The Late Gift
The bus jerked to a halt and Anne Preston grabbed onto the pole with both hands, feeling the coarse plastic giving just a little beneath her fingers. The bag of groceries smacked her knees and the apples thudded dully inside. She stood by the doors, counting stops until hers.
Her earpiece fizzled softlyher granddaughter had insisted she keep it in: Nan, you never know, I might call! The phone was tucked in the outer pocket of her handbag, heavy as a brick. Anne checked for the third time that the zip was properly done up.
Already, she pictured herself stepping into her flat, dropping the bag on the hallway stool, changing into slippers, hanging up her coat and folding her scarf just so. Next, unpack the groceries, put carrots with the veg, chicken in the fridge, bread straight to the bread bin. Soup would go on the hob. Her son would pop in this evening to collect containersshift work, no time for cooking.
The bus braked and the doors flew open. Anne carefully made her way down the steps, gripping the rails, and emerged onto her street. Children ran wild with a football; a girl on a scooter nearly clipped her but veered off at the last moment. The entrance to her block reeked of cat food and stale tobacco.
In the hallway, Anne set down her bag, slipped off her shoes and nudged them against the skirting. Her coat went on the peg, scarf folded onto the shelf. She sorted her shoppingveg to the basket, chicken in the fridge, loaf into the breadbin. Out came the saucepan, water running until her palm was just covered at the bottom.
Her phone buzzed on the table. Anne wiped her hands on the tea towel and slid it close.
Yes, Simon, she said, leaning towards the phone as if that might help her hear her son.
All right, Mum? You okay? Simons voice hurried; someone was muttering behind him.
Im fine. Making soup. Are you coming by?
Yeah, in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum, the school are after another whip round for the classroom repairs. Could you? He trailed off. You know, like last time.
Anne reached for her folder, where she kept her grey notebook with her expenses.
How much? she asked.
If you can, a hundred quid. I mean, everyones chipping in, butwell, you know He sighed. Its a rough patch.
I understand, Anne said. Ill sort it.
Thanks, Mum. Youre golden. Ill pick it up later. Cant wait for your soup, either.
When the call ended, the saucepan was already on the boil. Anne chucked in the chicken, a pinch of salt, bay leaf. She sat at the table and opened her notebook. Under pension, a neat blue pen total. Below, council tax, medication, grandkids, unforeseen.
She added school repairs and paused before writing the amount. The figures shuffled about as if someone had given them a nudge. Less left than shed like. But not disastrous. Well manage, she thought, and closed the notebook.
On the fridge, a magnet with a miniature calendar had an advert tucked below: Community Hall. Season tickets available: Classical, Jazz, Theatre. Pensioner discounts. The magnet was a birthday present from her neighbour, Maureen, whod brought cake.
More than once, Anne had found herself reading season tickets while waiting for the kettle to boil. Today, her eyes snagged there again. Once, back before marriage, she and a mate would queue outside the concert hall for an hour to get in. Tickets cost spare change, but it meant shivering in line, stamping feet, laughing. Shed had long hair then, worn in a bun, best frock on, and the only pair of heels she owned.
Now, she pictured the hall, the way she hadnt seen a stage in ages. The grandkids dragged her to nativity plays, but that was never the same: noise, party poppers, sticky floors. What even played on concert hall stages nowadays? Who went?
She plucked the magnet off, flipped it. Website. Phone number. The website was mysterious territory, but the number She put the magnet back. Still, the idea wouldnt let go.
Nonsense, she told herself. Better put some aside for a coat for Beth. Shes growing like a weed. Everythings dear now.
She turned down the hob, sat back at the table but left the notebook closed. Instead, she fished out her old envelope from the drawerher rainy day fund. Notes, set aside month by month. Not enough for any big emergenciesmaybe for a broken washing machine or blood tests if it came to it.
Her fingers riffled the notes as she made a mental tally. The ads jingle flickered through her mind.
Come evening, Simon arrived. He whipped off his jacket, slung it over a chair, unpacked plastic tubs.
Ooh, borscht! Mum, you legend. You eaten?
Course I have. Help yourself. Ive got your money here, she said, counting out the hundred pounds from her envelope.
Mum, you really ought to write down what youve got left, he told her, taking the notes. What if you run short?
I write it all down, she replied. Everythings in order.
Youre the family bean counter, he grinned. Actually, can you do us another Saturday? Me and Tash have shopping and the kidstheres no one else.
