A large magpie sat atop its branches, half flew to the very peak of the tree, cawing loudly to whoever was listening; but no one was listening, as hardly a mouse twitched or a butterfly descended, it was so early morning.
A soft breeze sprang from nowhere and sighed through what was left of the upper branches. One side of the half dead tree was totally dead, the other half, very much alive. There appeared a curious division from top to bottom, with no evidence as to what had killed off one half of the tree. The shape rounded like a pear as one gazed nonchalantly at its appearance, utterly mystified. The tree was tall, as the live half swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze, that whispered past its troubled boughs in the softness of the summer light.
The magpie gave another warble from on high, flapped its wings which were black as coal, its breast glistening, white areas clean and bright, swooped downward, then flew across towards the park where it soon settled on a tall eucalyptus tree. Being summer, the eucalyptus like many, had shed a large proportion of its bark which lay around its large peeling trunk. Along a path under the trees, was littered many twigs, branches and fallen leaves. But the half dead tree somehow remained half alive that summer, it was not a known fact it would remain so next summer or the one following.
An occasional storm presented itself in the form of darkening skies of deep blue and steel-grey clouds, white tipped, threatening the peace of shimmering heat that settled across the park and beyond, like night encroaching upon day. Native parrots screeched loudly as they passed above the half dead tree, fleeing from an oncoming storm, crossing native vegetation below and then over to the golf course on the other side of the meandering creek. Soon the rain came, sheeting down upon the tree, soaking its half dead branches turning them dark, the leaves on the other side glistening after the rain had passed, droplets of cool water dripping to parched earth below. The dead branches never swayed with the wind, but remained still, lifeless, glinting with raindrops.
When the summer evenings settled on leafy branches, a pale pink hue emanated from the setting sun, casting its magic through the leaves as if the tree was soaking up its warmth and life. It was resplendent in the late afternoon light, almost glowing as a clifftop beacon alerting passing ships, the tree gave off a peacefulness.
As the summer passed into autumn, days shortened, shadows lengthened, close to where the tree stood overlooking the native vegetation, where tall eucalyptus trees, acacias and other species grew larger with each passing year.
Mists formed above the mountain not far away, turning it from blue to mauve in the morning light, then hovered in the valley below, gathering in the park beside the walking path, settling along the surface of the creek where ducks idly paddled over its surface. Sometimes a damp and swirling mist blew mellow through the tree, partially enfolding it in dense moisture descended from the mountain above, where it took on a ghostlike appearance in the autumnal days.
The nights became bleaker as autumn slowly turned to winter, the last golden leaves fluttered to the ground and the tree soaked up any rain that fell upon its roots. The winter months were never cold enough to whiten the half dead tree with snow, neither did it grow when the weather was cold. In fact, after winter had long gone, warmer days arrived, the half dead tree still maintained one half adorned with leaves as it was not deciduous, while the other half still looked dead, forlorn.
As the years passed, seasons came and went, the half dead tree appeared to stay the same. The dead half remained dead, while the other half was healthy, unaffected by any further problems. It didn't resist the wind as the other half did, but eventually it grew further, strong and healthy, birds flitted through the boughs rejoicing upon its presence, they chirped to the moon and stars above during summer nights; blackbirds, doves and many native birds of the area, sang its song of life. its loveliness, beauty - its strength.
Tuesday 31 December 2013
Thursday 26 December 2013
A Christmas Remembered
Morning dawned warm, as a soft summer sun beamed pink above the distant horizon, close to the mauve-tipped hills, a promise of possible heat sent shimmering across native reserves, dewy from night that was quiet and still. The grass remained green until midsummer sun burned it brown, dry, lacking any moisture. Colourful parrots screeched among blue-green leaves of tall eucalypt trees in nearby parks, the creek flowing endlessly toward a lake.
Under the warmth of a blue summer's day in the southern hemisphere, thoughts turned to how green was the valley, my valley in an English spring, when the wildflowers graced the high banks of Dorset lanes and in May, cow parsley grew tall beside narrow winding roads. Owls hooted in the still night air hunting for food, farm animals wandered in the higher lush field above the cottage in lengthening twilight of summer, munching on sweet grass, their udders swinging to and fro through the greenness.
