Alicia

1

It had been a long day. Alice let out a loud, mournful sigh and we watched her chest as it heaved up and down relentlessly. We had always resented Alice, the antique Grandmother who offered us stained teacups and biscuits that had forgotten to crumble, but we accepted her gifts openly and watched her continuously because she fascinated us.2

Alice hadn't had a bad life, in fact you might even say that she'd had one of the best, but that side of her had died long ago. She has become like the undying flame of a candle, that refuses to be snuffed out. We were baking in her kitchen (she called it a parlour) once. That was when she'd told me that kneading bread was like punching someone, over and over again. It wasn't, of course, that was just something Alice told me to keep me quiet, 'to make me think' she used to say.3

Alice was a bit of a feminist but she would never admit it. 'I'm an old softy at heart' she'd say whilst punching her irresistible bread. She'd studied astrophysics at Cambridge but she rarely discussed that with anyone. Apparently, those were the best years of her life and she was known as the resident party girl. We were told that she was a twirler in her glittering scarlet heels. A real beauty we were told by old Albie around the corner. He said that he'd sacrificed himself for her many years ago, I suppose he had but we didn't need to see the photos. Alice was a lot more beautiful in the pictures than in his descriptions of her swirling around in that lacy satin ballgown that he adored.4

We knelt down in front of her flickering Autumn fire and crawled across the carpet as the sparks crackled on our pale cheeks. She'd given us gingerbread men for the second time that week.5