A bequest, unexpected, from the old lady she’d used to run errands for, something like fifteen years ago. Unexpected because she’d been left the village more than ten, married, separated and then divorced. Her Dad had stayed there though, same house, even though it was far too big, but he said he liked the space. Even so the solicitor’s letter had come as a bit of a shock, took three readings to understand it, but eventually she realised she’d been given fifty quid “to spend on something frivolous to wear.”
The obvious thing was underwear, of course. Except who the fuck for? (Sorry Mrs Cartwright, didn’t mean to swear, and thank you very much). What she needed, more than ever, since the last dose of chemo, was a wig, but they made her head itch unbearably and she was more comfortable with one of her many silk scarves. But above that ... yes, a hat. A big, straw hat, one of those black ones with a huge floppy, mysterious brim, like she was some film star, Audrey Hepburn, perhaps, because her eyes were still her best feature. And, just for the hell of it, a scarlet ribbon round it and an eagle’s feather tucked into the left-hand side.
Words, Inc. (Wednesday) straw, wig, eagle