It’s been lovely, the fortnight together; but all good things come to an end, as my mother used to say!

I love to see Bridget. And I’ll be glad to hear she’s had a safe journey home. ‘Safe journey,’ that’s what I always wish her as she leaves. I’ve ever wished only good things for Bridget.

Still, the chores are waiting and at my time of life they take forever. Where’s that duster? Isn’t talking to yourself said to be the first sign of madness? I must be crazy as a cuckoo then, because regularly I talk things over with me. Sure of a sensible answer that way, aren’t I?

The jobs seem that mite easier and it doesn’t do anybody any harm.

By now Bridget will be sitting on the plane, frowning as she reads I expect, twiddling a strand of her hair. Her hair’s lovely, salt 'n pepper with a proper bounce; a professional cut is all it needs.

I’ve changed the linen on the guest bed and it’s blowing well on the line. The sheet and pillowcase are a delicate pink and the quilt cover is splashed with matching pink roses. Bridget is used to nice things and I wouldn’t want her bedclothes to be shabby.

A lot of water has flown under the bridge since my best friend Mary got her little baby girl, a long time after she wed her American, Don, a quiet man and well off – by our standards, anyway.

They named the baby girl Bridget. Not what I would’ve preferred ... But, there. It was their choice to make.

As they’d all but given up hope of becoming parents, I was honestly glad for them. We grew apart after a while, I admit, but in those days America was a huge distance away, Mary couldn’t be popping over as if she still lived across the street. This same street where I still live, though it looked different then. Bless me, milk delivered by horse and cart, hardly a car in sight, Mary ever nipping across to our back door or me to hers. Happy days!

This old wedding photograph of Mary and Don I’m dusting is very faded. Neither of them would mind, I’m sure, that I keep it in the spare room where Bridget sleeps. I don’t suppose they ever kept a photograph of me.

Anyway, Mary’s Bridget has been great, you wouldn’t believe her kindness. I’ve even visited her home, in America! In later years I mean, after Mary and Don passed away. Bridget is a lovely girl.

As was dear Mary. She deserved the happiness Bridget brought her, she’d wanted a baby for so long.

Mary did keep in touch with letters, although not many, and even the odd photograph. Don always seemed to disapprove of me, which wasn’t very fair. He hardly knew me. Of course, he never had half an eye for anyone here but Mary.

And if he expressed surprise I never married, I just said, ‘So what? Some fellow missed out on quite a prize, if you ask me.’

That was misleading because I’ve been courted, same as any. None of the men were worth the giving up of my independence, so none of them could have been the ‘Mr. Right’ we all used to whisper about and wait for. And I looked after my old mother for years, bless her, and wasn’t I the best baby-sitter for the kiddies about here? No, neither Don nor anyone needed to worry about me, because with work, knitting, the library and all, when did I ever have time to marry?

Lord love us, baths are a pain to clean – such a long way to bend. Bridget says I should have a shower fitted but I can’t lie in a shower with a slushy book now, can I?

Ordinary girls from my generation didn’t have a career, exactly, but I worked my way up in life. Just a factory girl once, but with night classes and the manager being a friend of my father, I got to work in the office. Eventually I made office manageress, by my efforts. Yes, my life was my own.

Oh, at one time I might have dreamed of a husband and a family, but it didn’t happen. Never mind the husband, I did miss the family that never was.

The family would have been lovely.

But I’ve had my health, marvellous health I’ve had, and never wanted. Wasn’t it what Cathy Farrell from next door said, last week? We need only our health, she said, and she was right. There aren’t many old girls reach the age of Cathy and me and still enjoy life so well.

Look at my pretty garden! It’s given me such pleasure over the years.

It was prettier even, but recently I’ve become interested in vegetables, all varieties. Bridget says, ‘Can you manage it all?’ If I couldn’t manage I wouldn’t bother! Not for this old lady a graceful, armchair old age; give me wellies and a garden fork! Through the back windows I can admire the neat rows of cabbages and carrot tops. I must give that glass a wipe.

No rest for the wicked, Cathy Farrell says. I laugh. ‘I never believed I was wicked.’

It’s since Mary and Don died that Bridget and me have really grown close.

Bridget isn’t like either of them – why should she be? In her fifties now, she’s never had a wish for children.

She runs a business with her husband and ruthless determination. This is her third or fourth business; they’ve all been successful and she’s made money. Bless her, why shouldn’t she? I admire her fighting spirit.

Bridget grew up in the land of opportunities and I’m glad.

