TWO SISTERS Once upon a time, there were two sisters. The elder, Emily, was dazzlingcharming, successful, and wealthy. The younger, Edith, was lost to drink. By the time this curious dream unfurled, there was nothing left of Ediths former beauty. Although only thirty-two, she resembled some spectral old widow, withered thin and purple-blotched, her swollen face all but smothering her eyes. Her hair, dull and muddied, stuck out in tufts as if it had long forgotten either soap or comb.
You couldnt fault Emilyshed devoted so much time and pounds trying to rescue her sister from the bogs of gin and ale: posh clinics in Bath and Brighton, visits to local wise-women and faith-healersnothing worked. Shed even bought Edith a snug little flat in Eastbourne, but put the deed to her own name, just in case Edith traded it for another bottle. Yet within six months, the flat was stripped of all comfort, except a filthy old mattress where a dying Edith lay when Emily came to bid farewellfor Emily was about to move to the continent, for good.
Edith couldnt speak. There was only enough strength to part her swollen eyelids and catch, through the grime-frosted window, the vague outline of her sister. Around her sprawled empty bottles, courtesy of the local tipplers whod adopted Edith as kin. Conscience wouldnt let Emily abandon her. How would she live with that? She decided, for the sake of her own soul, to take Edith to their Aunt Mabels cottage in the countryside.
The sisters barely knew Mabelshe was their late mothers sister, who, ages ago, would visit bearing apple jam, russet apples fragrant as autumn, and jars of dried mushrooms from her village. Emily recalled only the villages name: Brambly End. If they hadnt been invited to a funeral, the aunt must be alive, surely. She enlisted the help of an old family friend, rolled Edith in a threadbare blanket, loaded her to the backseat, and they set off for the village of Brambly End.
The village was easily foundfour scruffy cottages clustered together beneath oversized hedgerows. Aunt Mabels house was unmistakable. Edith was placed on the aunts patchwork bedspread while Emily laid a tidy stack of twenty-pound notes on the scrubbed pine table: Shes fading fast, Aunt Mabel, and Ive got to go. This should cover the sendoffperhaps one day Ill come back to find her grave. She handed over Ediths flat keys. Who else was there to give them to? Refusing the proffered tea, Emily drove away.
Aunt Mabel, a sprightly yet solitary woman of nearly seventy, unwrapped Edith and confirmed she was, at least for now, still breathing. Silently, Mabel set the kettle on the rayburn. While the water warmed, she filled a flask with a mix of dried English meadow herbs, a spoon of hedgerow berries, and a drizzle of honey, then sealed it to steep in the simmering water. For three days, Mabel spooned the herbal brewsometimes nearly forcing itbetween Ediths lips every half hour, round the clock, day and night.
By the fourth day, she began adding the milk of her old nanny goat, Matilda, spoon by spoon. Steadily, she progressed to light vegetable broths and homemade chicken consommé. Mabel had a handful of hensseven scrawny survivorsbut did not hesitate to make broth from two of them for the stricken niece.
After a month, Edith managed to sit upright in bed by herself. It was winter now. Mabel bundled her niece in a thick shawl and hauled her by sled, through dustings of frost and glimmers of fog, to the garden shed shed transformed into a makeshift steam bath. Inside, fragrant herbs brewed in bowls and tubs; Mabel washed Ediths limp hair with herbal waters, and by the fire, brushed it until it gleamed and smelled of summer grass.
Aunt Mabel poured all her latent love and care into Edith, nurturing her inch by feathery inch, as if the teas were mixed with bits of her own drowsy, tender soul. Fashionable clinics and mysterious healers could not save Edithbut her aunts patient, earthy devotion prevailed. Edith survived. She grew sturdy and whole, thanks to the clover-scented milk of Matilda, and the daily omelets from warm, new-laid eggs. Her hair grew rich and glossy; her cheeks flushed with health, revealing startling blue eyes.
Slowly, she started to help about the cottage and then in the barn: learning to milk Matilda, gathering eggs at dawn, making simple meals almost entirely from their own little patch of earth. Her memory of the old life faded. She preferred this new world, clean and unwritten. She saw the sunrise, the scudding clouds, the apple blossoms slow unfurling in spring.
Down at the stream, among the willow weeds, a duck made her nest with a parade of ducklings, and Edith visited daily with crusts of bread. She discovered a strange new gift with her hands. Aunt Mabel taught her the art of crochet. At first, Edith crafted little doilies. Then, after a trip to the village haberdashery to buy bundles of English wool, she moved on to large, delicate shawls with intricate, lacy patterns.
Orders soon arrived for her extraordinary creations, and the money came, too. In three years, the beautiful Edith spirited her beloved Mabel out of remote Brambly End, moving with her to a tranquil coastal town on the southern shore, whereby pooling Mabels savings with her ownshe bought a snug house with a small back garden. Every morning, Matilda the goatdelivered safely by van, thanks to Emilys paymentwould nibble on apples, staring thoughtfully out at the sea. In the gentle waters, not far from the pebbled edge, two women swam, laughing, both precious to her.
And the most wonderful thing about this dreamlike story? In some odd, shimmery way, its absolutely true.
