A Belated Gift The bus jolted suddenly, and Mrs. Anna Peterson gripped the rail with both hands, feeling the rough plastic flex beneath her fingers. Her shopping bag knocked against her knees, apples shifting quietly inside. She stood near the exit, mentally counting the stops to her own. Soft static whispered in her earphones—a request from her granddaughter: “Granny, just in case I call.” The phone, heavy as a stone, lay zipped in her outer bag pocket. Still, Anna double-checked to be sure the zip was closed. She pictured the homecoming: set the shopping on the kitchen stool, change her shoes, hang up her coat and scarf just so. She’d unpack the groceries, start soup. Later, her son would stop by—he was on shift, no time to cook. The bus braked, the doors swung open. Anna Peterson made her way down the steps cautiously, gripping the rail, stepping out in front of her building. Children were racing across the court with a football; one girl nearly clipped her on a scooter, swerving at the last moment. The air by the front door was thick with cat food and cigarette smoke. Inside, she set down her bag, unwound her scarf, arranged the purchases: carrots with the vegetables, chicken in the fridge, bread in the tin. She filled a saucepan, palm over the base, hearing the kettle whir. The phone on the table vibrated. She wiped her hands on a towel and drew it closer. “Yes, Sasha?” she said, bending slightly as if it would bring her son’s voice nearer. “Hi Mum. How are you?” His voice was brisk; someone was speaking in the background. “All fine. Soup’s on. Will you be coming in?” “Yes, in a couple hours. Listen, Mum, we’ve got that fundraiser for the nursery again, for the group’s repair. Could you… you know, like last time?” Anna was already reaching for the drawer with her grey accounts notebook. “How much?” she asked. “Three hundred, if you can. Everyone’s chipping in, but… well, you know. It’s tough right now.” “I understand,” she said. “Alright, I’ll sort it.” “Thanks, Mum. You’re a gem. I’ll pop by later for it—and some of that soup of yours.” By the end of the call, the pot was nearly boiling. Anna dropped in chicken, salt, bay leaf. Seated at the table, she opened her notebook. Under “Pension” was the neatly written sum in biro, and underneath—utilities, medicines, “grandchildren,” “emergencies.” She wrote “nursery” and the amount, pausing as her pen hovered. The numbers edged together like they’d been nudged from below. Not as much left as she’d like—but not a disaster either. “We’ll manage,” she thought, closing the book. On the fridge, a calendar magnet dangled with the advert: “Village Arts Centre. Season passes. Classical, jazz, theatre. Pensioner discounts.” A gift from neighbour Tamara, who’d brought cake for her birthday. Anna had found herself lingering on that word, “passes,” whenever she waited for the kettle. She remembered long ago, before marriage, queueing with her friend for the Philharmonic on winter evenings. Tickets cost pennies, but came with hours in line, shivering and giggling. She hadn’t seen a real stage in years—grandkids now dragged her to Christmas pantos, all clatter and noise. This was different. She didn’t even know what concerts the centre held anymore, or who went. She peeled off the magnet, checked its back: a website she didn’t recognise, but a phone number—she replaced the magnet, mind circling. “Silly,” she told herself. “That money’s better put aside for Sophie’s coat; she’s outgrowing everything, and prices are up.” She turned to the stove, lowered the heat. At the table she didn’t reopen her accounts, but instead pulled out her “rainy day” envelope, stowed with careful notes and coins. Not much, but enough for an emergency, if need be. Her fingers sifted the notes as that magnetic advert nagged her. That evening her son came by. He hung his coat, collected soup containers. “Ooh, borscht!” he grinned. “Typical you, Mum. You eaten?” “I have, I have. Sit down, help yourself. The money’s ready,” she said, passing him the counted notes. “Mum, at least jot down what you’ve got left,” he chided, pocketing the cash. “You don’t want to run short.” “I do, always,” she replied. “Everything’s in order.” “You’re our family accountant,” he smiled. “By the way, you free to watch the kids Saturday? We’ve got shopping to do.” “Of course,” she said. “Not much else on here.” He nattered about work, new rules, his boss. Pulling on his shoes, he said, “Mum, do you ever buy yourself anything? It’s always for us, for the grandkids.” “I’ve got all I need,” she replied. “What more do I want?” He waved, “Alright, you know best. I’ll drop in next week.” When he left, quiet settled anew. Anna washed up, wiped the table, and glanced at the magnet. In her head, his voice echoed: “Do you get anything for yourself?” Morning found her staring at the ceiling for some time. No visitors were due; the day should have felt free, though her list teemed with chores. She did her physio as the doctor directed, boiled the kettle, set the tea to steep. As it bubbled, again the magnet drew her gaze. “Village Arts Centre. Season passes…” Anna picked up the phone, dialled the small-printed number. Her heart fluttered as the dial tone whirred. “Village Arts Centre, box office—how can I help?” “Hello,” Anna said, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m calling about… your season passes?” “Yes, love. Which programme interests you?” “I… I’m not sure. Which ones do you have?” Patiently, the woman listed them: symphony or chamber music, romance evenings, children’s