CONSTANCE AND THE GHOST OF BIRTHDAY PAST

Constance is contemplating her birthday tomorrow, and maybe starts fantasising...

Tomorrow, thought Constance as she stood by her post in Brumpton Borough Library, tomorrow will be my birthday and I’ll be thirty-three!

She thought it silently inside her own head so she was more than shocked when a little voice from what sounded like a truly geriatric old lady said “Ah, I remember when I was thirty-three...”

Constance looked up. Was she daydreaming or what? Someone had said those words, someone must have been standing on the other side of the counter to have uttered them that clearly, and yet there was nobody there.

“You can’t see me, but I can see you,” said the voice, teasingly.

“Where … where are you?” she stammered, not a little worried in case she was suffering the onset of premature dementia, and her heart responded by beating considerably faster than it usually did.

“I’m here!” laughed the voice, and a hand appeared on the counter in front of her.

What’s this? She asked herself, a disembodied hand?

“Not really,” almost cackled the voice, still old, still cracked as though more years than a person can decently live through had rolled along with her. “I’m in a wheelchair,” it added as though the librarian had been teased enough, “and I was just reminiscing that once I had my thirty-third birthday, and it was a very special birthday for me.”

Constance leaned over and looked down and sure enough there was a shrivelled old lady in a wheelchair, and the proportion of wheelchair and library counter was such that the latter completely obscured the former.

“Really?” asked Constance, her heart settling back to its normal rhythm.

“Oh yes,” beamed the wheelchair woman. “I’m Constance Brownadder and, when I was thirty-three I was Margaret Bingley.”

“Really?” repeated Constance, beginning to feel confused. Wasn’t Constance Bingley her name and why did this geriatric piece of womanhood claim to have had the same name? Something wasn’t right. She’d never met another woman with her own name before, there wasn’t even one on the library records and most names somehow managed to find their way on that list because it went back through time for ages.

“I’ve never met another Constance Bingley before,” she said, tentatively.

“Well, you won’t meet many,” agreed the wheelchair Constance, “and I dared say I’ll be the last and the truth of the matter is I haven’t been a Constance Bingley for so many years I’ve just about lost count!”

“Oh, I see,” muttered Constance, who actually didn’t see as she stood behind her counter.

“It was a good day, my thirty-third birthday and I almost spoiled it,” said the old woman. “I met Barley Brownadder on my thirty-third birthday.”

“You did?” Constance threw the question unnecessarily and very lightly into the conversation.

“I wasn’t expecting it,” confessed Constance Brownadder. “I was never expecting to meet a man like that! There I was, on my way home from work … I worked at the library, just like you do, dear, and I was looking forward to a quiet birthday on my own. I mean, thirty-three: who wants to party and celebrate being thirty-three when there’s a good book to be read?”

“I don’t know...” Constance was at a loss as to what to say and all she really wanted to do was get rid of this old woman as quickly as she could, without being rude about it, of course. The woman was old, and deserved her respect.

“Well, I didn’t,” sighed the Brownadder woman. “All I wanted to do was curl up on the sofa with a good book and forget about birthdays...”

That about sums my attitude up, thought the librarian, and seems probably the most perfect possible way of becoming a year older.

“I loved reading back then,” sighed the old woman from her wheel-chair, “before my eyes started to let me down. Love stories, that’s what I liked, beautiful women doing the sort of things I didn’t do. And some of them were a bit wicked! Yes they were! Nothing blatant, of course, nothing you could point at and say it was disgusting, but all sorts of things hidden in the way they were written, closing bedroom doors, that sort of thing, and the reader not given a peep behind the closed door...”

“I know what you mean.”

“Then, as I walked home, a friend waylaid me with a sudden surprise! It’s your birthday, Connie … that’s what they called me back then … and I’ve got a surprise for you!

“I wasn’t so keen on surprises back then and I felt, well, I felt a bit annoyed. Remember, it was a long time ago and times were different.”

“I’m not particularly fond of surprises either,” confessed the librarian.

The old woman nodded and smiled mischievously. “I know you don’t dear,” she said cryptically, “but this story is mine, it’s about me… anyway, this friend took me to my home as if I didn’t know the way and somehow she’d stuck a banner across the door with two threes on it… it’s your party, Connie, she said, let’s get started…

“And she led me into my own house and there was bunting here, there and everywhere, Lonnie Donegan was playing on the record player (so you can tell how long ago it was) and half a dozen people were there all smiling because it was my birthday. I hardly knew them, I suppose I was a bit shy back then and hardly knew anyone, but I think they were regulars at the library...”

“I’ve got to see to some books before closing time,” interrupted Constance, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as she recognised more and more of the life described by the old woman who shared her name.

“Just a minute, I haven’t finished,” almost reprimanded the woman in the wheelchair.

“Sorry,” sighed the librarian contritely.

“There was a knock at my door and when I opened it there was a young man standing on the doorstep wearing a policeman’s uniform complete with helmet, and he walked into my house, my house, mark you, straight past me, and started cavorting to the music that was still coming from my old record player. I’d never seen anything like it...”

“I’m sure it was interesting...” urged Constance, needing to adjust her day and get it on to a more normal track.

“These days he’d have been a kissogram or something like the young folks have, with clothes being taken off and positively indecent behaviour, but back then he ended up by presenting me with his bunch of flowers, telling me his name was Barley Brownadder and blushing.”

“What a lovely story,” whispered Constance, and suddenly she meant it. It was the kind of story she really loved, where the world was still tinged with innocence and nobody got hurt.

“We got married a year later,” smiled the old woman. “On my thirty-fourth birthday! And that’s why I’m here, dearie. I’m here to tell you all is not lost...”

All is not lost? I never suggested that anything was lost… Constance frowned and picked up her rubber stamp in the kind of automatic movement she often made when confusion threatened to overtake her rational mind.

And when she looked back down to where the wheelchair had been it was gone along with its owner and the fragile voice of one who had once shared her name…

… And the door to the street hadn’t opened.

© Peter Rogerson 18.01.18

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You are a wonderful story teller my friend. You made the scene come alive and I liked the conversation and the story told in the chapter. Thank you Peter for sharing the amazing and entertaining chapter.
Coyote

[Peter Rogerson]

You're too kind. I rather suspect I'm getting a tad too fond of Constance! Maybe my feminine side is getting an outing!

[Coyote Poetry]

I like her too. I will be back on Wednesday. 10 days off. A enjoyable read my friend.