As she approached the bottom of the hill she stopped, placed her bag of shopping on the ground, took a deep breath and readied herself. ‘Come on old girl, nearly there’ she chaffed, in a half-hearted attempt to jolly herself on, but this was the worst part. Trudging slowly upward, she noticed that the fog was coming in, like a grey blanket, laid across the crest of the hill. She lifted her free hand, rubbed her eyes in a feeble attempt to stop the tears, as memories of Charlie and his tatty grey army blanket filled her thoughts. That blanket had given him so much comfort in his final days, more than she would ever understand. But that was a long time ago, and she chided herself for being so sentimental, ‘Silly old fool, it’s just fog.’
The sound of heels interrupted her self-reproach and a woman appeared, resplendent in a deep red coat, two small dogs dancing and yapping at her feet.
The old woman, ever hopeful for conversation, couldn’t help but comment. ‘Oh, what a beautiful coat. Just the thing to brighten a grey winter day.’
But before she could finish what she wanted to say, before she could tell this glamorous young thing that her coat was the very colour of her own name, the stranger had walked on, barely glancing in Ruby’s direction. ‘I’m sure she’s got better things to do than stop and talk to you. To listen to your silly whittering’, Ruby muttered into the now empty space.
Finally, reaching the top of the hill, the blanket of grey fog wrapped itself around her, and Ruby imagined a different scenario. Two women meeting by chance. A pleasant chat, over the colour of a coat no less. A story she would once have told Charlie over tea.
Burnside Writers Group 