‘We’ll need to find somewhere with a toilet.’
‘They’ll be queues,’ said Sandra.
‘Best you go early,’ said Janet. ‘Don’t want you missing them. Not like last time.’
‘That wasn’t my fault. I’m still angry about it.’
‘I did warn you. You need your elbows out for these occasions.’
‘What I needed was a box.’
‘Well, we’re earlier for this one. I’m sure it won’t happen again.’
‘I’ll swing for someone if it does.’
The path, wide as a main road and empty save for Sandra, Janet and day hires in high-vis vests looking busy but also looking lost, had another five minutes’ walking in it. It was past an early riser’s breakfast time, but not a normal riser’s, and when there might be a need for a sweater up to elevenses, this day was not to be that one.
‘I should have left this is in the car,’ said Janet, looking down at her coat.
‘You’ll be glad of it later. Can’t see us getting out of here till late.’
‘Hardly,’ said Janet. ‘It starts at midday.’
‘Yes, but you know what they’re like. And she might be late.’
‘She’s not going to be late,’ said Sandra. ‘A minute or two maybe. But not late, late.’
‘She might be. She might be having second thoughts.’
‘Wouldn’t blame her,’ said Janet. ‘I did.’
‘Pity you didn’t listen to them. Would have saved you a lot of bother.’
Up ahead, the day workers ploughed on with making a pleasant scene of an endless lawn and trees ugly, with metal barricades being the blight. A row was being formed, though to the observer it was a row without any reason, unless oak and chestnut needed protection, or perhaps had threatened revolt.
‘He’s been seen with someone,’ said Janet. ‘Someone from work.’
‘Not?’
Janet nodded.
‘I knew it,’ said Sandra. ‘You always …’
‘Yes,’ said Janet, interrupting. ‘I know I did.’
‘Will you say something?’
‘Nothing to say,’ said Janet. ‘It’s in the past now.’
‘Be a bit awkward next week though, won’t it?’
‘How so?’
‘Well, what if he brings her?’
‘Nothing I can do about it. Besides, it would be a little hypocritical of me to complain if he did.’
‘What do you mean?’
There was a pause.
And it continued.
‘Janet, what do you mean it would be hypocritical of you? Are you …?’
Janet smiled.
‘And is it …?’
This time a nod.
‘And you didn’t tell me?’
‘Thought it would be a surprise,’ said Janet.
‘Surprise it is most definitely not,’ said Sandra. ‘I always said …’
‘I know … I know. I just wish I’d known earlier.’
‘Like twenty years earlier.’
Janet sighed. ‘Yes … like twenty years.’
This fictional short story was written for a 50 Day Project organised by the artist Amanda Billing. I get 45 minutes to an hour (not the project’s rules, it’s just about the time I have right now) to write a story, sometime between 4.30am and 5.30am. After that, the day is no longer mine.
N.B. The sketch image for this short story was created using AI (at best, I can draw a half-decent stick man). The words are all mine.
Suggested Further Reading:
