A Late Gift
The bus halted with a jolt, and I grasped the handrail tightly, fingers pressing into its worn surface. The bag of groceries thudded against my knees, apples tumbling dully inside. I was poised by the door, quietly counting stops to mine.
There was a soft hiss from my earphones, but Id promised my granddaughter not to turn my phone off: Nana, just in caseI might ring you. The phone weighed heavily in my outside bag pocket, like a lead weight. Still, I double-checked that the zip was fastened.
In my mind, I pictured letting myself into the flat, setting my shopping on the kitchen stool, stepping out of my shoes, hanging my coat and tucking my scarf neatly on the shelf. Id unpack the groceriescarrots with the other veg, chicken in the fridge, bread in the bread binthen start on a pot of soup. My son would pop by in the evening, collecting containers of food before night shiftno time for cooking himself.
As the bus braked and the doors opened, I made my way carefully down the steps, gripping the rail, and stepped out near my estate. Children dashed about with a football; a little girl on a scooter nearly clipped me, but veered away at the last second. The scent of cat food and cigarette smoke wafted from the entrance.
In the hallway, I set down my bag, slipped off my shoes, pushing them neatly toe-in to the wall. Coat on the hook, scarf folded. I sorted my purchases: carrots joined the others, the chicken went into the fridge, bread into the tin. I fetched the saucepan and filled it just to cover the base with my hand.
My phone vibrated on the table. I dried my hands and pulled it closer.
Yes, Simon? I said, leaning in as if his voice would come through clearer.
Hi Mum. How are you? He sounded rushed; someone else spoke in the background.
All right. Making soup. Are you popping in?
Yeah, Ill be there in about two hours. Listen, Mum, schools at us againanother collection for the classroom repairs. Can you well, like last time?
Id already reached for my grey expense book in the drawer, where all my bits and bobs lived.
How much do you need? I asked.
If you could manage sixty pounds. Everyones chipping in, but you know Its tough right now.
Of course, I said. Ill do it.
Thanks, Mum. Youre a star. Ill pick it up later. And some of that soup, too.
The water was reaching a boil by the end of the call. I dropped in the chicken, a pinch of salt, a bay leaf. Then sat down with my little book, where my pension was entered in neat biro, followed by council tax, prescriptions, grandchildren, emergencies.
I added school repairs, pausing as I wrote. The numbers scraped together like mismatched tiles; not as much as Id have liked left over, but not a disaster. Well manage, I thought, closing the book.
On my fridge, a magnet held a mini calendar. At the bottom, a little advert read: Community Hall. Season Tickets: Classical, Jazz, Theatre. Pensioner discounts available. The neighbour, Margaret, had given it me with a cake for my last birthday.
Several times in these past weeks, Id found myself reading that slip while waiting for the kettle. Today, my eye snagged once more on Season Tickets. I remembered, before I was married, queueing for Philharmonic tickets with a friendfreezing, shifting foot to foot, laughing. I used to wear my hair long then, twisted in a bun, my best dress, only pair of proper heels.
I tried to picture the concert hallhadnt seen one in years. The grandchildren drag me to pantomimes and childrens evenings, but its not the same: loud, party poppers, clapping. But thisI wouldnt even know what music they played now, or who went.
I plucked off the magnet, flipped it overjust a website and a phone number. Websites made no sense to me, but a phone number I put the magnet back, though the thought clung.
Silly, I scolded myself. Best save for a coat for Emma, shes growingeverythings so expensive.
I turned down the stove, went back, but left the book shut. From the drawer I took an old envelope where I kept my rainy day cash. Not much, some put aside over the monthsbut enough, if I was careful, for a washing machine repair or extra doctors fees.
I counted quietly, sifting through the notes as the advert buzzed in my mind.
That evening Simon arrived, shrugged off his coat, hung it on the chair, unpacked containers from his bag.
Ah, stew! he grinned. Mum, you always know. Have you eaten?
I have, I have. Help yourself. Ive got your money ready, handing him sixty pounds from the envelope.
Mum, you do keep track of whats left, dont you? Wouldnt want you running short.
I write it all down, I said. Its all in order.
Youre our accountant. He chuckled. By the way, could you watch the kids on Saturday again? Tanya and I need to pop to Tesco.
Of course, I nodded. Ive nothing else on.
He updated me on work, his boss, the new rules. At the door, he turned, shoes half on: Mum, do you ever buy anything for yourself? Youre always thinking of the grandkids, and us.
Ive everything I need. What more could I want?
He waved me off: Suit yourself. See you in the week.
When hed gone, the flat was silent once more. I cleared the dishes, wiped the table. My gaze returned to the magnet. Simons words echoed: Do you ever buy anything for yourself?
In the morning, I lay gazing at the ceiling. The grandkids were at nursery and school, Simon at work; no one due till the evening. The day was full of choreswatering plants, mopping, bundling papersbut I felt oddly loose, as if something might be possible.
I did my exercises as the doctor had shown me: raising arms, stretching, rolling my head. Set the kettle, spooned tea leaves into a cup. While it boiled, I slipped the magnet off the fridge again.
Community Hall. Season Tickets
I fetched the phone, dialled the small printed number. My heart beat harder than usual. Four rings, then a womans voice:
Community Hall, box office.
Hello, I said, feeling my mouth go dry. About the, er, season tickets
Yes, of course. For which series?
I Im not sure, what do you have?
She described: symphony orchestra, chamber music, Classics Evenings, some childrens shows.
We do pensioners rates. Four performances in a package.
And single tickets? I ventured.
You can, but its pricier per event. Season tickets are better value.
The figure she quoted landed heavily in my headnot impossible, but it would mean my rainy day fund wasnt just smaller, it was almost bare.
Think it over, she suggested. But they go quickly.
Thank you. I hung up.
The kettle whistled. I poured the tea, sat at the table, and flipped to a clean page in my expense book. Season Ticket, I wrote, and next to it the cost. Four concerts. If I spread that over the months, it wasnt so scary. Cut back on a few little things. Delay a haircutI could do it myself for now.
The faces of the grandchildren floated into memory: Ben wanting a new set for his models, Emma after dance trainers. Simon and Tanya with their mortgage sighs. And then, mischievously, my own longing, private and faintly embarrassing, as if a concert was a guilty secret.
I closed the book, undecided. Washed the floor, sorted the laundry, draped it to dry. Still, the thought of the concert hall wouldnt leave me.
After lunch, the buzzer rangMargaret, next door, arrived with a jar of home-made pickles.
Take theseIve run out of space. How are you keeping? She squeezed into the kitchen, knitting in hand.
Im managing, I smiled. Just… pondering something.
Oh? Such as? She settled, needles already clicking.
A concert, I blurted. They’re selling season tickets at the community hall. I used to go, back in the day. Now Im thinking of it. But its not cheap.
She arched her eyebrow. Why ask me? Its for your pleasure! Do you want to go?
Its the money… I began.
Oh, money! You spend your life helpinggave Simon extra again? Yes. Gifts for grandkids? Always. But what about yourself? Still wearing that old shawl, same coat every winter. Let yourself have some music, just once.
Its not just onceI used to go all the time.
That was back when ice cream was tuppence, she smirked. Different days. Its your money.
Theyll say its silly, I said. Say I should save for the children.
So dont mention it, she shrugged. Tell them you popped to the doctor. Actually, why hide? Youre no child.
Her youre no child stung, mixing shame and strange emboldenment.
I do plenty of clinics as it is, I retorted. Still, what if I get there and cant manage the steps, what if my heart
Theyve got a lift,” Margaret brushed away the worry. “And youll be sitting, not running about. I went to the theatre last monthfelt wonderful after, even if my legs ached.
We chatted about the news and prescription prices. Once shed gone, I rang the box office before I could lose courage.
Id like a season ticket, for Classics Evenings.
They asked me to come in person with my ID. I wrote down the address and hours and pinned the note on the fridge. My heart pounded as though Id just gone for a brisk walk.
That night, Tanya called:
Hi Mrs. Porter. You can do Saturday? Theres a sale on electronics at Argos.
Yes, Ill help, I said.
Bless youcan I bring you tea, towels, anything?
