The flyleaf inscription rekindled memories of their final day together. Eighteen years of news crammed into barely twenty-four hours. The London book shop. The skirt.
“Do you like this skirt?” Emily had asked, waving the green Indian print. “I loved it so much I bought three. Take it, I want you to have it.” No refusal accepted.
Typical Emily, generous and insistent. Air hostess, computer programmer, musician, teacher, she’d packed more into her forty-nine years than anyone Leah knew. She studied French Horn until she could play professionally, sang, penned poems, cajoled and encouraged, and organised her world to conform to her ambitious vision. Her life, lived con spirito, brillante, left Leah breathless.
They’d met in an opera chorus and counselled each other through blooming love. Six devoted years, before the long silence. Today it would be called a 'boundary issue', Leah thought. Back then, it was simple, sudden, sad. Her husband managed an orchestra. Emily wanted work and was bitter when Leah would not advocate. The aching silence which followed ate a hole in Leah's heart. Emily moved half a world away, and over the years scraps of news arrived third-hand. She was divorced, alone, then ill.
“I want to buy you a book,” Emily had declared that one day, and between appointments, they escaped the antiseptic hospital air. “Something to inspire you to write.”
Leah opened the book at the inscription, as she did every year on the anniversary of Emily’s death. No real need; she knew it by heart.
To Leah,
Lost for many years, who made it all up in one day and came to chemo with me. 24 hours of joy – as it had always been! Now write a play – you know you want to.
Love Emily (always) xxxx
Rosemary McBryde
“Do you like this skirt?” Emily had asked, waving the green Indian print. “I loved it so much I bought three. Take it, I want you to have it.” No refusal accepted.
Typical Emily, generous and insistent. Air hostess, computer programmer, musician, teacher, she’d packed more into her forty-nine years than anyone Leah knew. She studied French Horn until she could play professionally, sang, penned poems, cajoled and encouraged, and organised her world to conform to her ambitious vision. Her life, lived con spirito, brillante, left Leah breathless.
They’d met in an opera chorus and counselled each other through blooming love. Six devoted years, before the long silence. Today it would be called a 'boundary issue', Leah thought. Back then, it was simple, sudden, sad. Her husband managed an orchestra. Emily wanted work and was bitter when Leah would not advocate. The aching silence which followed ate a hole in Leah's heart. Emily moved half a world away, and over the years scraps of news arrived third-hand. She was divorced, alone, then ill.
“I want to buy you a book,” Emily had declared that one day, and between appointments, they escaped the antiseptic hospital air. “Something to inspire you to write.”
Leah opened the book at the inscription, as she did every year on the anniversary of Emily’s death. No real need; she knew it by heart.
To Leah,
Lost for many years, who made it all up in one day and came to chemo with me. 24 hours of joy – as it had always been! Now write a play – you know you want to.
Love Emily (always) xxxx
Rosemary McBryde
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