I can’t imagine her being 50. I bet she would still have bright auburn curls, though. Not a hint of grey in sight. I imagine that she would be living on a canal boat somewhere, earning a living from crafting beautifully intricate silver jewellery. She had patience and an eye for detail.
She was an artist - a painter and sculptor. She rang the bells at our village church. The bell chimes were updated the year she died and they are dedicated to her memory. As soon as she passed her driving test she drove her Fiat Panda into the back of tractor trailer. When she was a child, all knitted items were declared to be ‘scratchy’ and if she didn’t want to eat something she would say her teeth were puffed out. Because of her long hair she earned the nickname ‘Dougal’ after the dog from ‘The Magic Roundabout.’ In later years, she was ‘Jack.’
One day, when she was ill, I made her scrambled eggs on toast. She said, ‘They’re not as good as the ones Mum makes.’
I still have her teddy bear. The last birthday card she gave me, all wobbly handwriting. The last present. A couple of her art works.
I can still feel the sting of the slap around the back of my leg I got when I helped myself to a couple of her Smarties. I was 8, she was 3.
The familiarity of her voice has long since faded. Most of our childhood memories together, too. It was a privilege to be with her when she died at 3.05 in the morning which, I believe, was the same time that she was born.
Happy 50th Birthday, Jackie! Wherever you are. Although I expect, after 28 years, you have been recycled by now. You’re probably a teenage rebel leading marches to save Planet Earth, or other similar malarkey. And I bet you are doing it wearing that ridiculous fancy dress clown outfit you had.
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KJ