Now, shall I vacuum or brush the stairs today? What do you think, stairs? Oh, I suppose I’ll have to get the vacuum. Cathy thinks she might see about moving to a bungalow but it wouldn’t do for me. I’ve been contented all my life in this cosy little place and I’m not ready to give it up yet. I’ll miss Cathy if she goes, though.

When Bridget flew me out to visit her, wasn’t it wonderful? Big gabled houses, endless shops, America is so different and the standard of living so high I felt as though I was starring in a television programme! I like the television. I wonder what’s on tonight?

Good old U. S. of A., land of opportunity, land of countless television stations and high expectations, a terrific place for a girl to grow up.

You know, every summer Bridget comes to see me. She stays in this little house and doesn’t mind how ordinary it is though she could afford a lovely big hotel, I’m sure. We do all the domestic jobs together and she never seems bored.

I’m glad I got those new bed things. Nobody ever stays in the spare room but Bridget and I’ve got it homey for her with the lamp and the carpet and all, all matching.

My friends from the whist club get along with Bridget.

I’ve never had another friend like Mary was, of course.

And next year I’m going to visit Bridget again, did you know? So generous she is, she’s treating me to another great adventure. She’s a bit uneasy about my travelling at my age, and wants me to see the doctor first and get ‘looked over’. But he might find good reasons for my not going, and I want to go! She laughed at me, anyway, and said, ‘I guess you won’t be bothering with the doc? You’d only ignore his advice!’

At my age I mean to grab what I can from the remaining years. I think if I had my time again, the only thing I’d change is to work harder at my determination earlier in life.

I’ll keep a scrapbook of the holiday, with photos and all, and I’ll probably bore everyone daft with it. I’ve never minded living alone, but it is nice to have friends to boast to over tea and cards.

Cathy Farrell tells me to get a cat. ‘Cats,’ she says, ‘are good company.’ Cats, I say, are hairy, and leave their hairs for me to clear away! Wouldn’t do for us all to be the same, would it? Cathy loves her cats.

Bridget’s life has been so different to my own. Bless me, just look at the cobweb round that light! Bridget has made her own decisions; she’s moved her home at will and made her own way in the world.

She must have got the drive from her father. I never really knew him well enough to judge.

Bridget doesn’t seem to have missed being a mother. She has been clear sighted enough to realise the time was never right.

But I’m certain that had Bridget ever found herself expecting a baby, however inappropriate her circumstances at the time, she would have squared her shoulders and dared the world to condemn her.

How different from my generation! ‘Girls like that’ who ‘got in trouble’ had their babies in ‘homes’ away from their own doorstep. And they quietly gave their babies to people who couldn’t produce their own, because families and convention decreed that to be the way.

When they got back they put about a story of working ‘in service’ for a few months and got another job, quick. Who was kidding who, do you think, kitchen floor? I’m going to get that new mop and bucket and do you over in a minute.

Bridget has always been good to me. Aren’t I blessed?

Especially as she has known for the past twenty years that I gave her away to Mary and her wealthy American. So maybe she realised why Don disapproved of me. You see, I was one of those girls, ‘no better than they should be’, and they were the couple who were able to get a longed for baby.

Now that’s just plain unfair, isn’t it?

Just as it’s unfair that a fellow can walk away from his handiwork without a second thought. Or he could in those days. Sure, I’m ready for a cuppa.

Ignorance, a terrible thing. To think I was twenty-two and didn’t even know you could get tight on that little bit of beer! ‘Twenty-two! You’re kidding me!’ Bridget marvelled, when we finally talked about it.

I told her, ‘Weren’t the gaps in my education filled the hard way, then?’ I laugh about it now but it was terrible at the time. I had to keep my chin up and ignore the whispers.

But Bridget has never, ever disapproved of me, because Bridget is my daughter, and we love each other. And if I missed out on bringing her up as mine, we make up for it now! Every week a letter and a phone call. Life is good.

It’s nearly time for her plane to land, I hope she’s not too tired. Another couple of hours and she’ll ring to say she’s back. Isn’t she fine, to pay for the phone?

My, that tea tastes good. I’ll just rest here for five minutes where I can see the washing dancing above the sweet peas in the wind, put my feet up and dream of America. This is the life. Cathy is coming for tea and crack shortly and I’ll tell her about Bridget’s visit and all, how I’m dead excited because I’ll be going stateside again.

She doesn’t mind how many times she hears it. She says I’m very lucky. I think she’s right.

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