But as the year passed and autumn turned into winter, chestnuts having dropped in the lower woodland, lost amongst fallen leaves, pheasants swooped squawking over the garden and hedges, Christmas was imminent. The garden was going to sleep having been carpeted with the first of winter's snow, buried in frosty nights when the moon cast silvery beams over snowy fields, glistening like diamonds.
Another gentle snowfall came quickly, unexpectedly, clouds scudded across the moon, shedding their whiteness falling softly upon the countryside, large flakes cascaded down from above where a darkened sky emptied itself upon the earth below. The snow-laden clouds spilling white crystals fluttering across small hills in my valley, forming a virginal carpet of winter whiteness, a unique beauty heralding Christmas that year.
Snow sat thickly on tall pine trees and between them, pathways sprinkled with a dusting, looked peaceful, untouched except for small footprints of a passing fox, slinking through the night.
Christmas, cold and frosty, the nights long, days short, with snow forming in the garden quietly, a turkey sizzled softly in the Aga, stuffed with great Granny's stuffing recipe. The pudding just made, awaited custard or cream to be poured over it. Outside, the air was sharp, but inside the cottage was warm, homely, with a crackling fire, carols were heard drifting from the radio. The children laughed and played with newly acquired games close to the Christmas tree, twinkling with small lights. Many greeting cards hung around doorways while holly and ivy adorned the old Welsh dresser and elsewhere. Tinsel and pretty silver baubles were entwined amongst the ivy, while a smell of pine wafted through the air from the tree in the corner of the sitting room. Coloured paper lay around the floor where the children had unwrapped their presents.
That particular Christmas brought memories flooding back, never to be experienced in the southern hemisphere where the warm sunshine never felt like Christmas in England and never would, but a different atmosphere was created, of childhood memories spent at the seaside, where the white sand met a pale green sea, the tide having gone out leaving pools and a sandbank to walk upon. A few shells were left close to the water's edge, bending now and picking one up, Christmas in England was but a distant memory.
Under the warmth of a blue summer's day in the southern hemisphere, thoughts turned to how green was the valley, my valley in an English spring, when the wildflowers graced the high banks of Dorset lanes and in May, cow parsley grew tall beside narrow winding roads. Owls hooted in the still night air hunting for food, farm animals wandered in the higher lush field above the cottage in lengthening twilight of summer, munching on sweet grass, their udders swinging to and fro through the greenness.
But as the year passed and autumn turned into winter, chestnuts having dropped in the lower woodland, lost amongst fallen leaves, pheasants swooped squawking over the garden and hedges, Christmas was imminent. The garden was going to sleep having been carpeted with the first of winter's snow, buried in frosty nights when the moon cast silvery beams over snowy fields, glistening like diamonds.
Another gentle snowfall came quickly, unexpectedly, clouds scudded across the moon, shedding their whiteness falling softly upon the countryside, large flakes cascaded down from above where a darkened sky emptied itself upon the earth below. The snow-laden clouds spilling white crystals fluttering across small hills in my valley, forming a virginal carpet of winter whiteness, a unique beauty heralding Christmas that year.
Snow sat thickly on tall pine trees and between them, pathways sprinkled with a dusting, looked peaceful, untouched except for small footprints of a passing fox, slinking through the night.
Christmas, cold and frosty, the nights long, days short, with snow forming in the garden quietly, a turkey sizzled softly in the Aga, stuffed with great Granny's stuffing recipe. The pudding just made, awaited custard or cream to be poured over it. Outside, the air was sharp, but inside the cottage was warm, homely, with a crackling fire, carols were heard drifting from the radio. The children laughed and played with newly acquired games close to the Christmas tree, twinkling with small lights. Many greeting cards hung around doorways while holly and ivy adorned the old Welsh dresser and elsewhere. Tinsel and pretty silver baubles were entwined amongst the ivy, while a smell of pine wafted through the air from the tree in the corner of the sitting room. Coloured paper lay around the floor where the children had unwrapped their presents.
