Another Regular Tuesday

What could possily happen on such a normal day? And if, God forbid, anything did happen, how would it affect it? If at all.

It was just another regular Tuesday, and there was absolutely nothing indicating that this day would in any way at all differ from any chosen previous one I had had the good fortune of experiencing. In fact I distinctly remember thinking to myself "What a fantastically normal and regular day," as off I went to the Little Shop around the Corner to purchase my daily fresh bread rolls and yesterday's newspaper - which always lay in the same place, absolutely free of charge, if only one knew where to look for it.
I made to cross the road, just as a tiny kitty-cat it ran straight across my path, being all black as charcoal from the nostrils of its cute button nose to the tip of its tail, all the way down to the frantically trotting paws. Now, I really must hurry and say that I am really not a very superstitious person – must the sky fall down and the Devil take my soul if ever I spoke a lie – but black cats are an ill omen, however way of putting it!

So I decided that this delightfully normal day was as good a time as any to stray off my regular path to the Little Shop around the Corner, and try another way. Rather than crossing the road I continued down the street a bit, stopping every now and again to have a look into some forgotten neighbour's garden, my mind simply overflowing with exclamations such as "Oh my, those are some fabulous roses right there" and "Mrs. O'Malley certainly must have some time on her hands, creating a lovely garden like this." None as beautiful as my own, of course. Oh, may all sorts of blessings befall my modest soul but is my very on garden the pride of the street, or so I flatter myself thinking.

At the bottom of the street lives Mr. McCarthy, only he moved this summer, to London, apparently. May his unpatriotic old soul never find peace, so that he'll come back to the country that was bought him by young Catholic sweat and blood. No, actually, let him stay where he is, that unappreciative, dreadful old man!
As I looked over the little fence at his overgrown garden – what a shame that his granddaughter (for he certainly did have a granddaughter, didn't he now?) hasn't done anything to adorn those living things that have shot out of the ground at own will here, and now even the ivy climbing the walls of the house and – Oh look it! – covering the door so that no one might enter lest they have a machete at hand – I couldn't help but notice a collection of empty (I assumed they were so by the way that the sun seemed to shine through them – not that I gave much thought to it, of course) bottles in a first floor window. Oh, he always did love his comfort fluids that old Mr. McCarthy. Surely he has only been away since the summer, which can only be, what, some nine months ago now, on this undeniably regular day in early April.

Then, as I was about to set off walking again, past Mr. McCarthy's garden, my head indeed already about to be impertinently shaken in disbelief over its condition, I happened to glance down at the pavement, and what did I see but a big crack in the concrete, stretching all the way from Mr. McCarthy's fence and down to the very road itself. Now, again I must prompt you that superstitious is one thing that I am not, and may God throw my poor mother – bless her soul, never a selfish word passed over her angelic lips – out of heaven if ever an untruth escaped my own. But it is as true as is the Sahara the world's largest desert, the story about a former neighbour of mine – may she rest in peace, the floozy – who once had the misfortune of stepping on a crack so that the heel of her shoe got stuck in it and broke right off, so that – can you imagine? – she fell into the street right in front of a car, and was killed instantly.

Now, of course I would never be as flamboyant as to wear such high heeled shoes the manner of your poor, ill-fortunate young Molly there, but any the less it just goes to show, doesn't it, that you can never be too careful with those cracks in the pavement. One could argue, obviously, as those young minds usually do – as filled with newly acquainted logic they believe themselves to be – but, sadly, without much experience from a life quite lived, in sickness and in health (God rest my husband's soul, that he should not have the wits to curb his heart attack until he was done descending the stairs), not to mention learning-by-doing and by watching fatal accidents, that one could simply step over the crack in the pavement. But their restless minds, impatient to get themselves elsewhere, overlooks the fact that anything might happen. One could trip, or in other ways lose one's balance, ant there you are, one foot solidly and inexorably placed straight across the crack, and what, one may ask, do one do then? Of course, crossing the street was absolutely out of the question, as I could no longer see the black cat, and there was no telling how far it had followed the street, and I wasn't about to cross its path unwittingly, thank you very much!

However, as luck would have it, I seemed to remember being able to walk through the McCarthy garden and out on the other side, and thus end up quite close to the Little Shop around the Corner. And oh, I must admit I felt a good bit adventurous as after having had a good look around to make sure not a blessed soul (nor a damned one, mind you) was there to see me, I lifted the hook that kept the gate closed, and as "Dear me," I thought, "now that's a rusty gate and no mistake," I pushed it open with the tip of my right shoe – as open as it could be pushed, that is, for something seemed to be preventing it from reaching its full potential of openness. "How odd," I thought, as I snuck myself inside the garden, through the narrow opening, careful not to get any rust on my clean clothes, I am quite athletic for a woman my age, I must imprint on you. An age which I would never dream of revealing to you, of course, however much you might wish me to. One is a lady, after all.

The gate shut itself closed behind me with a loud clang!, which had me started a little, I must say. Admittedly, I had gotten myself into quite a state as I noticed how the hook had fallen back into its place, having the gate as closed and locked as if never it had been opened. But I told myself quite firmly that it was ridiculous of me to allow myself to be all worked up by such a small sort of a thing. After all, what could possibly disturb such a wonderfully regular day?

