For Want of a Button

Bobbie watched as the crack in her bedroom curtains became more distinct with the onset of dawn. She listened to the dawn chorus and then lay still waiting for her radio to come on. This had become a habit over the last year or three. It had been a long time since she had needed an alarm to actually wake her. Having spent most of her life being teased for her dormouse like habits, she had never thought that she too would need less and less sleep as she joined the ranks of the wrinklies. Even so, although she woke each morning before five, she still couldn’t see the point of getting up at what to her was a ridiculous time. No, she far preferred to greet the oncoming day from the comfort of her bed, taking this quiet time to ponder and dream a little. She found that in this half waking, half sleeping state she seemed to drift back in time, often to the point where she could hold conversations with departed friends and family. She never knew in advance who would come to ‘visit’ and enjoyed the mild suspense and sense of freedom as she let her sleepy mind roam at will.

This morning however, no-one slipped in for a chat. Bobbie wasn’t surprised. She had spent a disturbed night with peculiar dreams shot through with threads of reminders from the list she had written late the evening before. Knowing that the next day was going to be difficult and emotionally very draining, Bobbie had spent five minutes before going to bed listing the things that she definitely must not forget to do next morning:

Collect flowers
Take cakes and flowers to Centre
Polish black shoes
Buy buttons
Sew button on to black jacket (Remember to wear black everything)
Pick up Muriel at 1.45

As Radio Four cut into her reverie, Bobbie pushed all Daliesque images aside and began the laborious task of coaxing her arthritic joints into motion. It took a good ten minutes for her to get out of bed and across to the window to draw the curtains, especially as on the way a photo of four young women in uniform – The Four Furies, had caught her attention. She smiled as she contemplated the warmth of their lifelong friendship.
The garden was swathed in a silvery mist that gave it a mystical appearance and held promise of yet another gloriously sunny day. At the ‘feeding tree’ immediately outside the window, Bobbie was entranced to see several fledgling blue tits being herded along by their beleaguered parents and energetically encouraged to have a go at the seed and peanut feeders for themselves. Bobbie loved this copper beech tree, which flourished on the edge of the terrace that surrounded three sides of her small thatched cottage. She had first hung bird feeders from its lowest branches twenty-seven years ago, when she had inherited the house from her uncle. Since then the tree had provided shelter and nourishment for countless generations of small garden birds, as well as blessing Bobbie with a feeling of intense joy at its beauty, its strength and its permanence. In an ever changing reality, the tree and the surrounding extravagant wilderness of a garden were her anchor, her safeguard, her sanctuary.

Bobbie made her way slowly and painfully downstairs carrying her shoes to polish, jacket to mend and her handbag – in fact everything she could think that she might need for the day. Since her hips and knees had become so painful, she had tried to plan to use the stairs as little as possible each day, deciding that ‘use it or lose it’ could quite adequately be served by the gardening and walking to and from the centre of the small town of Hartcombe where she lived and did not need to entail the torture of stairs as well. Disorganised and impulsive by nature, this imposition of planning and organisation in her life did not come easily to Bobbie, but ‘ needs must when the  devil drives’ was one of her favourite sayings, and the devil arthritis was surely driving hard these days.