That particular Christmas brought memories flooding back, never to be experienced in the southern hemisphere where the warm sunshine never felt like Christmas in England and never would, but a different atmosphere was created, of childhood memories spent at the seaside, where the white sand met a pale green sea, the tide having gone out leaving pools and a sandbank to walk upon. A few shells were left close to the water's edge, bending now and picking one up, Christmas in England was but a distant memory.
Wednesday 4 December 2013
A Brief Encounter
Laura gazed toward the window in the early morning, stretched luxuriously, then realized the date. She glanced toward the dawn seeping between the slats in the blinds knowing the sun must be over the horizon by now, judging the time by the amount of sun filtering into her room. She watched the sun's rays as they crept across the end of the bed to where her toes were wriggling under the covers. Only a few more moments, then she must arise out of her bed for the last time, not to return for many weeks. The airport beckoned and being a good hour's journey away, she needed to get her thoughts together before leaving. She sighed gently to herself, padding softly to where her clothes were hanging. Last minute checks were necessary, bills paid, the frig cleared out, taps turned off properly, the kitchen left clean and house locked.
Laura had been through this many times in the past and enjoyed travelling, seeing a little of Europe, visiting her friend in England and arranging all this herself wasn't too difficult. The thought of travelling on her own was never daunting, in fact she relished it as she was able to enjoy most things at will.
Being interested in photography played a large part of her travels as did other things, but she liked to spend as much time where possible, concentrating on this aspect of the adventure and it was an adventure, as she never knew exactly what would happen or whom she would meet along the way.
It was usually necessary to alter the camera settings carefully before taking each photo, but there were times when luck played a part. She would have fun clicking the shutter after guessing the settings, when she saw a good light opportunity or subject not to be missed, taking her chances. This, she found could be rewarding and very creative depending on where she was, the subject matter, the execution thereof. She smiled to herself. Once she found some tall grasses growing alongside a path and slowed the shutter speed down, then jerking the camera to one side at just the right moment. This resulted in unusual shapes and colours. Yes, those shots could turn our very interesting indeed, she thought.
The trip to the airport was uneventful, arriving in plenty of time for her afternoon flight to the other side of the world.
After a long plane journey, Laura was delighted to arrive in London again. A few days to overcome the worst of jetlag, then on to visit her friend in the West Country for a few days. The time spent there was always like returning home, a feeling of belonging, sheer joy of seeing the hilly countryside again, woodlands with air spiced with a rich aromatic smell of earthiness, cows grazing nonchalantly in fields chewing on sweet smelling grass, was exhilarating. She relished it as before when living in the vicinity, breathing in the countryside and all it offered, its peace and tranquility overwhelming the senses. She missed it, the same sense of homeliness always returned when she drove down the narrow country lanes, the familiarity was there to be experienced again, a blissful awakening that this part of England was unchanged, unspoiled. If it was May, the cow parsley would be flowering, almost meeting as it spilled onto the narrow lanes, dropping tiny white spent flowers scattering across the road. If early April, she may hear the first cuckoo deep in the woods at the bottom of a field, a small stream flowing through, gurgling as it passed the spruce trees in rows like marching soldiers. They whispered white in mid winter, quiet as door mice sleeping through cold snowy weather. She remembered the hedgehog that slept peacefully under a pile of leaves in her garden. Her thoughts were indulged with the familiar environment, it never seemed to change, thankfully.
Soon it was time to move on, hire a car, driving wherever the will took her.
Time and chance took her in a vague north easterly direction toward the Cotswolds. Finding herself in the lovely cathedral city of Wells in Somerset, she came across the magnificent cathedral, its pretty setting with swans gliding around the moat near the entrance. The early English Gothic architecture of the cathedral was impressive, the size not as big as perhaps Lincoln or York, nonetheless worth a visit.
Laura decided on a pub lunch first, her time then free to explore the cathedral afterwards. With her last visit being year's ago, this was another opportunity to capture the famous scissor-like structures of the interior; an unorthodox solution of support after the central tower was heightened between 1315 - 22 topped with a spire. This evidently caused the piers to show signs of stress, thereby low arches were inserted, adding inverted arches of similar dimensions, she learned; there being no better time to photograph them than now.
