2015 School Magazine

THE BUSINESS OF MARRIAGE [EXCERPT] KIRSTY THATCHER (12M)

Charlotte lifted the soft quilted lid of her treasured glory box and ran her fingers along years of hard work. Tucked neatly inside were various parcels, all lovingly kept in the hope that one day they would join Charlotte at a new home. She stopped instinctively at a small square of material, enticed by its silky surface. Carefully, she edged it out of its nook and holding it, she breathed in its familiar scent. It was a tray cloth, yellowing with antiquity, embroidered and edged rather inexpertly years ago. Charlotte smiled fondly at the memory, though she couldn’t help but pity the little girl who sat alongside her mother, eagerly mimicking the ease with which the gentle woman threaded her needle. With a sigh, she rubbed over the tiny scars that freckled her fingers, souvenirs of countless needle pricks, and the reminder of the high hopes she once held for her future. In an uncharacteristic whim of girlishness, she framed the fabric delicately on her head and around her face like a veil. For a second she allowed herself to enjoy the fantasy of the moment and, abandoning her usual sensible nature, imagined that she had somehow transformed into a bride. Her modest frock tripled in size, and in her hands sat six plump tulips, nauseatingly sweet in scent. For a moment, Charlotte spun around giddily until, in her haste, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and, feeling foolish, pulled the fabric ferociously from her hair. Tentatively, regaining her balance, she moved towards her reflection. She tucked the soft wisps of hair that were forever escaping her braid behind her ear, and for the first time, truly absorbed the woman who stood before her. She might have been looking at her own reflection but Charlotte barely recognised herself. She inhaled deeply, smoothing out the ghastly brocade fabric of her bodice. It was one of her mother’s gowns and though nothing short of expensive, it was not to Charlotte’s taste. She felt it much too mature for a girl of her age. It had been strategically passed down to her, Charlotte supposed, in an effort to conceal her normally plain appearance. She knew it impossible and she dared not admit it, but she hoped its splendour would somehow have an effect on her own. Rather, it seemed, these efforts were futile: the woman who stood before her, flustered from her earlier exertion, was hardly the picture of beauty. She rarely found the time, nor could she be bothered, with her own lacklustre looks. She would much sooner dote on her younger sisters, spending hours brushing their fair hair and indulging their innocent fantasies.

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