Some
of them came alone, some in pairs and a few in a mini-crowd.
The
on-their-owns were quiet, shy, sitting looking at their hands, the table, the
walls. Anywhere but at the other women.
The
pairs had low, confidential conversations; supporting each other, excluding the
rest.
The
group were loud, brash and confident as they crashed their way en-masse to the
head of the table and started to gleefully pull piles of this and that towards
them.
Millie,
always worried about being late, had got there first and was now sitting
furthest away from the crowd. She was pleased. It meant she could observe
without fear of instant inclusion. Why had she come? She wondered. These
weren’t her type of people. What was her type of people, come to that? Like
herself? No, probably not.
Millie was shy, didn’t normally mix with other
people – just cleaned her little house and fed her husband with the food he
liked, not the food that she would have liked to eat. He wouldn’t eat that.
“Hello,
everyone. Great to see so many new faces.” Amanda’s rich, deep, confident voice
echoed around the room and made Millie jump and gulp. Her mouth was dry. There
was a large jug of water, surrounded by lots of glasses, in the centre of the
table and Millie wished she’d helped herself to a glass when she was on her
own. It felt rude to just take though, without being asked.
Now she just looked
longingly at the throat-hydrating water knowing she couldn’t just stand up in
front of everyone and get a glassful. They would notice her then and being
noticed was the last thing she wanted.
“Probably
best if we all introduce ourselves and say a bit about what we do.” Oh God,
thought Millie, feeling distressed. No. I don’t do anything and my voice won’t
work.
“I’m
Amanda Fitzgerald and I keep all you motley crew in check”, she laughed. “There
are no leaders here this is an equal group but someone has to be able to make
decisions, or we’d never get anything done or decided, and that seems to have
fallen on my shoulders. Anything you need to know, want to do, or whatever, just
ask away. I own the Stables, at the end of the village.”
Amanda
sat down and the slow but sure Mexican Wave of females wended its way
agonisingly slowly towards Millie. She didn’t really take in who the others were
or what they did. She was still in awe, scared actually, of Amanda and her
stables. She must have loads of money then. Millie didn’t. All she had each
week was a small allowance for food and basics.
Going
to the butchers to get the meat for her husband, God she hated going in that
place, with its smell of old blood and skinned animals strung around like
gruesome-bunting, she had to pass the ‘Cafe-Cake’, with its jolly displays of
all types of cakes piled on tiered plates beautifully arranged on polka-dotted
clothed tables.
She always glanced enviously at the people happy and relaxed
with their pots of tea, sandwiches and cakes. She had never been in. Couldn’t
afford to and didn’t have anyone to go in with. You needed someone to share a jolly,
red, big pot of tea with and smile at and talk to.
The
other day, when Millie passed the Cafe-Cake a big group of people had pushed
some tables together and the sound of their happy voices had spilled out on to
the street. Looking through the window at them, she had seen the advert. The
advert asking for people to come and help make things for the village fete to
raise money for the Rescue Greyhounds. They always needed food and the vets’
bills were horrific.
Millie
had seen the dogs, big and gentle with eyes you could drown in, stretched out, fast
asleep in pools of sun, while the rescue people shook their tins and asked for
help from passers-by. Occasionally she found a 50p to plop in the tin and could
stroke and fuss the dogs. Her heart broke every time she had to leave them
behind. She would love to have one to take for walks and cuddle and love. Her
husband wouldn’t let her have a dog though and the poor thing would get told
off if it went on the sofa or did the other things that dogs do that they can’t
help doing because they are dogs. No. It wouldn’t be fair.
 |
| Let Sleeping Dogs Lie ©Tracey Edges |
Millie
could sew though. Nothing fancy but she could do something to help and that’s
how she found herself on her feet, feeling like she would melt under the hot,
expectant, stares of fifteen women.
“Erm”,
the frog in her throat croaked. She coughed trying to get rid of it and went
red with embarrassment. She knew she’d gone red which made her hotter and
redder. Not good. “I’m Millie and I live in the little cottage on Pike’s Turn
and I love greyhounds.” The words came out in a rush. They were few but enough
to generate a noise-swell of agreement and a clap from 3 or 4 of the crowd-women.
Flustered
she swiftly connected bottom with chair and as she did the woman next to her
smiled at Millie. Millie smiled back.
That
was the moment that two lonely greyhound lovers each found a friend and before
too long they would share a big red jolly pot of tea.