Later, lunch completed, she entered the cathedral, quietly moved around to the Well's astronomical clock, with its surviving mechanism dating back to between 1386 - 1392. Laura paused nearby. She didn't have her heavy tripod with her, so resourceful as she was, took several things from her bag to prop up the long lens of her camera on a low stone bench. Soon, two elderly ladies came into view and stood gazing at the mechanism of the old clock.
Laura enjoyed photographing the cathedral interior, lost in a haze of history.
Some time later, she was searching in her bag for something in a craft shop. With horrified shock, she realized her money purse was missing, the soft leather one she so carefully chose in a tiny shop in Rome, after losing another one she had had for many years.
'Oh damn and blast,' she sighed out loud, experiencing a slight sick feeling inside. I really can't remember exactly where I could have lost it, she muttered under her breath to no-one in particular. She had left a few pounds sterling in a pocket to pay for lunch, but now the seriousness of losing her purse started to dawn on her. Several of her important cards were inside, so she decided to back-track as quickly as possible, trying not to panic in order to think clearly.
Eventually she arrived back at the cathedral.
Being greeted by a tall gentleman wearing some sort of cross sash around his shoulder and over his chest, she tried to appeal to his patience, a little out of breath. The gentleman gave her a slight smile, a brief feeling of hope and told Laura to walk across the nave of the cathedral and knock on the verger's door nearby. She had only half heard where the gentleman directed, as by now she was becoming very anxious indeed. She scurried around a few corners, finding a small door in a very high wall and knocked hopefully. Eventually the door opened slowly, a face appearing above some sort of cassock.
'Yes?' asked the man slowly. 'Can I help you at all?'
Laura explained about the missing purse, finding it necessary to describe it in detail, as the verger wasn't at all impressed with her pleading. As she did so, the man facing her within the small cathedral room, calmly withdrew inside while Laura waited anxiously and a good deal of expectancy. The purse had evidently been found by two elderly ladies and handed in immediately. When the verger returned holding the purse, Laura sighed deeply, clasped it gratefully, with great relief, thanking the gentleman. She returned to the reception area and asked if was possible they knew the names of the ladies. who had found it.
'Well, we DID write down the names, but seem to have mislaid them somewhere,' explained a white haired lady with a sweet smile, sitting behind a desk. She rummaged in a draw of the desk a little longer, then said, 'I'm awfully sorry my dear, I can't find the note at all, but you must be very relieved just the same, to have your purse returned.'
'I am indeed.' Laura smiled back at them, about to depart, when two elderly ladies suddenly appeared around a corner.
'Oh!' cried the lady behind the reception desk. 'These are the very ladies who found your purse and handed it in.' She gestured to the two ladies who had paused by the reception desk.
Laura turned to face them, completely overwhelmed with gratitude and gave them both a hug with tears of joy in her eyes. 'I can't thank you enough for your kindness and honesty,' she said, smiling at each one in turn. 'I never thought I'd see that purse again. It's people like you who are very special indeed and the world needs more like you. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much time was spent finding that nice soft leather purse in Rome, after my other one was, er, mislaid. I'd had it for many years and still miss it, never wanted to lose another one. Quite silly I suppose, becoming attached to an old purse, but it's the shape, colour and softness of leather I liked. Very difficult to replace.' She rambled on in a flood of emotion.
The taller one of the two introduced herself as Charlotte, doing the same for her friend, Hetty. She was the first one to speak. 'You are most welcome. It was the obvious thing to do, handing it in immediately. We had done so quite some time ago after finding it on the floor near the old clock,' she added. 'It's a wonder you hadn't missed it sooner.'
Laura was still in tears, but smiling through them. 'I had left the cathedral and wandered through some shops. Then I suddenly missed it, had to back-track. You are both very kind indeed,' she repeated. 'I'd love to take you both for some tea or reward you with a little something for your good deed.'
'It was nothing really, but thank you, no, we must be getting back to our car now. We have a long drive ahead,' Charlotte explained.
'Oh, that's a pity, but I understand,' Laura said, still delighted with meeting the two elderly ladies. They chatted on a little longer and exchanged email addresses as only Charlotte and not Hetty, used a computer from time to time, as did Laura on a regular basis.