No need. Im fine, really.
Afterwards, I stared at the notepaper by the fridge. Box office closed at six; better set out early, give myself plenty of time.
That night, I dreamed of a softly-lit theatre, velvet seats, people in their best clothes. I sat mid-row, clutching a programme, nervous lest I disturb the neighbours.
In the morning, heavy-hearted, I wondered why Id set myself this bother. But the note was still there. After my tea, I took out my best coat, brushed it down, checked the buttons, picked a warm scarf and the sturdiest shoes. My handbag now held my ID, purse, glasses, blood pressure tablets, and a small water bottle.
I sat on the hallway stool, listening to myself. Head clear, legs steady. Right, I said, and headed out.
The bus stop was close by, but I walked slow, counting paces. On the bus, a kind young lad offered me a seat. I thanked him, cradling my bag.
The community hall was only two stops past the shops: pillars, concert posters across the front. At the door, two ladies waved and talked. Inside, it smelled of old wood and sweets from the café.
Box office on the right. The woman behind the glass smiled. I handed over my ID and named my chosen concerts.
Weve a reduced rate for pensioners. Youre luckygood seats remain in the centre.
She pointed out my spot on a little map, all small rectangles. I nodded, hardly sure what I was seeing.
Hand trembling, I fished out the money. For a moment, I nearly said Id changed my mind, but the queue behind nudged me on. Without looking, I slid notes across the counter.
Heres your season ticket, she said, handing me a glossy pass with dates inside. First concerts in two weeks. Do come early, find your place.
It was a beautiful card, photograph of the stage on the cover, crisp details inside. I tucked it safely between my ID and my old recipe book.
Outside, my legs were wobbly. I rested on a bench, took a sip of water. Two teenagers smoked nearby, chatting about music Id never heard of. I found myself listening as if to a foreign language.
Well then, I thought. Its done. No going back now.
The fortnight sped by as usual. The grandchildren came down with colds; I nursed them, boiled fruity teas, took temperatures. Simon brought groceries, took leftovers. I almost told him about the ticket a dozen times, but always changed the subject at the last moment.
On the day of the concert, I woke early, nervous as for an exam. I made dinner early, so nothing would rush me later, called Simon.
Ill be out this evening, I said. Ring me if you need anything.
Where are you off to? he sounded surprised.
A pause. I didnt want to lie, but didnt want to admit it either.
The Community Hall. Theres a concert.
A long silence.
What concert? Do you really need to, Mum? Itll be packed with youngsters, noisy
Its not a disco. Its for classicssongs, not pop.
And whos taking you?
No one. I bought the ticket myself.
Another, longer pause.
Mum, he said eventually, are you serious? You know things are tight. You could use that cash well, you know.
I know, I said, quietly firm. But its my money.
Even I was surprised at how confident I sounded. I held the phone, bracing.
All right, Simon exhaled. Its your call. Just promise youll be sensible, ring when youre home. And wrap up warm. And at your age
At my age, Im allowed to listen to music in a chair, I said. Its hardly climbing Ben Nevis.
He sighed, softer now. Fine. Ring me later.
I will.
Afterwards, I sat for ages at the table, staring at my concert pass, hands trembling: the feeling of something bold, almost improper. I didnt want to back out.
In the evening I dressed in my best: navy dress, neat collar, tights without ladders, comfortable shoes. I spent longer than usual brushing my hair, smoothing down the flyaways.
It had started to grow dark when I stepped out. The rows of shopfronts shone with light, people gathering by the bus shelter. I hugged my bag tighter, holding ticket, ID, tissues, pills.
Bus full again. Someone stepped on my footapologised. I kept count of the stops, eased my way to the door.
At the Community Hall entrance, people of all ages mingled: older couples, women my age, a few young men in jeans. I was relievedI wasnt the only pensioner by a long stretch.
In the cloakroom, I surrendered my coat, accepted a numbered token, and hovered uncertainly. Spotted the Auditorium sign and followed the corridor, running a hand along the rail.
Inside, it was dim, little bulbs glinting above the rows. An usher checked my ticket.
Row F, seat 9, she smiled. Right this way.
