A Belated Gift
The bus jerked to a stop, and Anne Thompson grabbed the rail with both hands, feeling the coarse plastic give a little beneath her grasp. The shopping bag thudded into her knees; apples shifted dully inside. She hovered by the exit, counting down the stops to hers.
Her earphones buzzed quietly, but her granddaughter had insisted she leave them on: Gran, just in case I ring you. Her mobile lay heavy as a stone in the outside pocket of her handbag. Still, Anne checked twice that the zip was done up.
In her mind, she pictured the evening ahead: entering her flat, setting the bags on the kitchen stool, changing her shoes, hanging up her coat, gently folding her scarf. Shed unpack the groceries, start the soup simmering. Her son would pop in later, collect tubs of food. He worked shiftsno time to cook for himself.
The bus braked. The doors sighed open. Anne stepped down carefully, clutching the rail, and made her way to her block of flats. In the courtyard, kids played football, a girl on a scooter veered at the last moment to miss her. From the stairwell drifted the scent of cat food and cigarette smoke.
In her hallway, Anne set down her bags, slipped off her brogues, tucked them neatly by the wall. She placed her coat on the hook, folded her scarf on the shelf. In the kitchen, she sorted the food: carrots with the other vegetables, chicken for the fridge, bread for the breadbin. She brought out a saucepan, watched the water cover her palm as she filled it for the soup.
Her phone vibrated on the table. She wiped her hands, reached for it.
Yes, Simon? she said, leaning in as if it might help her hear.
Hi Mum. How are you? Her sons voice was rushedsomeone in the background was asking him something.
Im fine. Making soup. Are you coming over?
Yeah, Ill swing by in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum, the nurserys after more donationsfor repairs. Do you think you could? Like last time.
Anne was already reaching for the drawer where her grey notebook sat among old bills.
How much do you need? she asked.
If you could spare it, three hundred pounds. Everyones chipping in, but you know Things are tight.
I understand, she said quietly. All right, Ill have it ready.
Youre a star, Mum. Ill pick it up this evening, along with your soup.
As the call ended, the water was already boiling. Anne dropped in the chicken, salt, a bay leaf. She sat at the table and opened her notebook. Pension was written at the top in neat blue biro. Beneath, the figures: rent, medication, grandchildren, unexpected. She added nursery and this months amount. For a moment, she hesitated over the sum. There was less left than shed wish, but not disastrous. Well manage, she thought, closing the book.
On her fridge was a magnet holding up a tiny calendar, the bottom crowded with an advert: Community Arts CentreSeason Tickets: Classical, Jazz, Theatre. Discounts for pensioners. The magnet was from her neighbour, Margaret, whod brought cake for Annes last birthday.
She often caught herself rereading that ad while waiting for the kettle to boil. This evening, her gaze snagged once more on season tickets. She remembered queueing in the cold for concert tickets, years ago, with her friend. Back then, tickets cost next to nothing, though you had to stand a long time in the cold, laughing to keep warm. She wore her hair long, pinned up, her best dress and the only heels she owned.
Now, she imagined that concert hall. She hadnt seen a stage in years. Her grandchildren took her to pantomimes, but that was noise and party poppers and sticky hands. This this was different. She didnt even know what programmes they offered now. Who even went?
Anne took down the magnet, turned it over. There was a website and a phone number. The website meant nothing, but the phone She put the magnet back, but the thought wouldnt leave her.
Nonsense, she told herself. Better save up for Lilys coatshes growing, kids things are dear these days.
She lowered the heat on the hob, then sat again. Instead of reopening her notebook, she fetched the battered envelope from the drawerher rainy day money. A dozen notes, set aside each month for emergencies. Not much, but with luck, enough for a broken washing machine or a blood test.
She thumbed through the notes, counting. The advert hummed in her mind.
That evening, Simon arrived. He hung his coat on the back of a chair, filled the fridge with the plastic tubs.
Ooh, borscht, he grinned. Mum, youre the best. Have you eaten?
I have, love. Help yourself. Ive got your money ready, she said, counting out three notes.
Mum, do at least jot down whats left, in case you get caught short.
I always do, Anne replied. Everythings there in my notebook.
Youre quite the accountant, he smiled. By the way, this Saturdaycould you babysit again? Lucy and I need to get to the shops, and weve nobody else for the kids.
