Morning

Morning.

Margaret opened her eyes. It was still dark. She turned her head, the numbers on her clock glowed out 5.08, in eerie green. She sighed. She wouldn’t get to sleep again now, she knew it. And it was nearly three hours until Karen would knock on her door, bringing with her breakfast and that first longed for moment of human contact.

Margaret felt that familiar ache in her breast. The next three hours stretched before her, great, vast football fields of emptiness. Margaret remembered a time when she had really thought herself lonely. She remembered years ago, longing for a kindly, patient ear, an ear that really cared, and wanted to listen. Surely that couldn’t be right? How could she have been lonely? She had been surrounded by people. Her boys had been there. Although they all outgrew her and found playmates much more interesting than their old mum. Apart from poor Billy of course, he’d never have left her, not through choice. And when the boys left she’d still had Malcolm. Margaret tried to picture his face now. Funny, she just couldn’t. But then they had never been close. Funny, how you could spend almost your entire life with someone, bound together in the eyes of God, and yet know so little about them. But what had she had to complain about? What did she used to complain about? She remembered her voice raised in anger. Why? The boys. Loud and raucous, getting on her nerves. Oh if she’d only known then what she knew now, she would never have wanted quiet, she’d have savoured every moment of hectic bustle, she’d have stored up all the memories of their jubilant shouts so that she could play them now, recall and savour them. Attribute every merry shout to a happy occasion. Because now, when she thought about it, she couldn’t remember any shouts of youthful exuberance in their house. But their must have been. Mustn’t there? 

Maybe, if she’d shouted less her boys would come visit her more often. Maybe one of them would have even taken her in after the fall that made the doctors decide she couldn’t live alone. Interfering old busybodies. Maybe she’d be living with Albert and his house proud Fiona, and lovely little Rowena. Or maybe she’d be living with Fred. Just the two of them. Although Fred had been a bad boy, to say such dirty things about his own father! Lord rest his soul. She hadn’t wanted to hear it! 

And now, he never visited anymore. 

Of course if things had been different, maybe Billy would have had a house too. Maybe he’d have married, had a career, children. If he had, he’d have taken his mum in, she was sure he would.

Margaret’s heart ached as she thought of him, left to rot in that cell. Her poor poor Billy! He didn’t belong in there. He was such an innocent of the world. He was always her favourite, don’t tell the others though! He’d needed her, and sometimes, it was nice to be needed. Poor Billy, always so quiet and timid. Especially of his father. That always rested uneasy with her, Malcolm wasn’t a violent man. He was distant true, but never aggressive, Malcolm didn’t have it in him to be aggressive, he was always a quiet man. Always affectionate to the boys. More so than he ever was to her. He had been a good husband of course, provided as well as any other, and always kind to them all. But sometimes, when she’d awaited his return from work, or lain beside him in their bed she’d thought, there must be more than this. Surely this wasn’t what had made Fred and Ginger dance like that? So beautifully, their free moving bodies, separate, yet moving as one, in such perfect and simple unison it had made time stand still, as the whole audience had gazed up at them. 

Still, she mustn’t complain. She’d been lucky really. Just think of poor Evie-Gray-next-door-but-one. Margaret recalled that face with perfect clarity, eyes downcast, face lowered, always with a fresh bruise or cut. And that was only when the poor thing had been lucky! There had been broken bones and missing teeth over the years too. But it was when the children had started to get bruises too, well, then you knew you had to be truly grateful for what God had given you.

But Margaret couldn’t ever be grateful for what God had chosen for poor Billy. She couldn’t understand what part of God’s plan Billy’s life sentence served. Such a good poor boy. It was wicked to say such things about him. To lock him up and near enough throw away the key! Truly wicked.

Margaret felt the familiar anger rise up in her throat, hot and thick. She stared up the darkened ceiling, as she felt her anger contract, and sink, into a leaden weight, heavy on her chest. She couldn’t be angry anymore. She was so tired from it all. Her poor Billy. So tired.

*

Karen marched down the hospice corridor with her laden breakfast trolley. Faithless played in one ear, (health and safety demanded you keep at least one ear open) and helped clear and define her stressed mind. Her mind that reeled with laundry cycles, school pick ups, divorce meetings, and that worryingly high gas and electricity bill that had come this morning. Life wasn’t meant to be like this. Where was the time for fun? Relaxation? A bit of peace and quiet, a chance to take stock of the world and your place in it. She longed for time alone, a chance to do nothing, get some space from Elise and Sam, who meant the world to her of course, but drove her mad all the same.

