Jack, by Georgina Lyttelton

(F.F.F. Website Story)

Amongst the cluster of anxious onlookers, some kneeling while others hovered in anticipation of being useful, the ‘Porcelain Lady’ remained surprisingly intact. Swathed in soft tissue with pink satin ribbons, she was released, and rolled gently down the camber of Argyle Street before nestling behind the front wheel of a stationary car. Its engine was still running, as was the driver, who had taken flight toward Prince’s Avenue.

In between Jack’s ashes, and his black and white photograph, she is smiling and clutching her still fan in her silent world. The doorbell is ringing. They have come to collect her.

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