remark about the industrial tribunal. His mind clung to the joke like a lifebelt keeping him afloat a little longer.
4
Death of a spinster
E ach weekday was mapped. When the digital alarm went, she would press the snooze mechanism two separate times so that she would have about ten minutes more in bed. When she got out of bed, she would reset the alarm for next day, making sure each time that it was set for a.m. Tomorrow was promised.
The day took her to itself like an assembly line. Routine precludes the time to weep. She showered, wearing the floral shower-cap. (She only washed her hair at weekends.) Soaping her body was a sensual ceremony and she always noted how firm she still was in her late fifties, taking a dispassionate inventory of herself like someone viewing an empty house. She dried and dressed in the clothes she had laid out the previous evening.
She clicked on the already filled kettle. She turned on the gas till it clicked alight and put on it the two eggs waiting in their panful of water. She gave the eggs three minutes from the time the water boiled. She toasted one slice of bread and buttered it. She poured the hot water into the cup containing instant coffee and one sweetener. She put one egg, taken out of the pan with a tablespoon and dried with a teacloth, into an eggcup and the other in the saucer beside it. She breakfasted.
The dishes were gathered and put in the basin with the remainder of the hot water from the kettle which was thenrefilled. She always noted how scuffed cheap plastic gets with use. The make-up she applied was a suggestion of who she might be. The timed walk to wait for the bus that was invariably busy brought the brief satisfaction of seeing the tired man with the gentle eyes. He seemed unhappy in a way that made her want to talk to him but she never had.
The working day was full of apparent differences that turned out to be the same. She typed letters and dispensed stationery and dealt with problems that didnât really matter. At lunchtime she had a snack alone in the town and looked at some shops and made sure she was back in time to talk for about twenty minutes with Marion Bland. The afternoon was the same as the morning.
No matter what shopping she had to do, she was home in time to watch the news on television. The strangeness of the world appalled her but she couldnât resist watching the strangeness. She ate at seven. Lasagne was her favourite. The evening was usually television programmes she had ringed in Radio Times and TV Times. At nine she had her sherry. Sometimes she had one sherry, sometimes two. Three was an orgy.
The evening was also the most dangerous part of her life. Time was less obedient then. Sometimes Margaret and John Hislop came. She didnât always enjoy their visits. They often seemed to be using her as an audience, allowing her to look on at their cosy warmth and predictable banter. But they were the nearest thing to family she had. Sometimes she thought over things that Marion had said and wondered what Marionâs life was like. Sometimes she talked aloud to the photograph of her nephew, Ronnie Milligan, who was in Canada. Sometimes the fantasies came almost more fierce than she could bear and containing images she could hardly admit. On such nights she took two Mogadon instead of one.
These trivia she strung like charms about the pulse of her life. One day the charms broke. An unscheduled car drovestraight in between shopping and talking to Marion. The crowd didnât know her. One man leaning close to her lips heard them give up the meaning of who she had been. In that whisper of breath, that indistinct sound, her life was caught in a moment â politely unheard.
Her lightness was loaded into an ambulance. How slim she had stayed. Behind her she was leaving an unpaid gas bill and Marion bereft of about twenty minutes of daily conversation. Her nephew would hear of it later. Margaret and John Hislop would feel bad about
4
Death of a spinster
E ach weekday was mapped. When the digital alarm went, she would press the snooze mechanism two separate times so that she would have about ten minutes more in bed. When she got out of bed, she would reset the alarm for next day, making sure each time that it was set for a.m. Tomorrow was promised.
The day took her to itself like an assembly line. Routine precludes the time to weep. She showered, wearing the floral shower-cap. (She only washed her hair at weekends.) Soaping her body was a sensual ceremony and she always noted how firm she still was in her late fifties, taking a dispassionate inventory of herself like someone viewing an empty house. She dried and dressed in the clothes she had laid out the previous evening.
She clicked on the already filled kettle. She turned on the gas till it clicked alight and put on it the two eggs waiting in their panful of water. She gave the eggs three minutes from the time the water boiled. She toasted one slice of bread and buttered it. She poured the hot water into the cup containing instant coffee and one sweetener. She put one egg, taken out of the pan with a tablespoon and dried with a teacloth, into an eggcup and the other in the saucer beside it. She breakfasted.
The dishes were gathered and put in the basin with the remainder of the hot water from the kettle which was thenrefilled. She always noted how scuffed cheap plastic gets with use. The make-up she applied was a suggestion of who she might be. The timed walk to wait for the bus that was invariably busy brought the brief satisfaction of seeing the tired man with the gentle eyes. He seemed unhappy in a way that made her want to talk to him but she never had.
The working day was full of apparent differences that turned out to be the same. She typed letters and dispensed stationery and dealt with problems that didnât really matter. At lunchtime she had a snack alone in the town and looked at some shops and made sure she was back in time to talk for about twenty minutes with Marion Bland. The afternoon was the same as the morning.
No matter what shopping she had to do, she was home in time to watch the news on television. The strangeness of the world appalled her but she couldnât resist watching the strangeness. She ate at seven. Lasagne was her favourite. The evening was usually television programmes she had ringed in Radio Times and TV Times. At nine she had her sherry. Sometimes she had one sherry, sometimes two. Three was an orgy.
The evening was also the most dangerous part of her life. Time was less obedient then. Sometimes Margaret and John Hislop came. She didnât always enjoy their visits. They often seemed to be using her as an audience, allowing her to look on at their cosy warmth and predictable banter. But they were the nearest thing to family she had. Sometimes she thought over things that Marion had said and wondered what Marionâs life was like. Sometimes she talked aloud to the photograph of her nephew, Ronnie Milligan, who was in Canada. Sometimes the fantasies came almost more fierce than she could bear and containing images she could hardly admit. On such nights she took two Mogadon instead of one.
These trivia she strung like charms about the pulse of her life. One day the charms broke. An unscheduled car drovestraight in between shopping and talking to Marion. The crowd didnât know her. One man leaning close to her lips heard them give up the meaning of who she had been. In that whisper of breath, that indistinct sound, her life was caught in a moment â politely unheard.
Her lightness was loaded into an ambulance. How slim she had stayed. Behind her she was leaving an unpaid gas bill and Marion bereft of about twenty minutes of daily conversation. Her nephew would hear of it later. Margaret and John Hislop would feel bad about
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