I followed a narrow, pebbled path leading from the gate to the back of the house, trying to overlook the fact that the once so tidy grown – it was such a delight for the soles of my shoes to walk on back then, as you just wouldn't believe – was now covered in straws of grass of a most unnatural green colour, not to mention the ants, busying themselves with carrying fifty times their body weight's worth of grit from one place to another. Mercilessly – oh, as if I had any choice but to – I stepped, crushing their little bodies, one by one, noiselessly but for the rattling sound of my shoes against the pebbles.

Beside the house was a small shed, once built to keep old Mr. McCarthy's gardening tools – or so I always presumed, never having been able to actually look in it, what with the door always locked with a chain and padlock, and it having no windows and all. But as well as superstitious I have also never been of the curious or inquiring type, so of course I never gave much thought to what might or might not be hidden behind that severely locked door, and too many sleepless nights it certainly did not give me.

The path I was now following – and had followed so many times in my youth – happened to lead me straight past the shed, and underneath the great branches of an old oak tree. Up against the tree trunk stood an old ladder, and – can you imagine? – the path went right underneath it. Continuing to walk, with the inevitability of passing under it was not an acceptable option, why, it could fall right down on the top of my head! Walking around it somehow was equally impossible, what with the impenetrable vegetation covering every exit way previously known to me. So I turned around to walk back out of the garden and see if there wasn't by any chance another way of moving about, when I discovered – would you believe it? The damnedest thing! – the black cat sitting there, right in front of me, licking its front paw, as innocently as only a bitty kitty can, a yellow glint in its eyes as it stopped its grooming to look back up at me. It got up on all four legs, its tail straight up, the tip of it twitching impatiently. As it made to start moving towards me, I realized I needed to get out of its way, and the faster the better, lest it would start circling me, and then what could I do but be standing rooted to the same spot for the rest of my life!

The chain on the door to the shed had rusted and lay broken on the ground (oh, and after such a short time, too – it can hardly have been a very good quality piece of chain in the end, could it!), and I made my way towards the door, probably killing even more ants in the process. Useless little creatures they are, bless them! The door slid open easily enough, creating an ever-so-little stream of light entering the room for what must have been the first time in quite some date. The first thing I noted was the stench, which was simply unbearable! It absolutely prevented me from entering, and had me pausing in the doorway, where I could breathe in the fresh outdoor air whilst keeping an eye on the villainous cat, still standing on that very spot where I'd left it.

Except now it lowered its head, looking up at me in what I believed to be quite the threatening manner, that black little mischievous thing, as if about to spring up from its bouncy hind legs and jump me at any given second. I took a step back, to secure myself. Indeed, if the little creature did attack, I could simply take another step back, bringing the door with me as I did so, and off the wall the cat would bounce as safely protected behind it I'd be.

Although the stench really did bother me. And as if that wasn't enough, my stepping back had brought me a little deeper into the shed, to reveal that there was no floor but for the earth itself, and quite the uneven one at that. Why, it was as if someone had been digging in it, surely, and then put the dirt back in its place quite recklessly, without noticing the bumps they created, right where people were supposed to walk. And in such darkness as well – honestly! In the little light provided by the sunshine gleaming in through the open door, I could make out the shape of an axe lying on the ground, altogether specked with dark red spots, and I thought "Rusty, even that! Why, didn't the old man Mr. McCarthy know one should treat one's tools carefully in order to make them last longer?"

At any rate, it wasn't a very big shed, and the light did in fact reach the wall and followed it all the way up to the ceiling, and oh, wasn't that – ? I opened the door a little wider, allowing a bit more light in, the stench so overwhelming now I kept one hand over my mouth and nose, and the other on the door handle. Thinking back on it now, I must have forgotten all about the cat at that moment, as – yes, it was! Life-sized dolls' heads hanging by their hair, some from the wall and some from the ceiling. One of them positively right in front of me, and quite lit up from the open door. "How odd," I thought, "that I did not see it sooner!"

They looked quite funny, to tell you the truth, their eyes and mouths wide open as if in surprise, even shock, perhaps, by the sudden stream of sunlight on their faces. "But," I carried on thinking, "they don't look the least bit life-like, if you ask me, their skin all waxy and ashen-looking, as if about to rot and fall apart at any moment. But – oh! The smell! An animal must have crawled in her at one point, and unable to find its way out in the darkness, the poor creature must have curled up an died in one of these corners, bless it.

Again I remembered the cat, and turned to look in its direction. And there it was, once again preoccupied with cleaning its already glistening fur with that little pink, rough tongue of his. But beside it, as now I had the good fortune of discovering, a second path made its way clear of bushes and ladders and sheds and black cats. Not pebbled, this one, but clearly trodden in the otherwise tall grass, and so, off I went, after having closed the door yet again, relieving the outside world and neighbourhood of the foul stench, and the poor dolls' heads of the sharp sunlight – Oh dear, I do have to laugh when I think about them, such an expression on their faces! –, down the newly discovered path, it leading me all the way out of the garden, and – what do you know! – right next to the Little Shop around the Corner.

But, oh!, where are my manners? I completely forgot to introduce myself! My name is Roisín. Yes, as in the poems and legends of Ireland, but let me tell you, although undeniably Irish by heart and nature, there is nothing poetic or legendary about myself.

And, as I was saying, there was absolutely nothing indicating that this day would in any way at all differ from any chosen previous one. And as I was walking home from the Little Shop around the Corner, my daily fresh bread rolls and yesterday's newspaper in hand, I could see absolutely no reason why it should.

Author's Note

Written more or less in a stream-of-consciousness, one word following another without knowing where it was going, until the end. Very little editing, so don't hesitate to critique it!