TWO SISTERS
There were once two sisters. The elder, Evelyn, was stunning, accomplished, and wealthy. The younger, Maisie, was a hopeless alcoholic. By the time our story takes place, there was nothing left to be said of her looks: at thirty-two, Maisie resembled a wizened old woman more than anything else. She was skeletal; her swollen, bruised face almost hid her eyes. Her dull hair, long untouched by brush or shampoo, stuck out in filthy clumps.
You couldnt blame Evelyn for Maisies declineshed poured time and money into trying to pull her sister free from the mire of addiction. Shed whisked Maisie off to expensive clinics, even consulted with obscure folk healersnone of it made any difference. Evelyn bought her a cosy little flat, but kept it in her own name so Maisie couldnt sell it for a bottle. After six months, all that was left in the flat was a grimy mattress. Thats where Maisie lay, dying, when Evelyn came to say her goodbyes. She was leaving for a new life in Australia.
Maisie couldnt speak anymore; she could barely lift her eyelids. Through swollen slits, she saw only a hazy silhouette against the grime-streaked window. Empty bottles were scattered aboutgenerously gifted by fellow drunks in the neighbourhood.
Evelyn simply couldnt abandon her sisterhow would she live with herself? Guilt would haunt her forever. Hoping to ease her conscience, she resolved to take Maisie to their great-aunt in the countryside. Aunt Olive was their late mothers sister, a woman theyd barely seen since childhood. Evelyn only recalled the name of the village, Ashcombe. She remembered how Aunt Olive would visit long ago, bringing extravagant jams, fragrant apples, and bundles of dried mushrooms.
Figuring that an absence at the funeral meant Aunt Olive must still be alive, Evelyn asked a family friend for help. They wrapped Maisie in a blanket, laid her on the back seat, and drove to Ashcombe. The village was easy to findit consisted of just four little cottages. They found Aunt Olives home and carried Maisie inside, settling her on the old iron bed. Evelyn placed a wad of cash on the table, mumbling, Shes dying, Aunt Olive, and I have to go. Thisll cover the funeralmaybe someday Ill come back, if only to find her grave. She also handed over the key to Maisies flat. Who else could she trust with it? She refused a cup of tea and hurried away.
Aunt Olive was sixty-eight and still brisk and hearty. She unwrapped Maisie, checked for breath, and went to put the kettle on. While it boiled, she chopped dried herbs from cloth sacks, sprinkled in a handful of berries, brewed it all together and left it to steep beneath the lid. For three days and nights, Aunt Olive spooned warm herbal infusions with honey into Maisies mouth, half-hourly, using a teaspoon. Even in the small hours, she never faltered. On the fourth day, she added fresh goats milk to the routineher old nanny goat, Matilda, grazed in the small paddock behind the house. Slowly, egg broth and vegetable purée were added to the fare. Olive even sacrificed two hens from her brood of seven to make nourishing chicken broth for her niece.
After a month, Maisie managed to sit up unaided. By now, winter had settled in. Olive bundled her niece in a knitted scarf and blankets and trundled her, by sledge, to the village bathhouse. There, she bathed Maisie in more herbal concoctions, and afterwards, carefully combed her hair until it smelt like summer meadows.
With gentle devotion, Aunt Olive invested all her stored-up love in her niece and nursed her back to lifefeeding Maisie both her herbal teas and a little of her own kind soul, spoonful by spoonful. Expensive clinics and faith healers had failed to save her, but this quiet, steadfast countrywoman succeeded.
Maisie survived. She grew strong again on Matildas sweet, clover-scented milk and the soft, golden omelettes from the freshest eggs. Her hair regained its silkiness, and a healthy blush returned to her cheeks. At last, it turned out she was beautiful, with wide blue eyes. She soon began helping with housework, and then the animalsmilking Matilda, collecting eggs in the chill dawn.
Their meals were simple, almost entirely from Olives kitchen garden. Having come back from the brink, Maisie left her old life behind and found joy in this new one, starting fresh. She marvelled at the sunrise, watched the white clouds scud across the sky, and cherished the first blooms of spring. She took crusts of bread to feed the ducks and ducklings by the rivers edge. It was here a hidden talent emerged: Aunt Olive taught her to crochet. Maisie started with dainty doilies, but one autumn, they visited town and filled their baskets with colourful wool. Soon, she was crafting magnificent shawls with intricate lace patterns. Orders began to pour in for her unique, delicate work.
Money was no longer a worry. Three years on, Maisie, now radiant and happy, moved Aunt Olive from remote Ashcombe to a quiet seaside town. With the proceeds from Olives savings and Maisies craft business, they bought a small, cosy cottage with a pocket garden. Every morning, Matildaher transport paid for by Evelynwould nibble apples from the lower branches, then thoughtfully gaze out at the sea, contemplative as ever.
On warm afternoons, two women dear to Matildathe ones who owed her so muchlaughed and swam together in the gentle surf.
And, you know, the most wonderful part? This story is entirely true.