Ill manage, she nodded. Its not like I have much going on.
He chattered about work, his boss, new systems. As he wrestled his shoes on in the hall, he paused.
Mum, do you ever buy anything for yourself? Its always for us or the grandkids.
Ive got all I need, she said. Dont worry about me.
He waved as he left. All right, suit yourself, love. Ill drop in later this week.
As silence settled on the flat, Anne washed the dishes and wiped the table. Her eyes drifted to the fridge magnet. She heard Simons words: Do you ever buy anything for yourself?
That morning, she lay staring at the ceiling long after waking. The kids were at school and nursery, her son at workno one expected her before evening. The day felt free, though in truth, it was packed with dusting, watering the plants, sorting old papers.
She rose, did her exercises as the doctor had taught her, filled the kettle, spooned tea leaves into her cup. As water boiled, she stared again at the magnet.
Community Arts Centre. Season Tickets it proclaimed.
She picked up the phone and dialled the small-print number. Her heart thudded. The tone rang a few times, then a womans voice:
Arts Centre, Box Office. How can I help?
Hello, Anne said, her mouth suddenly dry. Im ringing about the season tickets.
Yes, of course. What are you interested in?
I Im not sure. What do you have?
The woman listed: symphonies, chamber music, romantic evenings, childrens programmes.
Theres a pensioners discount, she added, but the season tickets still a bit dear. Thats four concerts.
And single tickets? Anne asked.
You can book singly, but it works out more expensive. The season ticket is your best value.
Anne pictured the figures in her notebook, the cash in her envelope. She asked the price. The sum felt heavy in her ears. She could just about afford it if she raided her emergency stash. But thered be little left.
Think it over, said the woman. They dont last long.
Thank you, Anne managed, and hung up.
The kettle screeched. She made tea, opened her notebook. On a fresh page she wrote: Season ticket. Next to it, the sum. She worked out how much it was each month. Not so terrible, she realised. Trim a few treats, cut a trip to the hairdressershe could do her own fringe.
Her grandchildrens faces blinked into her mind. Tom wanted a new construction set, Emily new trainers for dance class. Simon was always sighing about the mortgage. And her wishand why did it feel so improper? As if she were planning something naughty.
She shut the notebook. Cleaned the kitchen, hung out the washing. But the thought of the concert hall wouldnt budge.
Around midday, the intercom rang. Margaret was at the door with a jar of pickled onions.
Take these, she said, bustling into Annes kitchen. Nowhere to put them at mine. How are you holding up?
Im all right, Anne smiled. Just thinking.
Margaret perched on a chair, knitting already in her hands.
What about? she asked.
A concert, Anne blurted. Theyre selling season tickets for the Arts Centre. I used to go to the Philharmonic, before I got married. Now Im thinking But its expensive.
Margaret raised a brow. Dont ask me, love. Is it what you want?
Its the money Anne began.
Money, money, Margaret tutted. Youve spent your life putting everyone else first. Gave your Simon another bit this week, didnt you? And birthday presents for the little ones? Still you totter around in that old shawl. Are you not allowed a bit of music for yourself?
I went to concerts before, Anne said defensively.
And before, a Cornetto was ten pence, Margaret smirked. Times change. Youre not asking for their money, you know. This is yours.
Theyll say its silly, Anne whispered. Say I ought to spend it on the grandkids.
Dont tell them then, Margaret shrugged. Just say you were at the doctors. Though reallywhy should you hide it? Youre not a child.
Not a child. The words stung. Anne felt a twinge between hurt and shame.
I do actually go to the doctors as it is, she retorted. But I worry. What if I cant manage the steps? What if my heart
Theres a lift, for heavens sake. Youll be sitting, not running about the aisles. Do you know, I went to the theatre last month? Survived nicely. My legs ached, but it was worth it.
They chatted about doctors and prices for a while. When Margaret left, Anne picked up the phone again. This time, before she changed her mind, she dialled the box office.
Id like to buy a season ticket, she said. For the Romantic Evenings series.
Instructions followed: shed need her ID and to come in person. Anne scribbled the details on a piece of paper, pinning it beside the calendar. Her heart hammered as if shed jogged the whole way.
That evening, her daughter-in-law rang.
Mrs Thompson, just checking youre still free to babysit Saturday? Were hoping to catch the sales at Westfield.
Ill be here, Anne replied.
