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Authors: Lesley Glaister
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she was going to collapse on the floor, finding myself wishing that Richard was here, capable and confident, so I could slope off.
âWant to lie down,â she mumbled. There was no way I was going to get her up the steep stairs, heavy and faint as she was, so we went into the cold front room and she lay down on a sofa that was covered in crackly plastic. I tried to take it off before she lay down but she resisted. The curtains were drawn. âShall I let a bit of light in?â I suggested, but she shook her head and closed her eyes. I switched on the electric-fire that stood on the hearth and the dust on it fizzed.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, I found myself blaming Mr Blowski for this; as if him asking me to keep an eye on her had caused it. I wandered round, looking at this and that, all the old-ladyish things. One of the photographs on the piano showed a little girl in a floppy white dress, a look almost of terror on her face. Another one was of a plump woman with unsuitably shingled hair with some older children and the same little girl. Trixie presumably, though not recognisably. Stuck into the edge of the frame was a photo-booth shot of Mr Blowski, baring his NHS teeth in a fierce smile.
The kettle boiled and I made leaf tea in a pot, something I never bother with any more myself, a tea-bag in a cup does me, besides itâs hotter. I couldnât find the china cups but there was a Bovril mug hanging on a hook so I poured it out in that with a couple of spoonfuls of sugar for shock. Trixie struggled to a sitting position when I went in, she looked much better.
âIâm quite recovered now, thank you dear. Oh thatâs Blowskiâs mug â never mind. You get back to your â¦â
âI have got some work on the go,â I said. âIâm a photographer.â
âIs that a job?â
âOf course.â
âFor the newspapers?â
âNot generally no ⦠I do portraits commercially and â¦â I donât know what got into me then, I hadnât meant to talk about it, but I found myself rambling on about portraits of children and old people, making a kaleidoscope of images to make some sort of sense of life and death, oh I donât know, talking rubbish.
âWell Iâm here, you could do me,â she said, âthat is if Iâm the type â¦â
âYes,â I said, surprised and almost touched. I thought that it was all right, this morning, this involvement, if it led me to a subject. âI might take you up on that.â
âYou get off then,â Trixie said.
âSure you donât want anything â maybe something from the shop?â
âOh yes,â she said, âsave me going out in this state.â
âPut a list through my door,â I said, âIâll do it later. Iâll get some stuff for your leg.â
When I got into my own house again my enthusiasm had diminished. I went and hung my washing on the line, though the sun has gone in. Trixieâs crocuses are smashed like a yellow sunburst on the soil. I feel cross that Iâve got myself involved. I feel the clinging tendrils of her need. Like bindweed, yes. Or babiesâ fingers.
SALVATION
Trixie sits on the crackling plastic watching the dark blood soak through the lint on her leg. She almost never sits in this room. Television reception is best at the back and, anyway, people gawp right in here if the curtains are open, straight through the nets. Thatâs the worst of this house, that it has no front garden, so people pass within inches of the window and if theyâre talking their voices even vibrate the glass. Sometimes things are left on the outside window-sill â a sill just begging for a window-box of trailing geraniums in another setting â fizzy-drinks cans, or curry-sauce-stained polystyrene dishes, or nuggets of spat-out chewing-gum. Thereâs no sense of privacy so she keeps this door shut and
âWant to lie down,â she mumbled. There was no way I was going to get her up the steep stairs, heavy and faint as she was, so we went into the cold front room and she lay down on a sofa that was covered in crackly plastic. I tried to take it off before she lay down but she resisted. The curtains were drawn. âShall I let a bit of light in?â I suggested, but she shook her head and closed her eyes. I switched on the electric-fire that stood on the hearth and the dust on it fizzed.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, I found myself blaming Mr Blowski for this; as if him asking me to keep an eye on her had caused it. I wandered round, looking at this and that, all the old-ladyish things. One of the photographs on the piano showed a little girl in a floppy white dress, a look almost of terror on her face. Another one was of a plump woman with unsuitably shingled hair with some older children and the same little girl. Trixie presumably, though not recognisably. Stuck into the edge of the frame was a photo-booth shot of Mr Blowski, baring his NHS teeth in a fierce smile.
The kettle boiled and I made leaf tea in a pot, something I never bother with any more myself, a tea-bag in a cup does me, besides itâs hotter. I couldnât find the china cups but there was a Bovril mug hanging on a hook so I poured it out in that with a couple of spoonfuls of sugar for shock. Trixie struggled to a sitting position when I went in, she looked much better.
âIâm quite recovered now, thank you dear. Oh thatâs Blowskiâs mug â never mind. You get back to your â¦â
âI have got some work on the go,â I said. âIâm a photographer.â
âIs that a job?â
âOf course.â
âFor the newspapers?â
âNot generally no ⦠I do portraits commercially and â¦â I donât know what got into me then, I hadnât meant to talk about it, but I found myself rambling on about portraits of children and old people, making a kaleidoscope of images to make some sort of sense of life and death, oh I donât know, talking rubbish.
âWell Iâm here, you could do me,â she said, âthat is if Iâm the type â¦â
âYes,â I said, surprised and almost touched. I thought that it was all right, this morning, this involvement, if it led me to a subject. âI might take you up on that.â
âYou get off then,â Trixie said.
âSure you donât want anything â maybe something from the shop?â
âOh yes,â she said, âsave me going out in this state.â
âPut a list through my door,â I said, âIâll do it later. Iâll get some stuff for your leg.â
When I got into my own house again my enthusiasm had diminished. I went and hung my washing on the line, though the sun has gone in. Trixieâs crocuses are smashed like a yellow sunburst on the soil. I feel cross that Iâve got myself involved. I feel the clinging tendrils of her need. Like bindweed, yes. Or babiesâ fingers.
SALVATION
Trixie sits on the crackling plastic watching the dark blood soak through the lint on her leg. She almost never sits in this room. Television reception is best at the back and, anyway, people gawp right in here if the curtains are open, straight through the nets. Thatâs the worst of this house, that it has no front garden, so people pass within inches of the window and if theyâre talking their voices even vibrate the glass. Sometimes things are left on the outside window-sill â a sill just begging for a window-box of trailing geraniums in another setting â fizzy-drinks cans, or curry-sauce-stained polystyrene dishes, or nuggets of spat-out chewing-gum. Thereâs no sense of privacy so she keeps this door shut and
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