Simon Dempsy
My back ached a bit when I woke up
this morning. Nothing much to complain about though really. Quick rub with the
palms and it eased out a bit. Like my wife had always said, no use making
mountains out of molehills. I shaved my face as usual. Combed my hair into a
centre parting, making sure the centre was as perfectly central as achievable.
I cleaned the underneath of each nail. I neatly tied my laces.
They gave out chicken soup for
breakfast this morning, I prefer the pea. My wife used to make the sweetest pea
soup, you’d have loved it. I gave the
man next to me my bread roll. He’s only been here for a couple of days; still
treating each meal like it’s his last. I took my time with my meal though,
hadn’t finished my first spoon before he was licking his bowl. His beard dipped
into the dregs.
I’ve got a few things under my cot.
My wife’s copy of To Kill a Mocking Bird is laid parallel to Baxter’s collar,
my old dog. Five centimetres away from Baxter’s collar is my tooth brush. Three
possessions isn’t much for a man in his fifties, I know, but they’re more than
enough for me. I had done well to hide my wife’s copy of To Kill a Mocking Bird
from the bailiffs.
Living in a homeless shelter isn’t
as bad as what it is made to sound. After my wife passed I missed the comfort
of meals being cooked for me. They’re even as pleased as she was when I help
tidy away the days mess.
They push me to socialise like she
did too. I started talking to a woman who had just found herself here a week
ago. Her false eye lashes were slightly askew and a streak of thick foundation
was missing from each cheek where her tears had fallen. I asked her what she
had been crying about. She held a dogs collar in her hands too, smaller than
Baxter’s underneath my bed and she pointed to the sign on the wall, ‘NO DOGS’.
I spent the day with her after
that. She cried a lot. I asked her about her dog, she showed me a photo. She
told me about her failed dreams and cried some more. I listened. I treated her
to a look at my wife’s book. I read two chapters to her until she fell asleep
on my cot. Her hair had fallen over her face, some caught on her eyelashes. I
tucked it behind her ear, careful not to catch her ‘diamond’ earrings, mind
you.
I took extra care preparing myself
for the new day; I even clipped and cleaned my nails twice. Today I gave
Pricilla my bread roll. Later, she took my hand in hers and led me to her cot.
She pulled out sheets of paper from under her bed. Her designs. I had to
concentrate on my facial expression so I wouldn’t grimace. My wife taught me to
be polite. In all honesty, her drawings were outmatched by even ten year olds.
I could understand why she was here. Her face held such pride, such a smile. I
wanted to see that smile every day.
I told her, ‘Would you excuse me? I
need to make a phone call.’
Shaky hands while you’re trying to
dial are horrible, you know? I hadn’t entered this number in a long time. Her
voice sounded the same as always. How she used it to speak to me was different.
I said, ‘Hello?’ and my words stuck. She said, ‘What do you want Simon?’ as
bluntly as that. I told her I’d heard she’d changed her name back to Green. She
sniggered at me. My chest clenched and I said, ‘Now, Monica, your mother taught
you to be polite.’ Again she sniggered. It feels pretty awful you know, having
your own daughter disrespect you like that.
I had had enough, I said, ‘Now, I
need you to do something. I have a friend, she draws clothes. I want you to
employ her.’ I had felt very assertive, until she laughed. Her reply had my
stomach round my ankles, ‘One condition. I want mother’s To Kill a Mocking
Bird.’
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