Whispers & Wishes
When I was a little girl we lived near a lady called Trudie, who was small and mysterious but warm, chatty and full of charm. She lived in a vast mansion with her silent husband Joe.
My mother and I would often drop in for a visit and I would invariably slink off in search of treasures. It was always chilly in the house, with dust floating in the chinks of light that streamed through half-open shutters. Room after room was filled with vintage clothes and antique dress jewellery. Trudie would sometimes watch me as I rummaged through her vast wardrobes and danced around, my arms laden with bracelets and charms. ‘Oh, I wish I were young again,’ she would whisper, gazing wistfully at dresses that held the secrets of her past.
There were also drawers brimming with buttons, old threads in vivid purples, pinks, blues and yellows still attached.
Trudie had eyes as dark as cocoa and an accent, a foreign one I can’t now place. I often wonder what secrets those buttons might have told of the life this beguiling old lady had once led and missed so greatly.