The Spinster’s Tower.

She watched from above, alone and aloof.  Watched restless groups converge on their once verdant lawn. It was looking a little patchy after the prolonged dry spell. The herd wouldn’t notice. They poured in each year, trampling beds, snapping stalks and secreting cuttings into common little bags. Noses pressed on windows. Dirty little fingers getting into places they shouldn’t.

 It was an annual event, something she supposed she would have to do when her mother died. The church demanded it. Oh yes it did. Not verbally. It was expected.

     ‘Expected!’ she spat the word out.

That’s what one did in ones position. Garden parties. Those snivelling little gobs would eat all the fancies if she didn’t have Peters on the summerhouse door. It was all such a bore. But Mummy loved it and there wouldn’t be many more.

She sighed and rubbed her back. She would prefer it if she could stay put in her sun-beamed room with its mullioned windows and far reaching views. On a good day you could see Wales. Not today though. She looked to the window ledge, to the faded black and white photograph showing a man in uniform. Decorated and proud standing stiffly. She looked without seeing and put it face down. So long ago and not here to deal with the village hoards.

Patricia watched ginghamed girls spin Dervish-like, watched them fall, presenting bloomers to sniggering boys. She wished they wouldn’t shriek so. She watched them become swallowed, sucked into the rhododendrons, still dizzy and shredding leaves, spoiling buds. Probably kissing cake thieves. She hoped they’d catch something.

Lifting a watch from her pocket she sighed and patted her hair. Splashed on 4711 and steeled herself. She could do it. The vicar would be waiting. She would have to throw the first coconut. At least the donkey poo could go on the roses. She told herself it would be over soon enough and slipped into the musty passage-way. Down the dark, wooden staircase she tugged open a cupboard and dragged a wheelchair into the light.

A quivering voice called, ‘Patricia! We’ll be late! Do hurry along!’

I guess it is time to resurrect the blogg. I am guilty of neglect. E-publishing looms. The very thought exhausts me. It's a whole new ballgame. Trouble is, I never had that hand to eye co-ordination, I couldn't hit anything! Hey ho. I need a tutor, a mentor, someone with the megaphone behind me! I've gotta learn how to whack those balls!

Maroon

I had always hated the colour, even if my mother referred to it as ‘wine’. It was still yuck.
Changing schools was a frightening enough experience, but even worse were the pleated skirts. I watched from the top deck of the bus as the bigger girls swished and sashayed with skill beyond their years as they migrated towards the boy’s fence. Hemlines shrank. Girls danced. Boys showed off.
It was the colour of congealed blood. Some bright spark thought blue trim helped.
My worst day began before I’d stepped on the premises. The day I opened the crumpled plastic bag.
‘It will save money, ’Mum said.
Someone had cast off a hand knitted V-necked jumper. It sat limply at the bottom of the bag. It was a boy’s jumper. A woollen jumper. It sagged. It had pulls. It was too big. It smelled. It was mine. And it was maroon

Grotto

I felt secure on the eighth floor. I wouldn’t be bothered by children Trick or Treating but the scream did seem real and that was how I found myself on the next floor down, how I found myself calling my neighbour’s name.
‘Hello? Mrs Brownson? Hello?’
Her door was ajar by inches; I pushed it further and stepped on to broken glass. I called again but hoped she wasn’t there, the hair on my neck told me something I couldn’t see.
Thousands of coloured shards twinkled, shined and reflected as I crunched into her apartment. A myriad of bottle green, cobalt blue and brown merged and shone, prisms bounced and a kaleidoscope of colours blinded and I shielded my eyes. It was stunningly beautiful.
The kitchen revealed apparatus for blown glass. Some hobby. I spotted a clear vessel, a vase in the making, now broken, it was embellished with a smudged blood red pattern and I didn’t want to see more. I knew what lay on the other side of the counter.

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Park Life

I’m sitting watching. Watching the children run around screaming that awful high pitched squeal that hurts the ears. Watching as new coats are dragged round and round the roundabout with ticking buttons scuffing. School shoes being leathered. Waste of bloody money. Who is disappearing into the bushes? Why the frantic shouting? Oh bloody hell, fat mother has found him and is yanking his arm out of its socket. Silly little sod.

 Must get back to the old man and bounce on his knee like a kid.

Mahogany

Cutting, sawing, cutting, sawing. Save for the lone birdsong it was all she could hear. Then it stopped. He was coming back. Was he walking on crushed stone? There was silence before fourteen bangs of a hammer. She tried to blink, tried to close her eyes, tried to dislodge the duck tape and willed her breathing to slow. She needed to hear. She could smell leaves, wood smoke. Was he close? Footsteps and silence. Footsteps and silence. An engine started, it sounded like the pick-up he had carried her in. It faded and the frantic struggle for freedom began.
Held upright in the hardwood box hurt her knees; her clothes were caked in crap. She had to get a grip.

Drowning my Sorrows

I reached for the table but it slipped away. Elbowing the chrome chair didn’t work either, I tried to get a grip and it scraped away from me.  I sat on the kitchen floor and laughed. I laughed until tears ran down my face, I laughed until I hurt and watched the drips pool as one. I dipped my finger in, spread it into a smiley face.

  I crawled like a baby into the sitting room and tugged myself onto the sofa. What would the neighbours say if they could see me? Who gives a stuff what the neighbours think.  The idea of my big fat arse wiggling along the floor made me laugh some more, but not so heartily. Was that my blood? I licked my finger, I must have cut myself. I don’t remember. I don’t want to. Not now, I was enjoying myself.