After an enjoyable discussion about what they found in common, Charlotte having collected many stamps over the years and Laura remembering she had kept an album since she was eight years old, they parted company after their brief encounter. Charlotte's last words to Laura were - 'send me a Christmas card my dear, I'd love a few stamps from your country,' smiling over her shoulder, waving goodbye.
Laura was determined upon returning home, to be sure and contact Charlotte, retrieve her old stamp album, and send off a few stamps she knew she had saved years ago. She seemed the most interested of the two ladies, in a possible communication at a later time.
Laura walked off in another direction, still emotional about finding her purse, not really believing she would see it again. The feeling of euphoria stayed with her for the rest of the day, the memory of meeting two very charming, interesting and delightful ladies would stay with her forever, their honesty commendable and very much appreciated.
She drove over many roads and lanes of England enjoying beautiful small towns, pretty villages, late wild flowers, cottage gardens, apart from the historic content of many places she found along the way. She often paused to take photos when she sensed an opportunity suddenly presented itself, relishing in the history of ancient castles in parts of Wales where she ventured for about a week.
The mists that hovered over the mountain tops often lingered, enchanting her, sometimes settling into deep valleys or over a river, before once again clearing or swirling rain clouds appeared, washing the countryside clean, leaving it adorned with late afternoon sunshine, air sweet with the remains of summer.
The weeks flew by quickly, the car had to be returned and finding herself in London again, Laura ventured into many places only visited briefly in the past. Wandering at will, taking the last photos before returning home, she often thought of her chance meeting with Charlotte and Hetty, giving her a quiet feeling of euphoria.
Upon arrival back in Australia, Laura dealt with the mundane things for a few days before deciding to send Charlotte the first email. Within no time, she had received a reply, telling her many things of interest after arriving back home where she lived, toward the north of England. She had been staying with her friend Hetty further south and was enjoying 'gallivanting' as she called it. Laura was pleased, delighted in fact, that her pen pal was so active, amusing and very interesting. The contact stimulated her into writing short stories again, as she had fallen into a sort of stagnation with it.
From then on, many emails were exchanged between the two woman, although they were not of similar ages, but both finding the exchanges great fun, indulgent and enjoyable, always learning from each other, with plenty to laugh about.
This lasted for many years, emails were sent back and forth between the two ladies, by now, close friends. Laura always took note of what her pen pal Charlotte told her, about England's history, its architecture. She described the local flora and fauna as the seasons came and went, the world about her, having many times been travelling around many parts of England and beyond, spending time with family. Her life had been a source of inspiration, Laura always absorbing the information and sometimes using it in a short story. Charlotte continued to collect stamps, Laura sending several in a Christmas card each year, delighting her friend.
Then suddenly, without warning, the correspondence from Charlotte ceased. Laura became very concerned, not knowing the reason why her emails were not answered, pondering over this for many weeks wondering what to do.
One day in late winter when the trees were bare, the wind crept around the house, while birds had ceased their morning song long ago, outside the garden silent and foreboding. Rain splashed down the windows falling into tiny pools below, when Laura reluctantly checked her letter box. She gingerly plucked an envelope from inside, noticing it had come from England, immediately puzzled as to who had sent it. These days she rarely received letters, only emails.
Laura made some strong coffee and sat down to read the letter. As she opened it, she glanced at the bottom, realizing it had been written by Charlotte's old friend, Hetty. Somehow Hetty must have been given her address and written a letter, which read as follows -
'My dear Laura, I have been aware for many years that you and Charlotte had become close pen pals and it is with deep regret that I now inform you of her passing some weeks ago. It had been difficult to retrieve your address, but eventually I was able to do so. I have lost a very dear sweet friend. We had been close since our school days and I'm sure you will be affected by her death also. Charlotte passed away peacefully in her sleep, evidently it was her heart that finally gave out. She had had trouble in the past, but didn't want to make much of it.
Like you I'm sure, I feel a gaping hole in my life and hope it will be possible for you to accept her death without too much sadness.
I know Charlotte had always enjoyed your communications and it was with great reluctance that I write to you. Try not to be too sad dear Laura, Charlotte had enjoyed her life to the full. It was as she had wanted and what she made of her life, giving freely of herself with a kind gentleness and thoughtfulness, endeared her to everyone around her.
