Sideboard and Sunbonnet

The sideboard was heavy. “One, two, three, pull!” The wood protested against the old linoleum flooring. “How did they even get this thing in here in the first place?” Rob groaned, straining against the load.

“No idea! David replied.

“Your grandparents must’ve been built of stronger stuff back when they placed it there,” Sandy told them.

“Yeah well, they didn’t think about the future generations needing to downsize their only child’s life, did they?” Rob retorted.

“Probably not, but that’s why I had you two! So hop to it, I’ve got plenty more for the both of you to do once you’re finished here!”

Rob counted again and pulled, the brothers rewarded as the cupboard edged forward another inch. From behind the cupboard came a gentle tapping sound; like first rain on a tin roof.

David peered into the inky black, and seeing nothing, reached his hand in and blindly felt around. “Watch for spiders!” Sandy said, unable to suppress her motherly concern.

David grabbed hold of an object and pulled it out. “It’s a letter” he said. After blowing off the bulk of the dust he announced: “Hey, check out this old stamp. It’s one of those little ones of the Queen. She looks so young! This letter must be like, old-old!”

“It must be an old love letter of Mums!” Rob said. The men laughed.

“Ha-ha, you’re very funny you two!” Sandy said in mock annoyance. “Give it here.” Sandy snatched the envelope from her youngest son’s grip. She looked intently at her mother’s perfect cursive handwriting; the distinctive flourishes and swirls she made when she formed her letters. Sandy recognised the thick cream envelope and knew what she’d find written on the folded card inside.  Her face paled. She looked down at the name of the person who didn’t receive their invite. Her hand fluttered to her heart, the realisation hitting hard. “This is all my fault!” she said. She swallowed the lump that suddenly formed, hard and round at the back of her throat. A tear dropped to the floor.

“What is it Mum?” asked Rob, the concern evident in his voice.

“What’s your fault?” David added. He looked to his brother, their eyes meeting, unsure what to think.

Sandy sat down. Here at the table over fifty years ago, young Sandy and her mother had painstakingly written out the names and addresses on these envelopes. Over several hours they sat opposite each other, writing until their wrists ached, the piles of envelopes stacking up beside them. There were intermissions for cups of tea and slices of mother’s sponge cake, with raspberry jam and fresh cream filling; not at all like those supermarket cakes they tried to pass off as quality these days. Sandy remembered with a pang how her mother had made sure she washed her hands after eating, so as not to smudge jam on the invites.

They added stamps once they were finished; taking care to make sure they were on straight. There was a small pink flower motif in the top left hand corner of each card and envelope - which cost more than the plainer ones, but they had decided go ahead and purchase them anyway. 'You only get married once dear,' her mother had said, 'it’s your special day, and so it’s worth the few extra dollars.'

“Mum?” Rob asked gently.

Sandy looked up. “This is Maureen’s invitation to my wedding!”

“Oh! How did it end up behind the sideboard?”  Rob asked.

“Far out!” David said. “I’m guessing this Maureen lady didn’t come to your wedding then, did she?

“No David. No she didn’t.   I blamed her you know.” She dabbed at her cheek. “She was a dear friend growing up. I….” Sandy didn’t finish, instead she put her hands over her face. “Oh my god!” she said, her voice muffled. “All those wasted years…”

Rob put his hand on his mothers’ shoulder, but said nothing.

Sandy didn’t have many photos of herself with Maureen – you didn’t take so many in those days, and besides, it hurt too much to look at them. But in her memory she could clearly see them both; aged fifteen, sitting in a small rowboat with their legs dangling carefree over one side. Their hair; teased high, was sprayed with abundant lacquer. They were barefoot, with trousers rolled up to mid-calf. It was a black and white photo, but her mind filled in the colour.

More memories flooded in: the time the two of them went into the general store asking for sanitary napkins, giggling to hide their embarrassment as old Mr Carrington took a packet down from a high shelf and placed them into the bag they’d brought, closing the handles together quickly lest anyone see.

Then the day they dressed Sandy’s cat in old doll clothes, placing a yellow gingham bonnet on his head and tying the bow. The cat showed his disapproval by disappearing, and both girls were worried sick, but stayed tight lipped until Megsy returned home sans bonnet three days later. They found it a week later tangled in some weeds near the old outhouse. They’d laughed for weeks over that.

At eighteen, Maureen moved to the city to pursue studies as a teacher. Sandy was annoyed Maureen didn’t come and say a proper goodbye, and wrote to tell her so. Maureen wrote back ‘Sandy, you always said you hated goodbyes. That’s why I’m only writing now I’ve arrived.’

This was entirely true. With the matter cleared up, the letters went back and forth for a while, but there was only so much to say – Sandy worked long hours at the canning factory and Maureen was busy with her studies - and so the letters petered out. The two drifted, but never fell out. That’s what Sandy always believed until Maureen didn’t bother to reply to her wedding invitation. When she discovered Maureen had married less than a year after her without any communication, it was another hit to her injured heart.

They saw each other once in those early ‘Afterwards’ years; in passing in the city mall on a Saturday morning. Maureen had smiled that coy smile of hers; deigning to look hurt as Sandy gave a curt nod and entered a nearby store, waiting a couple minutes looking at dinner sets she didn’t want before exiting again. She was not interested in these coquettish displays of humility by a former friend.  There was no doubt Maureen received that invite, Sandy thought. It was obvious that when Maureen went to college she’d become ‘too good’ for the likes of her childhood friend; whose day involved pulling cans with faulty labels and dents from the production line.

Sandy struggled to get over her bitterness. She found an article in a woman’s magazine which said how holding onto bitterness is like taking the poison yourself and waiting for the other person to die. She’d wrote it out neatly on the small whiteboard in her kitchen, next to her weekly shopping list, and whilst milk and bread were rubbed out and added again week after week, the quote remained.

Sandy looked at her sons. “I need contact Maureen” she said “but I don’t know how to find her.” David got his phone out and opened Facebook, typing in the name on the invite. Together they scrolled through the Maureen O’Donnel's. “That’s her!” Sandy said, pointing at an older version of the girl in the rowboat. David hit ‘send message’ and handed the phone over to his mum.

Sandy started typing. ‘Maureen, Hello. It’s Sandy. I don’t know where to start! I’m so, so sorry. I feel so bad! Somehow, all those years ago, your invite to my wedding fell down the back of my parent’s sideboard. I don’t know how it….’

She stopped typing and said out loud “Oh, good lord I think I do!”

“Do what, Mum?” asked Rob.

“I think I know what happened!”

Sandy’s mind flashed back again to that early spring day. They’d underestimated how many stamps were needed, Sandy now remembered. She’d shooed the cat off the sideboard to place the last few invites down in a tidy pile.  Megsy had hissed in complaint and scratched her, which shocked Sandy. He did become more cantankerous with age, and in the end they grew used to it.  Sandy could hear her mother’s oft used refrain. 'Megsy! Where are your manners? You spoiled old cat!'

By the time more stamps were purchased, no one bothered to count how many letters were - or weren’t - on the sideboard.

Megsy finally had revenge for the sunbonnet.