I can, she nodded. What else would I be doing?
He filled her in on work, the new manager, more tangled policies. Lacing his shoes in the hall, he looked back.
Mum, do you ever buy yourself something? Its always grandkids and us.
Ive got everything I need, Anne insisted. What would I need?
He threw up his hands. All right. You know best. See you in the week.
After he left, silence took over the flat once more. Anne washed up and wiped the table, then read the magnet again. His words echoed: Do you ever buy yourself anything?
The next morning, she lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling. Grandkids at school and nursery, Simon at work. She had the day to herself, although in truth tasks filled every minute: water the plants, mop the kitchen, divvy up old newspapers.
She got up and did her gentle stretches like the doctor said: arms up, big reach, a few neck rolls. The kettle went on; tea leaves into her favourite mug. As she waited for the boil, she took the magnet off the fridge again.
Community Hall. Season Tickets
She picked up the phone and dialled the tiny-print number. Her heart gave a little hop. A couple of rings, then a woman answered:
Community Hall box office, how can I help?
Hello, Im enquiring about season tickets Anne heard her mouth go dry.
Of course, which events? Weve the orchestra, chamber music, romance evenings, childrens The box office lady had the patience of a saint.
Theres a pensioners discount, the lady went on, but its still a fair bit. Four shows in a package.
What about single tickets? Anne ventured.
You can get them, but its pricier. The package is better value.
Anne imagined her notebook, the envelope. She asked for the price. The answer thudded in her chest. Possible, just aboutthough itd leave the emergency fund barely breathing.
Well, have a think, said the box office. They get snapped up fast.
Thank you, Anne managed. She hung up.
The kettle shrieked. Anne poured herself a cup and sat at the table. On a clean sheet, she wrote: Season Ticket. Then the price. Four concerts. She tried dividing it up. Not as dire as shed feared. She mentally crossed off smaller luxuries: less chocolate, skip the salonshe could trim her fringe herself.
Faces floated up: Beth wanted new trainers for dance, Ben was eyeing a building set. Simon and Natashas mortgage woes. And then, her own tiny desireone that felt slightly shameful, as if she were off to something disreputable, not just a concert.
She closed the notebook, undecided, and got on with the mopping and laundry. Still, the thought of the concert hall lingered.
After lunch, the intercom buzzed. Maureen next door, bearing a jar of pickled onions.
Take these, she said, breezing into the kitchen. Ive got nowhere to put em. How are you?
Surviving, Anne smiled. Was just pondering
She trailed off, embarrassed.
Pondering what? Maureen settled in, knitting already out.
A concert, Anne confessed with a sigh. Theyre selling season tickets. I used to go to the concert hall in my youth. Now Im thinking: maybe I should. But its dear.
Maureen raised an eyebrow.
Why ask me? Its your evening out. If you fancy itgo.
Its the money Anne started.
Money, money! Maureen scoffed. Youve helped everyone your whole life. Gave Simon cash again, didnt you? You buy those grandkids presents. And what about you? Still dragging that old shawl around, same coat every winter. Why cant you splash out on music for once?
Its not the first time, Anne mumbled. I used to go all the time.
You mean back when you could get ice cream for twenty pence, Maureen smirked. Its a different world. Youre not asking them to fund it. Its your own.
Theyll say its daft, Anne said quietly. Better spent on the grandkids.
Dont tell them then, said Maureen, unconcerned. Say you went to the GP. Why should you sneak aboutarent you a grown woman?
Maureens youre not a child stung a bit. Anne felt prickles of shame and annoyance.
I do visit the GP, she grumbled. Still, its scary. What if I cant make it, if there are stairs
Theres a lift, silly, Maureen waved a hand. And youll be sitting the whole time, not running laps! I went to the theatre last monthsurvived. My knees ached, but my spirit was floating.
They chatted a while about the news and the cost of eye drops. After Maureen left, Anne grabbed the phone and, before she could change her mind, rang the box office again.
Id like to reserve a ticket for the romance evenings, she said.
She needed to appear in person with photo ID. Anne scribbled the address and opening times on a slip of paper and stuck it to the fridge. Her heart beat as if shed run for the bus.
That evening, Natasha rang.
Mrs Preston, are you all right for Saturday? Were hitting the retail parkhell of a sale.
Im fine to watch the kids, Anne replied.
Lovely. Well bring you something backmaybe some nice tea? Or towels?
No need, Anne said. Ive got everything.
