2 - LOTTIE’S STORY
Brighton, 2001
“And what words have you chosen to have engraved?”
Wishing to put my worldly effects in order from the comfort of my bed, I had opted for Mr Marsh of Marsh Littlejohn Solicitors on account of his mobility rather than his reputation. My initial reaction was that Mr Marsh must have sent one of his clerks. We eyed each other with suspicion from our respective vantage points: mine, propped up on a mountain of lace-sheathed pillows, the variety the young assume old ladies crave; his, loitering beyond the foot of the bed. Inching forwards, he introduced himself, touching my rice-paper hand, instantly withdrawing his own.
“The Mr Marsh?” I rasped.
“The same.” His smile was a blend of pride and embarrassment, as though accepting a prize on the sports field.
I checked myself: there was someone - once - who hadn’t dismissed me because I was too young. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“If it’s not rude to ask, how old are you, Miss Pye?” He adopted a voice designed for conversing with deaf foreigners. “It… says… here…”
I interrupted. “Old enough to make a will. And there’s no need to shout for my sake. I have a fully-functioning hearing aid.” Credentials established, I nodded to the chair by the side of my bed. “Make yourself at home.”
His silk-lined jacket unbuttoned, its tails flicked upwards, a truce of sorts was drawn. He took a slim notebook from his briefcase and, consulting his watch, jotted down the time. “So, what’s your secret?”
I hesitated. “My secret?”
“You must have good genes, obviously, but is there anything else?”
“I suppose you’d like me to tell you the path to longevity is lined with whiskey bottles!”
“Preferably.”
“Then let’s leave it at that. I imagine you’re charging by the hour.”
My choice of stone, the place of burial: these things were easily settled.
“Your headstone, Miss Pye?” Mr Marsh prompted.
The question wasn’t unreasonable. Given the purpose of our meeting, I should have been prepared. Now, I hesitated.
“You must have thought about it.” He conveyed a growing impression of anxiety as our interview proceeded, his eyes straying frequently from my face to his wrist. I know how I appeared to him. I experience that self-same shock every time I’m forced to acknowledge myself in a mirror. The face that stares back belongs to what used to be described as an ‘old crone.’ The witch from Hansel and Gretel. Hollow eyes peering blankly out of the workhouse window. Skin dissected by etchings, stretched so thin it clings to the contours of my skull and gathers in folds around my neck, like a sock that has lost its elastic; hair so fine it is beyond grooming. But it wasn’t always like that. I wasn’t always like that.