Karen rapped on Mr Curtis’ door, tray in hand, and walked in without waiting for a reply. 

‘Morning Mr Curtis! Got your brekkie here!’ She said in a bright cheery tone. Karen tried to give the poor buggers a cheery wake-up call. Give them something to look forward to. 

Alfred Curtis pulled himself upright clumsily, pulling his bed sheets up hurriedly to cover his bare chest. It was so humiliating, having the young lady walk in to find him half naked, still in bed. ‘Oh err good morning, erm…’ Albert searched his mind in vain for her name, ‘erm my dear, how are you today?’ 

‘Fine thank you Mr Curtis!’ called Karen over her shoulder as she marched straight back out the door, half humming along to Faithless, breakfast tray deposited in front of resident. 

‘Please, call me…. Albert.’ Albert sighed as the door swung shut behind her. He felt a twinge of sadness and frustration, how was it that once he would have had a homely girl like that eating out of the palm of his hand? And he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. Now, despite his ham-fisted attempts at conversation he couldn’t engage her interest for a paltry few seconds. He sighed and looked down at his breakfast tray, the same breakfast tray he was presented with every morning. The same breakfast tray he was nagged at everyday for not finishing. Albert looked down at his bowl of pre-poured cornflakes. It hadn’t always been like this. Albert remembered sitting in his kitchen, father at the head of the table, his sister Lizzie sitting opposite him. Mother would sit down last, after pouring the tea and helping him cut his soldiers and slicing the top off his soft-boiled egg. Albert remembered one morning, the sun was pouring in liquid gold through the window. And it seemed to him that it was all collecting in his egg, so that it spilled warm, gooey sunshine over the sides, as he dipped his hot, buttered soldier in it. He remembered he had finished all of his soldiers before Lizzie that morning (was it that morning?) and so he had stolen one of hers. She had howled. He got a stinging slap on his arm. Albert remembered his eyes welling up as he looked at his mother. Shocked. Shocked that his mother, his lovely, gentle mother would harm him. But she had kissed him later, hugged him extra long. He hadn’t understood, but he felt that he loved her more than ever.

Years later, Albert remembered steaming bowls of coffee, not tea, coffee. Esther sat before him, eating her croissants the way she always did, probably always would. Tearing off small piece by piece, dipping it into her hot coffee, before devouring it.

Albert had used to amuse himself over breakfast by watching the people of Paris pass him by, lovers quarrelling, kissing, mothers scolding their children, friends laughing. Paris had seemed so full of life and possibility, and yet sometimes it seemed so distant from him. For the first time in his life Albert had felt as though his life was his only. He need not cater to anybody. Some of the time it had been a blessed relief, other times it had frightened him, saddened him. But then he had met Esther, the beautiful Esther. And Paris had seemed more beautiful than ever, more beautiful and more terrible. Albert no longer watched the people of Paris pass him by. 

After her croissant Esther would always light a cigarette. And the smoke would rise up and curl around her. There had been others before Esther, and others since. But it was always that image that stayed with him. Esther, dark eyes, scarlet lips, a blue-black cloud of smoke encircling her, fading out into a blue-grey haze.

*

Karen no longer felt any awkwardness or guilt after rushing out of someone’s room, cutting dead any attempt at conversation. She used to know that most of them were lonely, and probably afraid too. But she had a lot of breakfasts to deliver, and not very much time. And she didn’t get paid enough as it was. 

Mrs Ayres was next. God she gave her the creeps! She gave everyone the creeps. The way she’d stare at you with those big, needy eyes. And always going on about her ‘poor Billy’. Poor Billy Karen’s foot! What about that poor kid? Of course they locked him away, should have thrown the key away too! Left him to rot! It made her skin crawl just thinking about it. Made you wonder too, about the kind of parents who could bring up a kid like that. Made you wonder about the seemingly innocent Mrs Ayres.

Karen knocked brusquely and marched into Margaret’s room. She was always already awake in the morning, sitting up in bed expectantly, eagerly. ‘Got your brekkie here Mrs Ayres!’ 

No response. The room was dark and musty.

‘Mrs Ayres?’

Oh God, that still gave her the creeps. Damn, she’d be home late again now. Oh damn it! She’d probably have to phone Nick, ask him to pick the kids up today. And Christ he’d use that against her, she’d never hear the end of it. He’d probably bring it up in court knowing him, the tight b*****d.

Karen marched off down the corridor, to tell her supervisor that Mrs Ayres was dead.