Afterwards, she looked at her fridge note. The box office closed at six; shed head out early and take her time.
That night, she dreamt of a theatre: soft plush seats, lights, well-dressed people whispering politely. She sat in the middle, programme in hand, terrified of shifting even slightly.
In the morning, there was a weight in Annes chest. Why on earth did I get into this? she muttered. So much faff.
But the note stuck to the fridge didnt vanish. After breakfast, she dug out her best coat, checked for loose buttons, picked a warm scarf, her sturdiest shoes. In wen the passport, purse, specs, blood pressure pills, and water.
Before leaving, Anne perched on the hall stool, listening to her own body. No dizziness, legs steady. I can manage, she said aloud, and shut the door.
The bus stop was just a short stroll, but she walked slowly, counting her steps. The bus came quickly. It was crowded, but a young lad jumped up and offered his seat. Anne thanked him and sat, clutching her bag.
Two stops later, the Community Hall loomeda grand old building with columns and faded posters out front. Two women at the entrance chatted, arms flapping. Inside, it smelt of dust, wood polish, and a faint whiff of tea cakes from the café.
The box office was right there. The lady inside asked for her ID and which concerts she wanted.
We do a pensioners rate, she repeated. Fancy thatthere are good seats left, too.
She gestured to a diagram of little squares for the rows. Anne could hardly decipher it but nodded anyway.
The total made Annes hand shake a bit, but she took out her purse. Yet, for a split-second, she almost bailed, wanted to say shed come back another day. The queue behind rustled, someone coughed, and Anne laid the notes down, looking the other way.
Heres your season ticket, the woman said, handing over a glossy card with dates. First concert is in a fortnight. Arrive a bit early to find your seat.
The ticket was surprisingly handsomea photo of the stage, inside a neat print of show names. Anne slotted it between her passport and her dog-eared old recipe book.
Exiting, she felt wobbly and sat on the bench outside, took a sip of water. Nearby, two teens were discussing bands shed never heard of, and she found herself listening as if they spoke another language.
Well, thats that, she thought. No backing out now.
Two weeks slipped by with everyday things. Grandkids sniffly, so Anne made stews and checked temperatures. Simon fetched groceries, scooped up leftovers. On several occasions she almost spilled about the concerts, but always changed the subject.
On the day of her first concert, Anne woke up with a twist in her stomach, like she used to before an exam. She prepped Simons dinner in advance, rang him up.
Im out tonight, she said. If you need anything, give me a ring earlier.
Out? Where? he sounded bemused.
She hesitated. She hated fibbing, but also hated explaining.
The Community Hall, she said. For a concert.
A silence.
A concert? Mum, is that wise? Itll be all youngsters, noisy, jostling.
Its not a nightclub, she replied. Its romance songs.
Who talked you into it?
No one, she answered. I bought myself a season ticket.
An even longer pause.
Mum Simon began. Look, you know things are tight. You couldvewell, never mind.
I know, Anne said firmly. But it was my money.
She surprised herself, her own resolve. She gripped the phone, bracing for a lecture.
Alright then, Simon relented. Your call. Dont grumble later if youre short. And dont get cold. At your age
At my age, Im allowed to sit and listen to music, she interrupted. Its not an Everest expedition.
He huffed, softened. Fine. Ring me when youre home, okay? Dont make me worry.
I will, Anne promised.
She sat for a while with the ticket spread out, hands shaking, feeling like shed done something scandalous. But she wasnt about to back off.
That evening, Anne changed into her best: navy dress with a smart collar, snag-free tights, softest shoes. She brushed her hair longer than usual, taming stray wisps.
It was already dusk when she left. The shops windows glinted, people queued at the stop. She clutched her handbagticket, passport, hankie, pills all zipped up.
The bus, as always, was crammed. Someone trod on her foot, apologised. Anne gripped the rail, counting stops. Alighting at her target, she squeezed out and shuffled towards the hall.
Outside, people of every age milled around. Old couples, women her age, even a few young blokes in trainers. Anne relaxed a touch. She wasnt the oldest after all.
In the cloakroom, she handed over her coat for a ticket, lingered, unsure where next. A sign Hall pointed the way. She followed the handrail.
Inside was half-dark: tiny lights over the rows. At the door, an usher checked tickets.
Row six, seat nine, the lady said. Over there, please.
Apologising every step, Anne shimmied along the row and squeezed into her seat, bag on her knees. Her heart thumped, but it was anticipation now.