There are things I must do now and I felt it only right to inform you about Charlotte. Take care my dear.
I remain yours sincerely, Hetty B.'
Laura slowly placed the letter on the table, tears flowing down her cheeks. Life would never be quite the same without Charlotte, who would be greatly missed. It was difficult to think of anything else for a while, as Laura sat pondering on all she had learned of life from her pen pal, living in the north of England.
That brief encounter in Wells cathedral had been one of life's blessings and would remain with her forever.
Laura had been through this many times in the past and enjoyed travelling, seeing a little of Europe, visiting her friend in England and arranging all this herself wasn't too difficult. The thought of travelling on her own was never daunting, in fact she relished it as she was able to enjoy most things at will.
Being interested in photography played a large part of her travels as did other things, but she liked to spend as much time where possible, concentrating on this aspect of the adventure and it was an adventure, as she never knew exactly what would happen or whom she would meet along the way.
It was usually necessary to alter the camera settings carefully before taking each photo, but there were times when luck played a part. She would have fun clicking the shutter after guessing the settings, when she saw a good light opportunity or subject not to be missed, taking her chances. This, she found could be rewarding and very creative depending on where she was, the subject matter, the execution thereof. She smiled to herself. Once she found some tall grasses growing alongside a path and slowed the shutter speed down, then jerking the camera to one side at just the right moment. This resulted in unusual shapes and colours. Yes, those shots could turn our very interesting indeed, she thought.
The trip to the airport was uneventful, arriving in plenty of time for her afternoon flight to the other side of the world.
After a long plane journey, Laura was delighted to arrive in London again. A few days to overcome the worst of jetlag, then on to visit her friend in the West Country for a few days. The time spent there was always like returning home, a feeling of belonging, sheer joy of seeing the hilly countryside again, woodlands with air spiced with a rich aromatic smell of earthiness, cows grazing nonchalantly in fields chewing on sweet smelling grass, was exhilarating. She relished it as before when living in the vicinity, breathing in the countryside and all it offered, its peace and tranquility overwhelming the senses. She missed it, the same sense of homeliness always returned when she drove down the narrow country lanes, the familiarity was there to be experienced again, a blissful awakening that this part of England was unchanged, unspoiled. If it was May, the cow parsley would be flowering, almost meeting as it spilled onto the narrow lanes, dropping tiny white spent flowers scattering across the road. If early April, she may hear the first cuckoo deep in the woods at the bottom of a field, a small stream flowing through, gurgling as it passed the spruce trees in rows like marching soldiers. They whispered white in mid winter, quiet as door mice sleeping through cold snowy weather. She remembered the hedgehog that slept peacefully under a pile of leaves in her garden. Her thoughts were indulged with the familiar environment, it never seemed to change, thankfully.
Soon it was time to move on, hire a car, driving wherever the will took her.
Time and chance took her in a vague north easterly direction toward the Cotswolds. Finding herself in the lovely cathedral city of Wells in Somerset, she came across the magnificent cathedral, its pretty setting with swans gliding around the moat near the entrance. The early English Gothic architecture of the cathedral was impressive, the size not as big as perhaps Lincoln or York, nonetheless worth a visit.
Laura decided on a pub lunch first, her time then free to explore the cathedral afterwards. With her last visit being year's ago, this was another opportunity to capture the famous scissor-like structures of the interior; an unorthodox solution of support after the central tower was heightened between 1315 - 22 topped with a spire. This evidently caused the piers to show signs of stress, thereby low arches were inserted, adding inverted arches of similar dimensions, she learned; there being no better time to photograph them than now.
Later, lunch completed, she entered the cathedral, quietly moved around to the Well's astronomical clock, with its surviving mechanism dating back to between 1386 - 1392. Laura paused nearby. She didn't have her heavy tripod with her, so resourceful as she was, took several things from her bag to prop up the long lens of her camera on a low stone bench. Soon, two elderly ladies came into view and stood gazing at the mechanism of the old clock.
Laura enjoyed photographing the cathedral interior, lost in a haze of history.
Some time later, she was searching in her bag for something in a craft shop. With horrified shock, she realized her money purse was missing, the soft leather one she so carefully chose in a tiny shop in Rome, after losing another one she had had for many years.