Youre wonderful. Let us get you some tea, maybe a new towel?
No need, Anne replied. I have everything I need.
She glanced at the new address pinned to her fridge. The box office closed at six; shed have to leave early, take her time.
That night, she dreamed of a concert hall: plush seats, soft lights, people in dark coats. She sat in the middle, clutching a programme, afraid to move in case she disturbed anyone.
She awoke heavy-hearted. Why did I sign up for this? Such faff.
But the paper remained by the calendar. After breakfast, Anne took out her best coat, dusted it off, checked the buttons. She chose her thickest scarf, comfortable shoes. Into her handbag went her passport, spectacles, pills, purse, a bottle of water.
Before leaving, she perched on the entrance stool to catch her breath. Her head was clear, her legs steady. Ill get there, she told herself, and shut the door behind her.
The stop was not far, though she walked slowly, counting down her steps. The bus was quick. Inside, a young man gave up his seat. She thanked him, settling by the window.
The community centre loomed over two stops from the high street: white columns, show posters fluttering on the facade. Two women lingered outside, waving their arms as they chatted. Indoors, the air smelled of dust, old wood, and buns from the café.
To the right, the box office. Behind the glass was the friendly voice from the phone. Anne handed over her ID, requested her series.
Pensioner discounts included, the assistant said warmly. Youre in lucknice seats in the middle.
She pointed to a plan. Anne nodded, none the wiser.
When the amount was named, Annes hand shook. She fished out the money, heart hammering. For a moment, she wanted to say shed changed her mind, but there was a queue forming, someone coughed behind her, so she slid over the notes, not looking up.
Theres your season ticket, said the box office lady, passing over a handsome card with dates. First concerts in two weeks. Arrive early to find your seat.
It was beautiful: a photo of the stage on the cover, precise print within. Anne tucked it safely among her recipes and passport.
Leaving the building, her legs felt like jelly. She sat on the bench outside, sipped her water. Next to her, two teenagers jabbered about music shed never heard of. Anne listened to their chatter as if it were a foreign tongue.
Well, she told herself, Ive bought it. No backing out now.
Two weeks vanished in errands. The grandchildren caught colds; Anne made stewed fruit, checked fevers. Simon stopped in with groceries, collected more containers. Several times, she almost told him about the ticket, but always changed the subject.
On the first concert day, she woke early, with the same butterflies she felt before her O-levels. She cooked Simons supper ahead of time, rang him.
Ill be out tonight, she said. If you need me, call ahead.
Where are you off to? Simon sounded surprised.
She hesitated, not wishing to lie, nor to explain.
The Arts Centre, she said. A concert.
A long pause.
What concert? Mum, do you need that? Young crowd, noise, bustle
Its not a disco, Anne said, trying to sound calm. Its a romantic evening.
Whos going with you?
No one, she replied. I bought a ticket myself.
Another silence.
Mum, Simon began, are you serious? Times arent greatcouldnt you have?
I know, she cut in. But its my money.
The words came out sharper than expected. Her hand gripped the phone, bracing for anger.
Fine, he said, sighing. Yours to spend. But dont moan if you run short. And mind you keep warm. Reallyat your age
At my age, I can enjoy music in a hall. Im not hiking Ben Nevis.
He sighed again, softer now. All right, but ring me when you get home, so I wont fret.
I will, she promised.
After the call, she sat with the ticket for some time, hands trembling, feeling the rush of having done something almost rebellious. But she wanted to see it through.
That evening, she changed for the occasion: her best navy dress with the white collar, snag-free tights, sensible court shoes. She brushed her hair for longer than usual, smoothing the stray wisps.
It was nearly dark outside. Shops winked in the windows as she waited at the bus stop. She clutched her bag close: ticket, passport, tissues, tablets.
The bus was crowded; someone stepped on her foot and apologised. She gripped the rail, counting stops until hers. When her stop was called, she made her way off, quietly saying sorry when she brushed past others.
By the entrance to the Arts Centre, people milled of all ages. Some grey-haired couples, women her own age, even a few students in jeans. Annes nerves easedshe wasnt the oldest here after all.
She checked her coat, with the number tag jingling in her hand, then faltered, not sure where next. She spotted a sign: Auditorium. She followed the arrows, hand on the rail.
Inside, it was dim, with tiny lamps over the aisles. An usheress checked her ticket.
