Serena looked around at the threadbare flat, bare walls and cold tiles with little in the way of creature comforts. No wonder Bernie needed a new mattress and duvet set. A small Persian rug was the only colourful thing in her living room, melting and softening the stark reminder of temporary housing. Bernie had no idea how long she'd be living here but it was clean and compact so she didn't have any complaints. She'd had to take it quickly when Marcus made sure she wouldn't be welcome back home. She didn't know how to feel about it. It was freedom and isolation crushed together in a suffocating blanket.
Picking up photo frames on the shelf above the sofa, Serena examined them out of sadness to see what Bernie had to leave behind. No wedding picture, she noted. That would have been the first thing to go. It certainly had in her house. Sian had got her ragingly drunk one night, taken it out of the frame and blu-tacked it to the door. They'd spent an hour throwing darts at Edward's smug face. That was a good hour.
Her children took up most of the space, her favourite was a picture of them cuddling up to their mother with undisguised adoration in their eyes. Serena gathered that they had run empty on that for the last few years.
'I don't know whether I love that picture or hate it.'
Bernie had to bring it just to prove to her that her children really had loved her once upon a time. Serena understood. The picture felt heavy with exhaustion and fear. Bernie's fight had been dampened by her children's refusal to speak to her but there was a thin thread of hope, silvering through the frame. She put it back and went onto the next. There was a much older picture there, older than that charming picture of 7 year old Bernie and her parents at a picnic. It was of a woman wearing something relentlessly Victorian. Dark eyes with a twitch of a smile drew her in and Serena wondered how easy it was to perch on the desk in a corset and big billowing skirts. She questioned the identity of the subject.
'That's my great grandmother, Eleanor. She was one of the first people to be photographed with a camera. She worked in the East End of London as a physician.'
'Couldn't get too many of those back then.' Serena was impressed.
'She was one of the first.' Bernie failed to hide the pride in her voice.
'Someone had to be. I'd be proud of her.'
Bernie's smile came out to play, like the sun peeking from the clouds. Serena liked it. She must try and make Bernie smile more often.
'Does it say anything on the back?'
Eleanor Bramwell, 1895.
Oh the stories she could have told.
What a wonderful ancestor to have. Bernie looked at the photo with fondness. She really did look like her. Bernie liked that someone appreciated her great grandma the way she did and even enjoyed the flattery that came with it. She acknowledged everything. Compliments from Serena made her feel warm and fuzzy. She went to go and put the kettle on.