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!’
