Eleanor

It was slowly turning to winter, slowly turning to twilight, and Eleanor Graves was slowly being eaten alive.

Her white fingers clenched at a battered June 1955 edition of the Australian Women’s Weekly, her eyes skimming over the same line that it had for the past hour. The twins sat at her feet whinging again, a haze of white noise; they would argue about anything if for the sole reason of annoying her. It was funny how much they took after her husband’s two great-aunts in that way. Charles Jr. was drawing with a stick in the mud again. Charles would be annoyed at the waste of water but that was a problem for bath time later.

Her thin shawl did nothing to shield against the cool wind at this time of the evening, but it was fashionable. Or it had been at some point in time.

Back when she had been a child.

Back when she had wanted to be married and to have the small affectionate moments that her mother and father had shared; whispers of sweet nothings that would make her giggle ungracefully and make her blush. To have children, perhaps a boy and a girl who she could take to the park to play with each other as she relaxed and read the latest magazines.

She remembered the day that she had met Eddie with stunning clarity. She had been sitting under the gum tree outside the house in the summer of 1944, and rays of golden light fell across her skirt while she dozed in the shade.

That was when a ball had hit her in the side of her head. When she opened her eyes, a red-haired, flush faced boy had been crouched over her, eyes wide with worry.

“Are you okay, miss?”

That’s when she had fallen in love. Might have been the British accent, or the light sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks. Either way, she must have had stared too long as he had looked even more concerned.

“I’ll just go fetch someone. I’m so sorry. Please don’t be hurt. Stay right there.”

The last was said as he pointed his finger sternly at her and backed away, running towards the house. She hadn’t been sure what he meant to stay there – it wasn’t as though she was going to move. She had just stared after him as her heart fluttered. Who knew why people fell in love? That was a question for someone much wiser than herself. She sighed and grinned to herself, spreading her arms wide in the grass and letting out a small squeal in delight.

When he had returned with her mother in tow, she had been scolded for lazing about and dragged back to the house. Then her mother had shut the door and gone back out to scold the boy for being so careless. Didn’t he know he could accidentally hit a girl in the head? He was lucky her skull hadn’t been shattered – she had a good mind to speak to his mother about this incident.

Watching from the kitchen window, Eleanor unabashedly examined him. As he trudged away, she resolved to find out who he was.

Turned out, she hadn’t had to try very hard. At school the next day, there he had been. The new kid who had recently moved to Australia. As the teacher had called the roll, she had thought about his name and how it would feel to be able to say it as much as she wanted once they were married.

Edward Williams.

Eleanor Willams.

That was when she noticed a shadow covering the light from the lamppost. Looking up, she saw a shock of red hair and a familiar boyish face creased in a smile.

“Eleanor Neil! Is that really you?”

She caught her breath. It couldn’t be him. After the War ended, he had gone back with his parents to England, and she had never seen him again. That was 15 years ago.

She blinked. “E-Eleanor Graves now - actually,” she hesitantly demurred, squinting at the shadowy figure surrounded by light.

Yet, it appeared that he had returned to this godforsaken place. She wondered what it was like to not be stuck in one place. This place.

Slowly setting down the magazine and rising to her feet, she smiled stiffly as he politely inclined his head in greeting and extolled the beauty of his wife and his daughter, enthusiastically sharing that they were expecting another on the way and how he had brought them to Australia as an anniversary gift.

He looks different, she thought, looking him up and down. Not quite… as she expected.

But how could he forget his manners? Enough about him, how had she been all these years? How long had she been married for?

She could tell he was judging her. Perhaps not out loud as he commented on how charming her children were and inquired their names, even bending down and extending a hand to the muddy Charles Jr. Perfectly civil. Perfectly pleasant.

Yet, how could he help but to notice the frayed edges of the children’s clothes? The drabness of her own out-of-date dress that she had been so proud to receive for her own wedding anniversary? There was certainly no chance he had mistaken the baby’s pram for being “vintage” when it was obvious that it was merely plain and second-hand.

She knew that he was looking down on them. On her.

Bad enough to see the faces of the women at church who shifted away from her and averted their eyes, whispering to each other of her lack of wealth.

His eyes peered into hers then darted away. “Well, Mrs Graves, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance once again.”

As his back retreated (hastily, she suspected), the baby started wailing again. Absently, she lifted it to her breast and gritted her teeth against the gnawing of newly forming teeth.

The twins persisted in their clamouring and bickering for attention while the stick unrelenting scratched at the dirt. The baby set off crying once more, and Eleanor stared into the empty dusk, illuminated by the fading light and flickering lampposts.

There was no one to witness as she was consumed by an overwhelming shroud of loneliness.

Eleanor Graves

December 1961

Mother of four.