'Oh damn and blast,' she sighed out loud, experiencing a slight sick feeling inside. I really can't remember exactly where I could have lost it, she muttered under her breath to no-one in particular. She had left a few pounds sterling in a pocket to pay for lunch, but now the seriousness of losing her purse started to dawn on her. Several of her important cards were inside, so she decided to back-track as quickly as possible, trying not to panic in order to think clearly.
Eventually she arrived back at the cathedral.
Being greeted by a tall gentleman wearing some sort of cross sash around his shoulder and over his chest, she tried to appeal to his patience, a little out of breath. The gentleman gave her a slight smile, a brief feeling of hope and told Laura to walk across the nave of the cathedral and knock on the verger's door nearby. She had only half heard where the gentleman directed, as by now she was becoming very anxious indeed. She scurried around a few corners, finding a small door in a very high wall and knocked hopefully. Eventually the door opened slowly, a face appearing above some sort of cassock.
'Yes?' asked the man slowly. 'Can I help you at all?'
Laura explained about the missing purse, finding it necessary to describe it in detail, as the verger wasn't at all impressed with her pleading. As she did so, the man facing her within the small cathedral room, calmly withdrew inside while Laura waited anxiously and a good deal of expectancy. The purse had evidently been found by two elderly ladies and handed in immediately. When the verger returned holding the purse, Laura sighed deeply, clasped it gratefully, with great relief, thanking the gentleman. She returned to the reception area and asked if was possible they knew the names of the ladies. who had found it.
'Well, we DID write down the names, but seem to have mislaid them somewhere,' explained a white haired lady with a sweet smile, sitting behind a desk. She rummaged in a draw of the desk a little longer, then said, 'I'm awfully sorry my dear, I can't find the note at all, but you must be very relieved just the same, to have your purse returned.'
'I am indeed.' Laura smiled back at them, about to depart, when two elderly ladies suddenly appeared around a corner.
'Oh!' cried the lady behind the reception desk. 'These are the very ladies who found your purse and handed it in.' She gestured to the two ladies who had paused by the reception desk.
Laura turned to face them, completely overwhelmed with gratitude and gave them both a hug with tears of joy in her eyes. 'I can't thank you enough for your kindness and honesty,' she said, smiling at each one in turn. 'I never thought I'd see that purse again. It's people like you who are very special indeed and the world needs more like you. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much time was spent finding that nice soft leather purse in Rome, after my other one was, er, mislaid. I'd had it for many years and still miss it, never wanted to lose another one. Quite silly I suppose, becoming attached to an old purse, but it's the shape, colour and softness of leather I liked. Very difficult to replace.' She rambled on in a flood of emotion.
The taller one of the two introduced herself as Charlotte, doing the same for her friend, Hetty. She was the first one to speak. 'You are most welcome. It was the obvious thing to do, handing it in immediately. We had done so quite some time ago after finding it on the floor near the old clock,' she added. 'It's a wonder you hadn't missed it sooner.'
Laura was still in tears, but smiling through them. 'I had left the cathedral and wandered through some shops. Then I suddenly missed it, had to back-track. You are both very kind indeed,' she repeated. 'I'd love to take you both for some tea or reward you with a little something for your good deed.'
'It was nothing really, but thank you, no, we must be getting back to our car now. We have a long drive ahead,' Charlotte explained.
'Oh, that's a pity, but I understand,' Laura said, still delighted with meeting the two elderly ladies. They chatted on a little longer and exchanged email addresses as only Charlotte and not Hetty, used a computer from time to time, as did Laura on a regular basis.
After an enjoyable discussion about what they found in common, Charlotte having collected many stamps over the years and Laura remembering she had kept an album since she was eight years old, they parted company after their brief encounter. Charlotte's last words to Laura were - 'send me a Christmas card my dear, I'd love a few stamps from your country,' smiling over her shoulder, waving goodbye.
Laura was determined upon returning home, to be sure and contact Charlotte, retrieve her old stamp album, and send off a few stamps she knew she had saved years ago. She seemed the most interested of the two ladies, in a possible communication at a later time.
