living.
Three years on, radiant Evelyn whisked her beloved aunt away from remote Appleford to a peaceful seaside town. Pooling their savingsMargarets put by over the years, plus Evelyns from her exclusive shawlsthey bought a snug cottage with an apple tree and a tidy back garden. Each morning, Matilda the goat, whose transport Charlotte kindly paid for, would pluck an apple from the lowest branch, chewing thoughtfully as she gazed at the calm sea. There, not far from the shore in the gentle English waters, swam the two women shed grown to love so well.
And the most extraordinary thing about this tale? Its completely true.