series. “Pensioners get a discount,” she added. “But the pass is a decent sum. Four concerts.” “And single tickets?” Anna asked. “Possible, but costs a little more per show. The season’s better value.” Anna pictured the sums in her notebooks, the envelope in her drawer. She asked the price—and the figure landed heavy in her thoughts. Doable, if she used up most of her “emergency” money. “Have a think, love. Passes go quickly,” the woman said. “Thank you,” Anna replied, hanging up. The kettle whistled. Anna poured her tea, sat, pulled her notebook close. She wrote on a blank page: “Season pass,” and alongside it: the price. Four concerts. She divided the amount in her head—less daunting monthly. She could buy fewer sweets, trim her hair herself. Faces of her grandchildren floated up. Ben wanted a new Lego. Molly, dance shoes. Her son sighed endlessly over mortgage repayments. And yet, this small, stubborn wish for herself felt nearly shameful. She closed the book undecided, scrubbed the floors, sorted the laundry. But the image of the hall stuck fast in her mind. After lunch, the intercom rang. Tamara, with a jar of homemade pickles. “Here you go,” she bustled in. “Now tell me, how are you?” “I’m alright,” Anna smiled. “Just… thinking.” “About?” Anna hesitated, embarrassed. “A concert,” she blurted. “There’s season passes on offer. I used to go, in my youth… It’s quite expensive.” Tamara raised her eyebrows. “What are you asking me for? It’s for you. If you want, go.” “But the money—” Anna began. “Money, money,” Tamara waved. “Haven’t you spent your whole life on your family? Gave your son a loan, got the grandkids presents. You’ve worn the same coat since God-knows-when. Of course you can buy yourself music, for once.” “Not for once; I did, before—” Anna protested. “That was when ice cream was tuppence,” Tamara snorted. “It’s different now. Your money—spend it how you like.” “They’ll only say it’s foolish,” Anna whispered. “That it should go on the kids.” “So don’t tell them,” Tamara shrugged. “Say you were at the surgery. Or—no, why hide? You’re not a child.” Anna flinched at that: not a child. She was half insulted, half ashamed. “I go to the surgery plenty,” Anna said quietly. “But it’s daunting—the walk, the stairs, my heart—” “There’s a lift,” Tamara dismissed. “And you’ll be sitting, not dancing! I went to the theatre last month, didn’t die of it—left with a year’s memories.” After Tamara left, Anna picked up the phone and dialled: “I’d like to book a season pass—for the romance evenings, please.” She was told to come in with her ID. She wrote down the address and pinned it by magnet to the fridge, her heart racing. That night her daughter-in-law called: “Saturday—are you sure you can watch the little ones?” “Yes, absolutely,” Anna replied. “Thank you—could we bring you something? Tea? New towels?” “No thanks,” said Anna. “I’ve all I need.” After hanging up, Anna eyed the note on the fridge. The box office closed at six; she’d need to set out early. That night Anna dreamed of the concert hall: plush seats, spotlights, the hush of a crowd. She sat halfway down, programme in hand, hardly daring to move lest she bother others. She woke the next morning tense. “Why did I start all this—so much fuss,” she thought. But the note on the fridge didn’t vanish. After breakfast, she dressed in her best coat, shook it free of dust, picked a warm scarf, her comfortable shoes. She packed her passport, wallet, glasses, blood pressure tablets, a small bottle of water. She sat on the hall stool before leaving, checking herself for dizziness, trembling. “Right, I’ll be fine,” she told herself, shutting the door. The bus was busy, but a young lad gave up his seat. Anna thanked him and sat by the window, clutching her handbag. The Arts Centre was two stops from the centre—pillared, poster-lined, the scent of dust and polish inside. The box office woman greeted her, took her ID, and explained options. Pensioner discount—still a hefty sum, but good seats remained. Anna listened as the explanation went over her head, just nodded. When asked for the money, her hand shook slightly. She counted out the notes, nearly saying she’d changed her mind, but the person behind her was fidgeting, and she handed the cash over. “Here’s your pass, love. First concert’s in a fortnight. Come early to find your seat.” The pass itself was beautiful: photograph of the hall on the front, neatly printed dates inside. Anna slipped it carefully into her bag, with her passport and her battered recipe book. She sat outside on the bench for a moment, catching her breath, as teenagers nearby debated bands she’d never heard of. “Well,” Anna thought, “I’ve done it. No going back now.” Two weeks flew in a blur of daily tasks—grandkids ill, soup on, thermometer checks. Her son fetched groceries, took home Tupperware. Several times Anna almost told him about the pass, but always changed topic. The morning of the first concert, she woke early, jittery as before an exam. She prepped supper, rang her son: “I won’t be home this evening. If you need me, call early.” “Where are you off to?” he asked. She hesitated—she hated to lie. “The Arts Centre,” she said. “A concert.” A pause. “Seriously, Mum? You know things are tight. That money could have—” “I know,” she replied, firmly. “But it’s my money.” He sighed. “Alright, yes, it’s yours. Just don’t complain if you run short later. And wrap up warm, alright? At your age—” “Even at my age, I can sit in a hall and listen to music,” she said. “I’m not climbing