Audrey

Audrey had been at St Michael’s Court for three weeks when I first visited.  Shuffling cards at a sun-drenched table set for four girls, jellybean jar within easy reach, she was in heaven. 

I kissed her then drew up a chair. Outside, two old men and a milk chocolate nun played croquet in summer-scented air. 

Audrey dealt, with the same wrist flick and furrowed brow I had watched a thousand times.

“This looks nice, Audrey.  Garden’s almost as good as yours.”  

She gathered up her hand and gave me a wink. “Seem to have come up trumps.”

“No trumps, is it?” One of the girls looked quizzically at her partner. Audrey snorted.

Between tricks she introduced me to Beth, Nissa and Lily, side-stepping the matter of where I fitted in her life.  Not a granddaughter or niece, an in-law or a former neighbour. No, Audrey and I were simply friends, ever since my teenage dalliance with her son 31 years earlier.  She taught me to drink gin, play 500 and deal fairly to those less blessed.

Whenever I was in town, I visited and played a hand or two. In between, we wrote. I sent photos of graduations and holidays. She shared news from the home - Nissa’s hip, Lily’s Requiem – and recommended inspirational authors.  She sent sweets for every birthday, mine and my daughters'. Her bird-like script became shakier but she never complained.

That last visit, Audrey was sitting alone.

“Everyone’s shuffling off,  dear. Going to God. I’ll be next.”

I began to object but she stroked my arm. “It’s alright. I’m ready.”  She gestured with a trembling hand. “Let’s play…”

I slid the cards from their box and passed them to her. A smile, contentment, joy, played across her face as the moving cards began to whisper.

Rosemary McBryde