TWO SISTERS… Once upon a time, there lived two sisters. The elder, Charlotte, was beautiful, accomplished, and wealthy. The younger, Daphne, was sunk in a world of drink and misery. By the time this tale unfolds, any remark about Daphnes beauty is pointless: at 32, she looked more like a ghastly old crone. She was nothing but skin and bone, her face a puffy, bluish mask behind which her eyes nearly vanished, dull hair sticking out in grimy wisps, untouched by soap or comb for ages.
Charlotte had done everything one could reasonably expect, and more, to save her sister from the mire of alcoholismshe had spent a fortune on plush clinics and even sought out old cunning women, but it was all hopeless. Charlotte bought her a cosy little flat, but made sure it was in her own name, lest Daphne trade the deed for gin. After half a year, all that remained in that flat was a stained, tattered mattress; this is where Daphne lay dying when Charlotte came for a final farewellshe was off abroad for good.
Daphne could barely open her eyes, summoning just enough vigour to glimpse, through swollen lids and against the dusty, grimy window, a blurred silhouette. Around her sprawled empty bottles kindly supplied by the local drunks. Charlotte, standing in that squalor, found herself unable to leave her sister to die aloneher conscience would never allow it. To make peace with herself, she decided to take Daphne to their Aunt Edith, who lived out in a far-flung village, Primrose-on-the-Downs. Aunt Edith was their late mothers sistera woman of whom they knew little except that, once upon a time, shed visit, bearing jars of homemade jam, perfumed apples, and dried woodland mushrooms.
Charlotte could just recall the village name. She reasoned that, since no one called her for Ediths funeral, the aunt must still be alive. With the help of a family friend, they wrapped Daphne in a tartan blanket, bundled her onto the back seat of a car, and drove to Primrose-on-the-Downs. The village was easy to findfour cottages and a broken old signthere wasnt much else. Ediths house stood among the others. They laid Daphne, bundled and shivering, on the aunts bed. Charlotte stacked a thick wad of twenty-pound notes on the table and said, “Shes dying, Aunt Edith, but I must leave. Heres enough for the funeral expenses. If I can, Ill come find her grave. This should cover the headstone. Heres the key to Daphnes flat as well. Who else should I give it to?” Declining a cup of tea, Charlotte departed.
Aunt Edith, still spry at 68 and sharp-eyed as a jackdaw, unwrapped her niece, checked her breathing, then went to put the kettle on. As the kettle whistled, she sliced dried herbs from linen pouches into a thermos, a handful of elderberries for good measure, and poured over boiling water, screwing the lid on tight. For three days, she fed Daphne this herbal brew, laced with honey from her own hives, spoonful by spoonsful every half-hour, day and night. On day four, she added fresh milk from her goat, Beatrice, into the regime, a spoonful at a time. Later came vegetable broths and chicken consomméAunt Edith was frugal, but sacrificed two of her seven hens for nourishing the dying girl.
After a month, Daphne at last managed to sit up unaided. Aunt Edith began taking her to the bathhouse on a little sledgeby now winter had crept in and snow gleamed over the Downs. Edith bundled her in a woolly scarf and blanket, and in the bathhouse she washed Daphne with fragrant herbal infusions, combed her matted hair until it shone and smelt of summer meadows…
Edith, a lonely woman, poured all her bottled-up warmth and care into the niece nobody else believed in. It was as if, with each spoonful of brew, she was ladling a thimbleful of her own soul into Daphne. The expensive clinics and mystical healers had failed, but Aunt Edith saved her. Daphne survived. She grew strong, thriving on Beatrice the goats lavender-scented milk, and the morning omelettes from eggs gathered warm from the nest. Her hair became silky and full of life; rosy bloom returned to her cheeks. Suddenly, it turned outshe was a beauty with dazzling blue eyes.
Little by little, Daphne helped with chores, then in the chicken house: she learnt to milk Beatrice and collect fresh eggs at dawn. Their food was simple, mostly homegrown from Ediths little patch of land. Daphne, having stepped back from the edge, never looked back at her old life; this fresh, clean existence suited her. She discovered the silky sunrise, the racing white clouds, the uncurling of spring blossoms.
Down by the overgrown banks of the village stream, a duck with a trail of ducklings appearedDaphne took great delight in feeding them bits of old bread. She discovered a talent too. Aunt Edith showed her how to crochet, and soon Daphne graduated from tiny doilies to great fluffy shawls in magical patterns, after the two went into town to buy a rainbows worth of wool.
Soon, orders poured in for her one-of-a-kind shawls, and Daphne found herself earning more than shed ever imagined. After three years, the radiant Daphne whisked her beloved aunt away from the backwater that was Primrose-on-the-Downs to a gentle seaside town, where, with their pooled savingsDaphnes from her extraordinary shawls, Ediths hard-earned nest-eggthey bought a small, cheerful cottage with a flowering garden.
Every morning, Beatrice the goat, delivered in a van courtesy of Charlotte, would pluck apples from the low boughs and munch thoughtfully, her gaze drifting towards the calm sea. Out there in those milky-blue waters, the two women she loved best splashed and swam in the golden light.
And the most marvellous thing about this story? It is true.
