TWO SISTERS
Once upon a not-so-fair time, there were two sisters. The elder, Vanessa, had seemingly won the lottery of life: beautiful, successful, positively dripping with pounds sterling. The younger, Daisy, was best known for her impressive dedication to late-night gin sessions, and by the time our story takes place, beauty wasnt a word anyone used for Daisy anymore. At thirty-two, Daisy looked more like a relic from medieval times than a woman in her primescrawny, face swollen and purple-tinged to the point her eyes had all but vanished, hair as lank and lusterless as an old dish mop, sticking out defiantly in every direction.
It wouldnt be fair to blame Vanessa. Shed tried everything short of translating the AA Big Book herself: luxury rehabs in the Cotswolds, appointments with quirky old herbalists, you name it. Even bought Daisy a cosy little flat in Brightonthough wisely put it in her own name, fearing Daisy might swap it for a couple bottles of gin and a kebab. Six months in, the only thing left of the flats decor was a grimy mattress on which Daisy, close to death, lay sprawled when Vanessa popped round to bid farewell; she was off to Australia for good, chasing a sunnier life.
Daisy was too far gone for words. She could only squint through swollen eyelids at the vague outline of her glamorous sister, framed against a window you could scrape marmite off. The room bristled with empties, by now donated by the neighbourhoods finest pub-foragers. Vanessa couldnt bring herself to simply abandon Daisy to fateafter all, what would that do to her conscience? It would be like walking the dog and then just leaving it on the roundabout at Swindon. So, for her own peace of mind, she decided to deliver Daisy to their Aunt Olives cottage in the country.
They barely knew Aunt Olive. Shed been a sporadic guest in their childhoodknitting socks and carting up jars of plum jam, sweet apples, and dried mushrooms from her tiny village. Vanessa remembered little besides the villages funny name: Teapotton. Mums funeral had come and gone without so much as a card from Olive, so it was safe to assume she was still aroundprobably crocheting cosies for things no one needed. Vanessa corralled a helpful neighbour, swaddled Daisy in a patchwork blanket, popped her on the backseat, and headed to Teapotton.
As English villages go, Teapotton wasnt much of a Wheres Wally puzzlefour cottages, a postbox, and an ancient signpost, and you were in. They carried Daisy, blanket and all, into Aunt Olives sitting room. Vanessa tidied up her conscience by laying a modest pile of fifty-pound notes on the table, muttering, Shes fading fast, Aunty. I really must dashthese are for, you know, the arrangements. If I ever swing by, at least I can find a headstone. Heres the flat key too. Who else would I give it to?
Declining a cuppa, Vanessa sped off, her SUV humming with relief.
Aunt Olive, sixty-eight and more sprightly than her years, unwrapped Daisy and confirmed she was still (technically) breathing. Then she fired up the old copper kettle and got to work. Herbs from canvas sacks, bits of dried fruit, a squirt of honeyshe brewed her traditional concoction and spooned it into Daisys mouth, every half hour, day and night, like some determined Mary Poppins in wellies.
By the fourth day, she added fresh milk from her beloved goat, Matilda. Vegetable broth followed, then proper chicken soupall from her own coop, mind, and she didnt skimp: two of her precious seven hens escorted Daisy back from deaths door in liquid form.
A month went by before Daisy could sit up unaided. Aunt Olive bundled her onto a little sledge (by then it was winter) and hauled her down to the old village bathhouse, swaddled in a woolly scarf and blanket. There, she bathed Daisy with wildflower infusions while brushing her hair till it shone and smelled of meadows and July sunlight.
With only her goat and hens for company, Aunt Olive poured every drop of affectionand homemade herbal teasinto Daisy. Turns out, Harley Street doctors and eccentric fortune-tellers were no match for a stubborn English aunt with a kettle and a garden full of weeds. Against all odds, Daisy pulled through. Thanks to Matildas fragrant clover milk and eggs so fresh they were still warm, Daisy grew rosy-cheeked and, to everyones surprise, revealed herself as a proper English beautysparkling blue eyes and all.
Bit by bit, Daisy picked herself up, helping Olive about the house and, later, in the cowshed. She learned to milk Matilda and collect eggs every morning. Their meals were simplemostly from Olives own patch of earthand Daisy, back from the brink, found she quite liked this new, simple life. She marvelled at the sunrise, watched the clouds parade across the sky, and saw flowers bloom in spring with all the delight of someone discovering the seasons for the first time.
Down by the river, she watched a family of ducks totter through the reeds, feeding them leftover crusts. Olive taught Daisy to crochet and, after a shaky start with doilies, she progressed to glorious, flamboyant shawls. They soon took a train to town to purchase every ball of wool in the haberdashers; Daisys creations drew such attention, the orders poured in.
Before three years had trundled past, Daisyher hair glossy, hands nimble, and cheeks glowingwhisked Aunt Olive from sleepy Teapotton to a quiet seaside town. There, with the combined hoards from Olives teapot-cash and Daisy’s shawl sales, they bought a little house with a pocket-sized garden and a sea breeze to wake them each morning. Matilda the goat, delivered by lorry at considerable cost (again, courtesy of Vanessa), munched thoughtfully on apples and stared out at the horizon as if contemplating writing her memoirs.
And in the glimmering shallows of the English Channel, two women dear to her heart paddled and laughed, living their improbable, real new lifeproof positive that all you really need is stubbornness, an aunt, and a goat named Matilda.