Just as she reached the last stair, the phone began to ring. Cursing the walk about phone that her nephew Joey had bought her – to save her legs, Bobbie cocked her head on one side to locate the handset. With dismay she realised that it was exactly where she had left it last night – at her bedside. Dumping everything on the hall table she set off back up the stairs, knowing full well that she wouldn’t reach it in time. Miraculously it was still ringing when she reached it, so she knew who it was before anyone spoke,
“Hello Muriel,” she puffed into the receiver.
“Clever old you, how did you know who it was? I’ve always said you were at least half witch!”
“No-one else would ring that long besides I know you are worrying that I will not be there on time today and so you have just rung to remind me haven’t you. As if I would need it today.”
“Now don’t get crotchety Bobbie. It’s going to be hard enough to say goodbye to Annie without having to tiptoe on bits of glass around your crossness as well. In fact I did ring to remind you of something, but it wasn’t the time. You mustn’t forget to wear sensible clothes dear, remember that Annie’s daughter has specifically requested that everyone wear black to her mother’s funeral. I know and you know that it is not what Annie would have wanted, but I really think we must respect the family’s wishes.”
“Stuck up little Madam,” snapped Bobbie, “who is she to dictate – she is only doing this after Annie’s death because she couldn’t hold any sway over her when she was alive. The four of us made a pact Muriel, all those years ago in the WRAF, no black, no tears, no regrets – we would give any one of us who died a good send off. It’s just as valid now as it was all those years ago.”
“I know, I know, but Elsie’s service last year seems to have daunted Annabel rather. She really didn’t approve of us in bright colours and she said the choice of music and readings was quite heathen. Don’t you remember how she tried to get the vicar disciplined for allowing what she called revelries in the Church.”
Bobbie glanced across to the photograph on her dressing table of four laughing, young, vibrant girls in their WRAF uniforms, and for a moment was lost in memories.
“Are you still there Bobbie – please tell me you are not going to cause a scene.”
Muriel’s voice quavered slightly. She had always been the most acquiescent of the four friends.
“Don’t worry Moo, I have planned to mend my shabby old black jacket. I won’t rock any boats today. I’ll see you at 1.45 as planned – suitably and gloomily dressed.”
She pressed the red button on the phone. Talking about the mending reminded her that she would need her workbasket downstairs.
“At least that makes this extra journey up here worthwhile,” Bobbie grumbled to herself “though I can’t believe that I am willing to go against what we all promised just because Annabelle has stamped her little foot.”
Still in a bad humour she made her way down to her untidy, though cosy kitchen. Over a rushed breakfast  Bobbie travelled back through the years of the friendship of the four young women who had gelled when they met up during the war and had remained firm friends ever since. The Four Furies they had been named on the station because of their energy, good humour and abiding sense of fun in the face of the nastiness of the world about them. Many of the young pilots had said to them that they believed them to be magical beings that drew them back to safety after each mission. Annie, Muriel, and Elsie had all married, but somehow Bobbie had never seemed to find the time, or the right person. She had been perfectly happy with her career, and her role as aunt to her dead brother’s son Joey, and proxy aunt to the offspring of the other three Furies.

Complaining to herself about the length of time it took to get anything done these days, she carefully packed her cakes for the gathering at the Day Centre after the funeral, tapping away the inquisitive paw of Scat her marmalade cat, who was far too interested in sampling the goods for her liking.
“No Scat – find one of your toys to play with – you are not playing with my cakes. Here chase this bobbley thing.” She shook the gaudy ping pong ball of a toy that Annie had knitted for the cat last Christmas. Ignoring the purple toy Bobbie then tossed across the floor, Scat  the cat stalked away.
“Please yourself. But your still having no cake!”
She allowed herself a wry smile as she perused the colourful pink yellow, blue and purple icing covering their soft crumbly tops, and the centre piece a huge Victoria sponge iced in white with the words
“I WILL wear purple!” iced across the middle.
“Hah!” she mumbled to the retreating back of Scat, “at least Annabel couldn’t insist on grim colours for the refreshments, and the ‘no flowers’ policy may be imposed at the church but the Centre will be decked out in glorious Technicolor blooms.
Donning a scarlet cardigan Bobbie set off on her errands for flowers and buttons, her offerings for the Centre stowed safely in the carrier of her beloved ‘Grannymobile’. Once again it was Joey who was responsible for providing this wonder of modern transport, a battery operated buggy, which, when fully charged allowed Bobbie to scoot off to the shops, the library and to the Day Centre and still get back before the battery ran flat.
Pinned to the handlebars was a large note reminding Bobbie to buy buttons and collect the flowers.
“Flowers first, then buttons, then the Centre…….
“Morning Harold – yes it is a lovely day- see you at church later.”
…..and home in time for lunch …….
“Marjory – what beautiful flowers – I’ll see you later”
…….and boot cleaning.”

On her way Bobbie greeted just about everyone she saw – it was a small and friendly town and Bobbie herself was one of its ‘characters’. An onlooker may have smiled to see that each person she greeted had retreated to the safety of a gateway or shop doorway as this brightly coloured vision sailed past waving one or other or even both hands as she went.

