Free Cecelia Ahern Short Stories by Cecelia Ahern Page B

grandmother had bright-red fire-engine hair.’ Brendan speaks up on my behalf and I’m not surprised it’s him. ‘And when all the others on the dance floor saw her spinning their way they scattered right out of her way.’
    Edward makes the sound of an ambulance and we all laugh. And then off they go discussing me again as though I’m not in the room. I’m sure I blush; I always have done. George may have got my red hair but Greg was cursed with my red cheeks. Louise? My only girl. I look to her and find she’s watching me, sadness in her eyes. I see the child in her again.
    ‘Well the things that stand out in my mind about you, Mum,’ George continues, ‘are your dancing, your graceful waltzes across the floor. You and Dad moving so fast no one could tell whose feet were whose.’
    Murmurs of agreement.
    ‘And all those beautiful dresses you wore, too, and you’re wearing one of my favourites tonight.’
    Oh, it’s my favourite, too, and Fred’s. He’s looking me up and down, still approvingly after fifty years. I swallow hard. There is plenty of discussion all around me now about which dress is whose favourite. An entire wardrobe of ball gowns, I made many of them myself but not the one I wear now. It’s gold-sequined and floor-length; worn the first time Fred and I got first place in the dance competition. I wear a pair of shoes to match. I can’t walk in them, not to mention dance in them, but I wear them all the same. I wear a gold slide in my silver hair with an emerald stone. Brings my eyes out, makes them sparkle, people always complimented. It’s not the slide that does it, I’d always say, it’s the man that gave it to me. He liked that.
    ‘A fondness for blueberry muffins also features strongly when I think of you, Mum,’ Greg carries on.
    I laugh, and so does everybody else.
    ‘It’s not so much the blueberry muffins that stand out in my mind, it’s the twenty minutes spent taking the blueberries out before eating them that’s particularly memorable.’
    ‘The same with scones,’ Louise pipes up.
    ‘Is that so? I didn’t know,’ George laughs.
    Fred looks at me and laughs. ‘Oh, you and your muffins and scones, love.’
    ‘What about her ironing Dad’s handkerchiefs?’ Edward calls out, and I have to chuckle again.
    ‘Every time I walk into that bloody house, she’s ironing Dad’s dirty handkerchiefs. For what? To end up scrunched in a ball in his pockets anyway!’
    Fred takes a white crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and waves it around the room.
    ‘He surrenders!’ Brendan shouts, and they all laugh again.
    ‘Her knock-knock jokes!’ Louise shouts out.
    ‘Awful!’ Edward calls.
    ‘Oh, they’re not so bad.’ Brendan brings it back down again. Typical Brendan.
    ‘Your homemade brown bread,’ Louise says softly, and I hear mmmmm’s of delight.
    ‘Your driving,’ Edward says, and there’s laughter. ‘Every day a new bump or scratch on that car.’
    Fred and I laugh, knowing that a good driver I am
not.
    ‘Always blaming somebody else,’ Louise laughs.
    The room erupts, and I cringe. A good liar I am not.
    Fred finishes his whiskey, Edward tops him with more. Louise eyes Edward angrily. I smile in the quiet that follows. Bubbles of tension simmer, then calm.
    ‘There is so much for us to celebrate you for, Mum. We each have our individual stories, personal ones thatwe’ll never forget, but collectively we thank you and celebrate you for the love and care you’ve given us all throughout our lives. During all our ups and downs and in-between moments, your love for us has never wavered, has never lessened. We have always felt you’ve given us your all, dedicated yourself completely and utterly to this family, and we have selfishly but gladly taken it all from you. Thank you.’
    There are murmurs and nods of heads in agreement. My eyes fill.
    ‘We all love you very, very much, Mum.’ George’s voice cracks, and his wife Judith reaches out to hold his