Wishbone

Short Story by Billie-Leigh Burns

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She traces the familiar path, across the old stone bridge, where the river forks, to take her back to The Wishbone Inns.

Each named after a queen of yesteryear – Cleopatra’s Cove, cobalt silk stools and a warm yellow glow of ornate lamps, Wilhelmina’s Cabin, where rich smoke hangs in the air, surfing the soundwaves of a low tide of music, The Mary Tudor, white brick walls, black beams and the inviting waft of rich culinary delights. At the heart, her favourite, Elizabeth’s Tavern.

When the oak boards first creaked beneath her heels, she had been just a girl. It was where the barman served her apple juice in a pint glass, so she didn’t feel left out, where she punched her initials into the quiz machine when she set the new high score, where they called her by her grandfather’s name.