Everest.” A second sigh, softer. “Fine. Just let me know you’re home safe?” “I will.” She sat for a long while, hands shaking. What she’d done felt brazen, a little shameful. She didn’t care to retreat. In the evening she put on her best dress, navy blue with a neat collar; ladder-free tights, low-heeled shoes. She brushed her hair extra carefully. Dusk was falling as she stepped out, reflected shopfront lights, crowds at the bus stop. She hugged her bag with the pass, passport, handkerchief, tablets. The bus was packed; someone stepped on her foot and murmured an apology. She counted stops, squeezed through at hers. Outside the Arts Centre people milled—older couples, middle-aged women, even a few students. Anna felt nerves ease a little. She wasn’t the eldest. She checked her coat, took her ticket, stood unsure. The arrow for “Auditorium” pointed onwards. She followed, steadying herself on the rail. The hall was half-dark, lights twinkling over the rows. A lady checked her ticket: “Row six, seat nine, love.” Anna edged along, apologising as people stood for her. She sat, bag on knees, heart loud but now with anticipation. People murmured, flipped through programmes. Anna did likewise, tracing the song titles. At the bottom, the name of a composer she’d listened to in wartime crackled from old radios. The lights dimmed further, the host stepped out. Anna half-heard the words, lost in the quiet thrill of being here, not just in her kitchen. When the first notes sounded, a shiver prickled up her back. The singer’s voice was low, husky, singing of love, parting, journeys—suddenly close to Anna’s own memories: another hall, another city, another life. She did not cry, but sat tightly holding her bag, listening. Slowly, muscles uncoiled, breathing evened. Letting the music fill her, life seemed, for a time, not just a string of duties and economy. During the interval, her legs ached; she walked the foyer, saw people discussing the programme, nibbling cakes, sipping tea. Anna bought herself a tiny chocolate, something she’d once considered an extravagance. “Tastes good,” she said aloud. A smart woman of similar age smiled at her. “Lovely concert, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Anna answered. “It’s been a long time.” They compared notes, chatted about the singer. Then the bell; everybody filed back. The second half felt shorter. Anna no longer dwelt on the cost, simply listened. When the concert ended, applause thundered. Anna clapped until her palms stung. Outside, the air was brisk. She made her way to the bus feeling a quiet warmth—not elation, nor pride, just a deep sense of having done something for herself at last. At home she phoned her son. “Home safe,” she reported. “It was lovely.” He asked if she was cold. She said, “No, it was… just right.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m glad if it made you happy, Mum. Just—don’t go mad with the spending! We still need to save, after all.” “I know,” she replied. “But I’ve the pass already—three concerts left.” “Three?” he echoed, surprised. “Well, as you’ve paid, you might as well go. Take care, though.” She hung up, slipped off her coat, set down her bag. In the kitchen, tea steaming, she laid out her concert pass, ran a finger along its edge, and copied the dates neatly into the paper calendar—circling each one. Next week, when her son again asked for a loan, she checked her notebook and said, “I can only give you half. The rest I’ll need.” “For what?” he asked automatically. Looking at his tired face, the dark rings beneath his eyes, Anna replied gently, “For myself. There are things I need, too.” He made to protest, but stopped. “Alright, Mum. If you say so.” That evening, alone, Anna fetched down the old family album. There she was: a young woman, pale frock in front of a concert hall, clutching a programme, coy smile. She studied the old face, tried to reconcile it with the mirror’s. Slipped the album away. On the fridge she pinned another note: “Next concert—15th.” Underneath, “Leave home early.” Her life didn’t change overnight. She still made soup, scrubbed floors, visited the surgery, sat with grandchildren. Her son still borrowed, and she helped, as she could. But now, threaded through the days, was a sense of time reserved for herself, small plans to keep, justified to no one. Sometimes, passing the fridge, she’d touch the date on the note—a quiet, stubborn reminder: I am alive, and I am allowed to want. One evening, flicking through the local paper, Anna found an advert for free English classes for seniors at the library—book early, the notice read. She tore out the slip, tucked it by her concert pass. Made her tea, debated if this was too bold. “I’ll finish my concerts first,” Anna decided. “Then we’ll see.” She slipped the paper into her notebook, but the thought of learning again didn’t seem impossible anymore. At bedtime, she drew her curtains, watched as streetlights shone outside—boys in tracksuits, a lonely football. Standing in the window’s glow, Anna felt a calm spread in her chest. Life ticked on, full of chores and limitations, but somewhere in the cracks was space for four evenings in the concert hall—and maybe, soon, a handful of unfamiliar words. She clicked off the kitchen light and settled into bed, smoothing her quilt. Tomorrow would be another ordinary day: shopping, calls, cooking. But the calendar bore a circle now—a small one, quietly shifting everything, whether anyone else noticed or not.

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.