The Woman My Grandmother Loved.

Chapter Two

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower,
But only so an hour.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

                                                 Robert Frost

Cornwall, England 1969.

It wasn't often that you saw a twenty-three-year-old girl in a wheelchair, with a book in her hand as a slightly older woman stood next to her, conversing with a gentleman. It wasn't by any means a shocking sight; there wasn't anything about the scene that moved you. Except perhaps the predicament of the girl who sat in the wheelchair- you would only feel the human twinge of pity and well-intended sympathy.

It was a wonderful day in Cornwall, the onset of Autumn as the trees turned from green to golden and fell to the ground. The atmosphere was tinted with the red and gold that we have all grown to accustom Autumn with, the brisk breeze a gentle welcome from the heat of summer. The only thing about the trio that stood out distinctly was that they were not English; no blonde hair, fair skin with baby blue eyes. These were people who stood in stark contrast to the Eurocentric beauty standards; dark hair and kohl-rimmed eyes, hailing from a different nation.

The older woman, dressed in a navy-blue cotton sari was smiling and as she shook her head coyly, her hair fell over her face. The man, her lover; our observer presumed, laughed a bit awkwardly as he ran his hand through his hair. The girl, however, sat immersed in her book; as though she were unmoved by the happenings.

Wearing a floral peasant blouse in bright green and old well-worn bell-bottoms, the girl sat there unmoving. Her hair, wild and wavy sat about her shoulders and as the wind swayed, but it didn't look careless and unkempt. Our observer, watched her, quite unable to make her face out from the mane that fell all over it.

The observer, dressed in a checked mini skirt was just back from an outing with her friends. Well, a friend, to be precise. It hadn't gone well and she wasn't too happy about it and was on her way home, quite relieved. Wild auburn hair falling over her back in messy curls, large green eyes and a pale face which sat in contrast with the distinct maroon of her lipstick. She hadn't seen the family; if she were to call them that, before. They hadn't been around the neighbourhood and certainly not in front of her little house where she lived.

This was how Becky would remember the first time she saw Anita.

Rebecca 'Becky' Walter was an art teacher at the all-girls boarding school nearby. She lived in the small, picturesque cottage near the Cornish seacoast, not very far from the school. The cottage had been provided to her for some time by the headmistress Mrs White; the old woman being a very generous and kindly soul. Earlier, Mrs White's father had lived here but after the old man had passed away, the cottage sat empty and uncared for.

Becky had been looking for a place to stay and she hadn't wanted to live inside the school; the cottage had been the perfect fit for her. She wasn't a cowardly girl and the neighbourhood was very safe, and besides, she had enough space for her art. With canvas and easels, paintbrushes scattered all over and reckless spots of paint all over, this was a regular artist's haven. And Becky looked the part as well. An absent-minded, good-natured girl with a jolly temperament.

For now, Becky was occupied with the scene that lay in front of her. The couple seemed to have walked away, leaving the girl behind and the girl sighed. The girl didn't seem very inclined to follow them; attempting to propel her chair but then turning it around as though she had changed her mind and wanted to move in the opposite direction. Becky, walking towards the girl, felt a little rush in her spine. There was absolutely no reason for her to approach that girl and start a conversation, yet she wanted to.