People chattered, leafing through programmes. Anne did the same, tracing names she didnt know. A composer from old radio days caught her eye at the bottom.
The house lights dimmed. The compère said a few wordsAnne barely caught them, she was too wrapped up in the feeling of being there, not home stirring soup.
As the first chords struck up, Anne shivered. The singers voice was rich, ever so slightly husky. Love, longing, goodbyesall the well-worn themes suddenly felt personal. She remembered, sharply, sitting with someone long gone, in a different hall, a different life.
Her eyes stung, but she didnt cryjust squeezed her bag a bit tighter and listened. Gradually, her body unwound. Breathing steadied. The music filled the space, and for a while, Annes life wasnt just a series of chores and budgets.
During the interval, her legs ached, back stiffening, so she wandered out into the foyer. People mulled about, dissecting the setlist. Some ate pastries, others sipped tea from flimsy cups. Anne, on impulse, bought a little Cadburys bar, even though she usually deemed such things extravagant.
Tasty, she murmured aloud, snapping off a bit.
A fellow concertgoerwavy grey hair, neat blazersmiled at her.
Cracking show, isnt it? she said.
Wonderful, Anne replied. Ive not done this in years.
Me neither, said her companion. Always too busy with grandkids, garden, you know. But I thought, if not now, when?
They shared a few words about the singer, the venue. The bell rang, and they drifted back.
The second half flew by. Anne barely thought of the cost or the coins left at home. After a standing ovation, she clapped until her hands hurt.
Outside, the air was frosty and bracing. On the way to the bus stop, her legs were tired but her chest felt light. Not a rush of joy exactlybut the sense shed done something good for herself, however small.
At home, she rang Simon.
Im in. Alls well, she said.
So, what did you think? he asked. Not too cold?
No, not at all, Anne replied. It was lovely.
He hesitated, then said, Good. As long as youre happy. Just dont go wild. Weve still got to save up for the bathroom.
I know, she replied. But Ive bought the season ticketthree concerts left to go.
Three? He sounded amazed. Well, if youve already paid, best get your moneys worth. Just mind yourself.
Afterwards, Anne hung up her coat, set her bag aside, and made tea in the kitchen. She lay her pretty ticket on the table, a bit creased at the edges. She stroked it, then copied all the concert dates into her wall calendar and circled them.
A week later, when Simon asked for another loan for something-or-other, Anne looked down at her notebook and thought hard before saying,
I can only manage half. I need some left this time.
For what? he asked automatically.
She met his tired gaze, the shadows under his eyes.
For me, she said, quietly. I need a little myself.
He wanted to argue, but gave up.
All right, Mum. As you wish.
That evening, Anne fetched out her old photo album from the cupboard. There she washer younger self, in a light dress, outside a concert hall years ago. A paper programme in hand, a shy smile on her face.
She stared at it for ages, trying to reconcile that smile with her reflection now. Then she closed the album and put it away.
On the fridge, next to the calendar magnet, she pinned a fresh note: Next concert15th. Underneath, Leave earlydont forget.
Her life wasnt transformed overnight. She still made soup, did laundry, went to the GP, watched the grandkids. Simon still asked for help, and she helped where she could. But in the background now was a quiet certainty: her own plans, not needing justification.
Sometimes, walking by the fridge, Annes fingers would brush the reminder. And always there was that stubborn, gentle certainty: she was still here, and she still got to want things.
One evening, leafing through the local paper, she spotted a notice for a free English Conversation Club at the library: strictly for older learners, must register in advance.
Anne tore it out, folded it and tucked it, along with her concert card, in the back of her notebook. She sat with her tea, wondering if that wasnt going a little too far.
Lets finish the concerts first, she decided. Then well see.
She left the paper in her notebook, but already, the idea that she could learn something new didnt seem quite so absurd.
That night before bed, she stood by the window, peeking round the curtain. The streetlight glowed, a teenager trudged by, headphones on; a small boy bounced his football along the path.
Anne stood, resting on the sill, a calmness settling in her chest. Life carried on, with its worry and limits. But somewhere amid all that, four evenings in a concert halland perhaps the first lines of a new languagehad found a place.
She turned off the light in the kitchen, headed for bed, and pulled up her covers. Tomorrow would be ordinary again: the shops, the phone, a bubbling pot. But now her calendar had a small, bright circle. And, even if nobody else noticed, it had changed something important.