Row F, seat 9, she said, glancing at Annes card. Just through there.
Anne made her way along the row, whispering apologies as others stood to let her pass, then lowered herself into her seat, bag on her lap, heart poundingnot in fear anymore, but with anticipation.
The people around her chatted, flicked through programmes. She opened hers, sliding her finger down the list of songs. Most names meant little, but at the bottom, she recognised a composer shed heard on the radio long ago.
The lights sank. The compère took the stage, gave a brief welcome, but Anne barely heard. The thrill was in being here, among these strangers, for herself.
The first notes stirred goosebumps up her arms. The singers voice was low, smoky. Words of love and heartbreak, journeys far from home. Anne thought of sitting, decades ago, in a different citys hall, beside someone no longer there.
Her eyes stung, but she didnt cry. She let herself sit, clutching her bag, letting the music wash over her. Somewhere in these notes, her life stopped shrinking down to nothing but broccoli on offer, or the next grandchilds present.
At the interval, her calves ached, her back stiff. She walked a little in the foyer, where people sipped tea and nibbled Battenberg. She bought herself a small chocolate bara rare treat.
Tastes nice, she said aloud, taking a square.
A woman in a pale suit, about her age, smiled at her. Its a good concert, isnt it?
It is, Anne agreed. I havent been for years.
Me neither, the other said. Children, garden, houseyou put it off. Then one day, you think: if not now, when?
They traded small talk about the programme, the performer. The chimes summoned them back to their seats.
The second half flew by. Anne didnt think about cost or wasting money. She sat and listened. The applause at the end went on and on. She clapped too, until her palms tingled.
Outside, the night air was cool, clean. She walked to the stop with tired legs but a secret, simmering warmth in her heart: not euphoria, not triumph, just the sense shed done something for herself.
The first thing she did at home was phone Simon.
Im in. Alls well.
How was it, then? Not freezing, are you?
No. It was good.
He paused, then said, Thats what matters. Dont overdo it, thoughweve got to keep saving for the renovations.
I know. But the ticket covers three more concerts.
Three? He was surprised. Well, if youve paid, youd better go. Just dont overexert yourself.
After hanging up, Anne hung her coat and put her bag away. She made tea, sat quietly at the table. The ticket lay in front of her, a little creased. She traced the dates with a finger and jotted them in her calendar, circling them.
Next week, when Simon came asking for another contribution to some fundraiser, Anne looked over her figures for a long time before answering.
I can give you half, she said at last. I need the rest myself.
For what? he asked automatically.
She looked at his tired face, those dark eyes.
For myself, she said, steady. I need something as well.
He huffed, as if about to object, but stopped.
All right, Mum. Whatever you say.
That evening, alone, Anne got out her old photo album. There was her own young face, in a pale dress by a concert hall in a different city, clutching a programme, smiling shyly.
Long she studied that girls face, trying to line it up with the one in the mirror. Then she closed the album and replaced it on the shelf.
By the fridge magnet was a new slip, marked in large letters: Next concert15th. Underneath, Leave earlydont rush.
Her life hadnt been transformed overnight. She still cooked, did the washing, queued at the pharmacist, babysat her grandkids. Simon still asked for help, and she gave what she could. But somewhere in the shuffle, there was time of her own, plans she didnt have to justify.
Sometimes, passing the fridge, she touched the piece of paper, feeling that quiet, stubborn certainty: she was still living, still entitled to want.
One evening, flipping through the Gazette, Anne spotted an advert: Free English class for older adultslibrary enrolment, spaces limited.
She clipped the notice, put it by her ticket. Poured herself tea, wondering if that wasnt a step too bold.
Ill finish my concerts first, she resolved. Then well see.
She tucked the clipping into her notebook, but the thought of learning still didnt seem so far-fetched. Before bed, she went to the window, swept aside the curtain. Outside, street lamps glowed; a teenager in headphones ambled past, a boy booted a football along the path.
She braced a hand on the sill, feeling a calm strength settle in her chest. Life continuedbusyness, uncertainty, needs everywhere. But in amongst it all, there were four evenings marked in ink and, maybe, new words to learn.
She switched off the kitchen light, padded into bed and drew up the blankets neatly. Tomorrow would be the same: shops, calls, meals. But on the calendar, a small circle glowedand that changed something, whether or not anyone else saw.
