Glory burst into tears before the breakfast marmalade had even been opened. «Gloria! Glory love!» Eleanor’s voice cracked slightly with exasperation. «It’s your actual birthday! Seventy years young! Everyone will be here shortly, and you’re…»
«I don’t want to see a soul!» Gloria Swann sniffled, pressing a damp hankie to her eyes. «Call the whole thing off! Say I’ve got the lurgy!»
«Don’t be daft!» Eleanor perched cautiously beside her sister on the plump sofa. «The cake’s ordered, the finger sandwiches are cut, Leo’s breezed in specially from London! Spill the beans! What’s up?»
Gloria just shook her head, burying her face deeper into the cushion. Eleanor glanced helplessly around the room. Everything screamed celebration: the table set with Granny’s best bone china and gleaming crystal, cheerful posies of freesias perfuming the air. Meanwhile, the guest of honour resembled a scolded schoolgirl slumped in the corner.
«Glory, love?» Eleanor tried to peek at her sister’s face. «Not fallen out with Edward? He phoned last night, sent his love…»
«Sent his love!» Gloria gave a watery snort. «We spoke for a whole fifty seconds. ‘Mum, happy birthday, mad busy, love you loads.’ That was it! I waited all day yesterday, hoping… maybe this time…» Her voice trailed off, thick with disappointment.
Eleanor sighed. Edward, Gloria’s only son, had been hatching his career in Manchester for a decade with some frightfully important finance firm. Visits home were rarer than sensible weather – sometimes Christmas, if they were lucky, and even then, not guaranteed.
«You know how it is with his job…» Eleanor offered weakly.
«Job, job!» Gloria flared up, tossing her hankie aside. «What about *my* job? Twenty years at the council offices, then deputy head at St. Winifred’s until I retired! Never, you hear me, *never* forgot his birthday! Presents wrapped, cakes baked, all his little mates invited! Now? I might as well be invisible!»
Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. Eleanor silently passed her a clean hankie.
«D’you remember,» Gloria hiccuped, «…his eighth birthday? Hired that ridiculous Punch and Judy man? The whole street came! Edward was grinning like the Cheshire Cat… eyes shining…»
William, Gloria’s husband, had passed eight years ago. A heart attack at their old cottage in the Lakes; paramedics arrived too late. Since then, Gloria had focused every bit of her world on Edward, clinging to the hope he’d be her anchor.
«What about a smashing present?» Eleanor suggested gently. «Something grand?»
«It’s not about *things*!» Gloria lifted her head sharply. «I want his *time*! A proper chinwag! Asking how I am, how Bunty’s arthritis is doing! Maybe popping down occasionally! Instead, it’s just a birthday cheque in the post, another at Mothering Sunday. Like I’m some distant maiden aunt!»
The doorbell chimed brightly. The sisters exchanged glances.
«That’ll be Leo, I expect,» Eleanor whispered. «Glory, petal, splash your face? Can’t greet him looking like this…»
«Go on,» Gloria waved her off. «Say I’ve got a splitting headache.»
Eleanor sighed and headed for the door. Her son, Leo, stood in the hall, arms full of crimson roses and an elegantly wrapped rectangle.
«Mum! Happy hostessing! Where’s our birthday queen?» He beamed, kissing her cheek.
«Aunt Gloria’s feeling a bit under the weather,» Eleanor hedged. «Perhaps we postpone?»
«Don’t be silly!» Leo bustled past her. «Auntie Glory! Happy Birthday! Seventy is a proper milestone!» He held out the flowers and the flat parcel. «For you! Had a rummage in the old memory boxes.»
Gloria looked up, red-eyed, attempting a smile. Leo always felt like a second son. While Edward focused on degrees and career moves up north, Leo had been the one fixing leaks and lugging heavy shopping bags after dear William passed.
«Thank you, Leo dear,» she murmured, taking the roses. «Lovely.»
«And this!» He handed her the parcel. «Photo album. Remember all those snaps with Edward and me? Dug them out, scanned ’em proper. Have a look!»
Gloria opened the album and gasped. On the first page, a much younger Gloria smiled, holding a chubby one-year-old Edward; beside them stood William, his arms around both. Joy radiated from the faded photograph.
«Leo, where on earth…?» she breathed.
«Mum had them squirrelled away. Look here, that’s us by Windermere. Me about five, Eddie pushing seven…»
Gloria turned the pages, tears flowing freely now. But these were softer tears, not bitter. Memories flooded back: the whole brood at Eleanor’s place in Cornwall, kids chasing butterflies with nets; Edward as a lopsided snowman beside Leo in floppy bunny ears for the school nativity; Edward grinning proudly after his A-level results…
«He wasn’t like that back then,» Gloria whispered, pointing to a photo of eighteen-year-old Edward hugging her tightly. «Kind… warm…»
«Oh, he still is,» Leo offered gently. «Just… life swallows you whole. Work, rat race… Honestly, Auntie G, I spoke to him just the other week. He’s proper cut up about not seeing more of you.»
«Spoke? To Edward?» Gloria blinked. «When?»
«Last Tuesday. Asked how you were, if your hip was playing up. Even wanted gift ideas for today. That’s how I knew about the album… he thought it was spot on…»
Gloria stared at Leo, astonished.
«He really asked?»
«Course! Said he misses home. Misses your proper Yorkshire puddings especially,» Leo chuckled. «Remember how he’d only eat yours? Mum uses the same recipe, but he’d turn his nose up: ‘It’s just not like Mum’s!'»
A small, involuntary smile touched Gloria’s lips. Her Yorkshires *were* legendary, a secret family recipe passed down.
«Perhaps I’ll bake him some… next visit,» she mused.
«You absolutely should!» Leo encouraged. «Right! Champagne time! Mum, where’s the bubbly?»
Eleanor sprang into action, fetching glasses. Gloria stood up, checked her reflection in the hall mirror.
«I look like Wallace after a bad night,» she sighed, examining her puffy eyes.
«It’ll fade,» Eleanor reassured her. «Point is, you’re smiling.»
Around the little table, the chatter grew lively. Leo shared hilarious stories from his architectural firm; Eleanor reminisced about their younger days at the Palais, dancing every other poor chap off his feet.
«Remember,» Gloria giggled, «…that terribly serious RAF chap? Simon, was it?»
«Flight Lieutenant Simon!» Eleanor crowed. «Took you roaring off on his Norton!»
«Rather glad he didn’t stick,» Gloria mused. «William was always more solid. More… *there_.»_
«You
«Tomorrow, she decided with a determined sniff, she’d ring Edward herself, tell him she loved him, and promise him the fluffiest Yorkshire pudding he’d ever tasted when he came.»