I shuffled along, apologising as people stepped aside, found my seat, lowered myself carefully, bag tight in lap. My heart thumped, but it was anticipation, not fear this time.
People whispered, leafed through programmes. I opened mine, tracing the listingssome unfamiliar, but at the bottom saw a composer Id heard on the radio, once upon a time.
The lights dimmed. A woman came onstage, introduced the evening. I barely absorbed the wordswhat mattered was being here, in this crowd, not hunched over the stove.
The first notes tingled up my spine. The singers voice was rich, slightly rough, words of love and longing and journeys suddenly close. I remembered, once, being in a similar hall, in another town, with someone long gone.
My eyes prickled but didnt spill. I sat, gripping the bags edge, listening. Slowly, I felt my body relax, my breath smooth out. The music filled the room, and for the first time in ages, my life wasnt just a list of chores and budgets.
During the interval my legs ached, back stiff. I wandered the foyer, stretching. People milled about, chatting. Some nibbled pastries, others sipped tea from plastic cups. I bought myself a small chocolatenormally a luxury.
Lovely, I said aloud, snapping off a corner.
Next to me, a woman about my age, smartly dressed, smiled.
Good concert, isnt it? she remarked.
It is, I nodded. I havent been in ages.
Me either, she said. Grandkids and gardening, always busy. But I realised: if not now, when?
We exchanged a few words about the show and the singer, then the bell rang, everyone drifting back.
The second half flew by. I no longer worried about the price, or how many numbers were left in my book. I simply sat and listened. When it ended, people clapped for ages. I applauded until my palms tingled.
The night air was crisp; I walked to the bus stop, legs tired, but with a warm steady glow inside. Not euphoriabut a quiet certainty that Id done something for myself, however small.
At home, I rang Simon.
Im back, I said. All fine.
How was it? Not cold?
No. It was good.
He paused, then: Long as youre happy. But dont get carried awaywe still need to save for repairs.
I know. But Ive got three concerts left on the pass.
Three? he repeated, surprised. Well, since youve got it, you may as well go. Just take care.
I hung up, put my coat away, bag on its shelf. Made myself tea, sat at the table. Turned the season ticket in my hands, a little scuffed at the edges. I wrote the concert dates into my wall calendar, circling each gently.
Next week, when Simon asked for another contribution for some school event, I studied my figures a long time before saying,
I can give half. The rest Ill need myself.
For what? he asked, automatically.
I looked at him, at his tired eyes and pinched features.
For me, I said simply. I need a bit, too.
He started to say something, but gave up.
All right, Mum. As you wish.
That evening, alone, I took out my photo album. There was one of me, young, in a pale dress, outside a concert hall in another city, holding a programme, smiling shyly.
For a while I studied that face, trying to match it to my reflection. Then I closed the album and put it away.
Beside the fridge magnet I pinned a fresh note: Next concert15th. Underneath: Leave early.
Life wasnt transformed. I still made soup, did the laundry, phoned the GP, watched the grandkids. Simon still asked for help and I gave what I could. But somewhere in all that was a sense of my own quiet time, small plans I owed no one.
Passing the fridge, I touched the date with my finger. And each time, felt a gentle determination: Im alive, I still have the right to want.
One evening, flicking through the local paper, I noticed an advert for a free English conversation group for seniors at the library. You just had to register.
I tore it out and placed it next to my concert pass. Then poured myself tea, wondering if that was perhaps too bold.
Ill finish my concerts first, I decided. See whats next.
I slipped the ad into my notebook, but suddenly, learning something new seemed less impossible. Later, at bedtime, I drew back the curtain. Streetlamps glowed in the square, a teenager with headphones strolled by, a boy kicked a ball.
I stood, hand on the cool windowsill, feeling an even, peaceful contentment. Life continued, full of its chores and limitations. But now, there was space for four evenings in a concert hall and, perhaps, for new words in a new language.
I switched off the kitchen light, got into bed, pulling the covers up neat. Tomorrow would be like alwaysshopping, phone calls, cooking. But on my calendar was a small, secret circle, and that changed something important, even if no one but me knew it was there.
