The Last List of Mabel Beaumont

by Laura Pearson

And all afternoon and evening, I think of her. Fancy being so beautiful and having money and a baby and all that, and still not being happy.

Once, a couple of years ago in spring, when we’d seen the most spectacular display of pinks and reds and it had seemed ridiculous that there were people inside their houses, not watching, he’d said this: ‘I wouldn’t choose any other life, Mabel. You and me, and Olly, and the sunset. That’s me content.’

Those are the words that stay with me, even after we’ve eaten until we’re completely stuffed, and discovered that I do, in fact, like Chinese food, after we’ve played classic songs from my youth and danced stiffly around the front room, the way we did in Patty’s class. You should try everything. You won’t regret it. It’s so different from the way I’ve lived my life. But I’m starting to think it’s right.

but I think of Dot, how she used to try to turn situations on their head by dancing in the rain or being overly nice to someone awful, and I grit my teeth and get on.

I buy some things I haven’t had since Arthur died: camembert, blueberries, sourdough bread. Arthur used to tease me for being conservative about food, used to say you can’t live off ham sandwiches and conference pears, but he was wrong about that. You can live off so little, can avoid variety and texture. It just makes for a boring life. I don’t want to do it any more.

She crams the last piece of toast into her mouth and then disappears upstairs, returning with her arms loaded with heavy textbooks. And I don’t feel daunted by it, this offer I made, on a whim. I might learn something. And that’s a privilege, at my age. To change something, or learn something. To keep growing.