At the Fanny’s Flower Shop she had only paused outside when Fanny herself, a plain dumpy soul whose ordinary looks belied the magic she could weave with blooms, popped out of the door,
“Don’t get off Bobbie – I had few deliveries today what with no flowers being needed at the Church that I’ve sent Stan in the van with yours. Even though I say it myself, they are a treat – loads of purple and yellow, not a lily in sight, Annie would have loved them – I’m not sure about her daughter though. If you put your foot down and scoot across the carpark, you’ll get there just in time to tell him where you would like them.”
“You’re a marvel Fanny – I’ll go as quickly as I can in this old tub.”
Without a thought for buttons, she set off to direct operations with the food, flowers and decorations. Bobbie had always liked speed, so she wrung every last foot per second out of the poor little battery as she rocketed precariously through the car park, diving through gaps between parked cars and swerving around pedestrians, drawing to a halt just outside the main doors and parking deftly beside three other similar vehicles.
“Shame these are banned inside,” she grumbled as she climbed off stiffly, gathered her goods and disappeared inside.
An hour later Bobbie emerged chuckling to herself with delight at the way the room was looking and overwhelmed by the generosity of people who had wanted to contribute. A veritable feast of food and colour was waiting for all who wanted to come back and share “a quiet cup of tea and light refreshment in Mummy’s memory” as Annabelle had phrased it. All who had known the Four Furies would appreciate the full Furious send off that they had solemnly promised themselves over sixty years ago.
As she remounted awkwardly Bobbie noticed the list fluttering bravely in front of her.
“Bothering buttons, I forgot all about those!” She looked at the meter showing how much power she had left and with sinking heart realised that she could either get back up to the High Street, or she could get home, but not both.
“That’s the price I pay for speeding!”
Realising that she was short of time as well as power, Bobbie set off for home, a plan forming in her mind as she went.
Had she bought the black buttons, Bobbie would have knuckled under for the funeral, especially as she knew that their pact had been honoured at the Centre. Although stubborn, mildly eccentric and loyal almost to the point of stupidity, Bobbie wasn’t in the least cruel or insensitive. She had never dreamed of upsetting the family. She had said her piece and done her bit but that was as far as she would go – except that now she had no buttons to sew on to her only dark coloured jacket. The day had turned sunny as the silvery dawn had promised, so a coat would not do, and she could certainly not go to Church without being ‘properly dressed’, so just a dress either with or without a cardigan just wouldn’t be good enough.
At home Bobbie ate a quick sandwich then buffed vigorously at her sensible shoes while pondering what she should do.
“Oh bother and dither, I’ll just have to wear what I have – a fuchsia pink jacket, and be done with it.”
Scat the cat interrupted his paw washing and turned his unblinking stare on her, singularly unimpressed.
“I know Scat but what else…..” As Scat wandered over to his basket, he turfed out a bundle of toys and proceeded to knead himself a comfortable spot.
As she watched, a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth.
“Clever scat cat – of course I can do just that”
At 1.30 on the dot the taxi she had ordered tooted outside Bobbie’s cottage. If the taxi driver noticed anything odd about the elderly lady who lowered herself into the back seat he said nothing.
“The Elms next isn’t it ?”
“Yes please, by 1.45 I hope”
As the taxi drew up outside Muriel’s front door she looked anxiously to see what Bobbie was wearing. As she got in beside her friend she said with obvious relief,
“I’m so glad you have been sensible dear.”
Bobbie smiled a secret smile.
At the church Annie’s daughter Annabelle and her severe looking husband stood side by side greeting the mourners as they arrived. Annabelle swept her cool blue eyes over Bobbie and Muriel and she gave a slight nod of approval. As Bobbie unclasped her hands from around her stout waist to clasp Annabelle’s proffered gloved, Muriel and Annabelle’s mouths dropped open.
Bobbie’s jacket was sporting a bright purple woolly bobble in place of the missing black button.
“Believe me Annabelle, I didn’t plan this – I just couldn’t find a spare button at home. It was either this or a pink jacket – I promise I will behave impeccably and keep it covered, all through the service.”
“You are an incorrigible old woman Bobbie, but somehow I just know that Mum is looking down at us right now and giggling.” Annabelle unbent her stiff frame and gave both Bobbie and Muriel a hug.