Short Story – Mum – part One
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Mum
“Mum? Are you packing up already?”
“It might be a good idea to make a start.” Audrey, 62, swept a tired gaze over the bedroom where she stood, knee-deep in boxes, bags and piles of slightly mildewed linen.
“It’s what she would have preferred, don’t you think?”
“Yes, no, not really” agreed Pam wearily. In the kitchen across the hall, Audrey’s daughter was rooting about, lighting an ancient kettle which had always boiled on the gas hob. Naomi had insisted on using it, rather than a more modern electric one, even though the once-shiny dome was scratched and dirty with age.
“We should be grateful.” Pam just caught her mother’s words, which ended on a sigh.
“Low maintenance, was she?” Pam called, louder than she intended. Through these flimsy partition walls, sounds travelled easily.
“Yes, I suppose so, though you never knew her in our young days. She was always getting into scrapes.”
“I bet,” Pam agreed, awkwardly changed the subject. “Cup of tea?”
“Yes, why not? The china might as well have an outing.”
“There are biscuits, if you would like one?”
“No thanks!” Audrey made herself sound cheerfully careless, as a wave of nausea swept over her shoulders and up her throat.
“The milk’s off” Pam called.
“Never mind, I like it black just as well.” Fighting back annoyance, Audrey sank wearily down into the nearest chair, an upright Chesterfield that, like most of the items crowding the room, had seen better days. Goodness knows why she felt so tired all of a sudden. She hadn’t done much; nothing today, in fact, except take in the empty silence and the detritus leaning against the grubby walls. Unopened bills cluttered the dressing table. The two large chairs in the room had been pushed back to allow equipment in – a new large bed with memory mattress foam, an assortment of pots and pans for collecting and disposing of body fluids. Bedridden at the end, Naomi’s elegant attempts to maintain her dignity were finally overwhelmed in a tidal wave of weakness, sickness and frailty which mercifully blinded her to the stains on the carpet. The numbing medication she swallowed hid the smell of her own sweet decay.
As if Naomi was coming home, the telephone waited obediently, ringing occasionally. The curtains flapped lazily at the window which Pam had levered wide open in an effort to clear some of the smell. Around the edges of the room and where furniture had rested, the blue carpet kept its original softness, which contrasted oddly with the scuff marks and tea stains around the bed.
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May 8, 2018
Short Story – Mum – Part Two
Fran Macilvey Flash Fiction & Short Stories, Fran Macilvey 0 Comments
Short Story – Mum – Part Two
Naomi, who had fizzed through her years with ferocious elegance, ended up eking out her last days in a small, two-roomed council house with no garden. Pretending to enjoy the cigarettes to which she was so badly addicted, she hardly ate; and as throat cancer took hold, grew and blossomed darkly inside her thin body, Audrey watched in despair. Her sisterly arms could only hold hands and wordlessly pray. Nor was there a cure to whip up from the chemist’s or the whole-food shop; no copper bangle, crystal prayer mat, scented candle or shaman’s feather would fill the void, answer the questions or deal with the thin agony of wasting illness. As she watched, Audrey’s anger kept her moving.
Now, as anger seeped away, tiredness threatened to paralyze Audrey. Though often argumentative, annoying and disagreeable with each other, Naomi and she had been in so many ways the same, understanding and knowledgeable around each other. All that familiarity lost, and where could she find it again?
Bracing her legs beneath her, Audrey stood and very carefully approached the built-in wardrobe with its full length mirrors. Long mirrors are fine when you are young, happy and expansive. Utterly demoralizing when what you see behind you in the reflection are the remains of sorrow, illness and decrepitude. Audrey slid the cupboard door ajar and something nameless whisked past her face. Moths? That would make her job easier. The smell of her sister’s perfume still held in the background, deeper than the dust, the sweat in unwashed woollens and crêpe-like silk jackets. Automatically, before she could stop to think, Audrey started hefting stuff out and throwing it behind her onto the bed. All of it: jackets, skirts, shirts, vests from the shelf, cardigans which had been fashionable decades earlier. The pace quickened until Audrey felt sweat breaking out on her forehead, running down and stinging her eyes. She ploughed on, ignoring the dust and her hair stuck to her cheeks.
“Pamela!” she called, feeling unaccountably invigorated by the mess, “Could you fetch through the roll of black bags, please?” Asking please cost such an effort. “Under the sink, I think…”
It felt good to be clearing a space, even if that meant swapping one mess for another. Her daughter crept in moments later and, with unaccustomed tact, quietly left the black plastic roll on the dressing table. In her other hand she carried a saucer and cup of tea, which clinked as it too, was placed on the table top.
“Thank you, darling.” Audrey smiled with relief. “Come and help, if you like. I could do with a hand, though most of this looks ready for landfill.” Tentatively eyeing the jumbled accumulation, wondering how long it might take to sort, she abruptly decided she hardly cared. “Grab a bag and start chucking.”
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