Laura walked off in another direction, still emotional about finding her purse, not really believing she would see it again. The feeling of euphoria stayed with her for the rest of the day, the memory of meeting two very charming, interesting and delightful ladies would stay with her forever, their honesty commendable and very much appreciated.
She drove over many roads and lanes of England enjoying beautiful small towns, pretty villages, late wild flowers, cottage gardens, apart from the historic content of many places she found along the way. She often paused to take photos when she sensed an opportunity suddenly presented itself, relishing in the history of ancient castles in parts of Wales where she ventured for about a week.
The mists that hovered over the mountain tops often lingered, enchanting her, sometimes settling into deep valleys or over a river, before once again clearing or swirling rain clouds appeared, washing the countryside clean, leaving it adorned with late afternoon sunshine, air sweet with the remains of summer.
The weeks flew by quickly, the car had to be returned and finding herself in London again, Laura ventured into many places only visited briefly in the past. Wandering at will, taking the last photos before returning home, she often thought of her chance meeting with Charlotte and Hetty, giving her a quiet feeling of euphoria.
Upon arrival back in Australia, Laura dealt with the mundane things for a few days before deciding to send Charlotte the first email. Within no time, she had received a reply, telling her many things of interest after arriving back home where she lived, toward the north of England. She had been staying with her friend Hetty further south and was enjoying 'gallivanting' as she called it. Laura was pleased, delighted in fact, that her pen pal was so active, amusing and very interesting. The contact stimulated her into writing short stories again, as she had fallen into a sort of stagnation with it.
From then on, many emails were exchanged between the two woman, although they were not of similar ages, but both finding the exchanges great fun, indulgent and enjoyable, always learning from each other, with plenty to laugh about.
This lasted for many years, emails were sent back and forth between the two ladies, by now, close friends. Laura always took note of what her pen pal Charlotte told her, about England's history, its architecture. She described the local flora and fauna as the seasons came and went, the world about her, having many times been travelling around many parts of England and beyond, spending time with family. Her life had been a source of inspiration, Laura always absorbing the information and sometimes using it in a short story. Charlotte continued to collect stamps, Laura sending several in a Christmas card each year, delighting her friend.
Then suddenly, without warning, the correspondence from Charlotte ceased. Laura became very concerned, not knowing the reason why her emails were not answered, pondering over this for many weeks wondering what to do.
One day in late winter when the trees were bare, the wind crept around the house, while birds had ceased their morning song long ago, outside the garden silent and foreboding. Rain splashed down the windows falling into tiny pools below, when Laura reluctantly checked her letter box. She gingerly plucked an envelope from inside, noticing it had come from England, immediately puzzled as to who had sent it. These days she rarely received letters, only emails.
Laura made some strong coffee and sat down to read the letter. As she opened it, she glanced at the bottom, realizing it had been written by Charlotte's old friend, Hetty. Somehow Hetty must have been given her address and written a letter, which read as follows -
'My dear Laura, I have been aware for many years that you and Charlotte had become close pen pals and it is with deep regret that I now inform you of her passing some weeks ago. It had been difficult to retrieve your address, but eventually I was able to do so. I have lost a very dear sweet friend. We had been close since our school days and I'm sure you will be affected by her death also. Charlotte passed away peacefully in her sleep, evidently it was her heart that finally gave out. She had had trouble in the past, but didn't want to make much of it.
Like you I'm sure, I feel a gaping hole in my life and hope it will be possible for you to accept her death without too much sadness.
I know Charlotte had always enjoyed your communications and it was with great reluctance that I write to you. Try not to be too sad dear Laura, Charlotte had enjoyed her life to the full. It was as she had wanted and what she made of her life, giving freely of herself with a kind gentleness and thoughtfulness, endeared her to everyone around her.
There are things I must do now and I felt it only right to inform you about Charlotte. Take care my dear.
I remain yours sincerely, Hetty B.'
Laura slowly placed the letter on the table, tears flowing down her cheeks. Life would never be quite the same without Charlotte, who would be greatly missed. It was difficult to think of anything else for a while, as Laura sat pondering on all she had learned of life from her pen pal, living in the north of England.
That brief encounter in Wells cathedral had been one of life's blessings and would remain with her forever.
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