wouldn’t, couldn’t. If it took all day, she’d make sure she finished it somehow, but crosswords, like just about everything else, seemed to be taking her so much longer these days. Her body certainly wasn’t as fast or efficient as it used to be. The creaking in her knees as she moved told her that. Perhaps her mind was starting to go the same way. And those little empty white squares looked so forlorn, and so untidy.
She wondered if the dictionary might help, but it was in the bookcase under the window, out of reach. Smudge was dozing on her lap, twitching in his sleep, and she didn’t want to disturb him. She leant across, very carefully, to the small lace-covered table beside her, picked up her tea and took a warming sip, tapping her pen idly against the side of the china mug as she struggled with the letters of an anagram in her head.
Life had always been so peaceful before, when she’d lived in the old cottage. The home that they’d told her was too rundown, too big, too isolated now she was getting older. Much better here in town, they said, where they could keep an eye on her, where the shops were just a short walk away, where the buses ran right past the door. And a ground floor flat too. No stairs and so much easier for her to manage, especially with arthritis setting in with a vengeance, giving her painful, knobbly fingers and stiffening knees.
Downsizing. That’s what they had called it when the idea had first been mooted eighteen months ago. Her son William, and his ever-efficient wife. They had made it sound quite exciting back then, like a big adventure, something wonderful to be embraced and thankful for. Downsizing, indeed! Agnes could think of a better word, but she dared not say it out loud. They didn’t like it when she swore. Not that there was a ‘they’ any more. Now her daughter-in-law had gone – good riddance – and there was just William. She chuckled to herself. Just William. Wasn’t that the name of a naughty boy in some old children’s book?
Agnes gave up on the anagram. Her mind was too busy jumping about elsewhere. That was one of the hazards of living alone. Too much time to think, and nothing of any real importance to think about. Well, nothing she could do much about, anyway.
She finished her tea and tried to replace her empty mug on the table without moving Smudge, but the big grey cat woke up, stretched and jumped down, ambled over to his cat flap and let himself out into the communal hall with a clatter of rebounding plastic. He would sit for a while on the coir doormat outside her flat, preening, then wait at the front door of the block, as he always did, until one of the other residents, either coming in or going out, eventually let him through. Sometimes he would walk steadily up the three flights of stairs to the top of the building where he could sit and gaze out from the grimy windowsill on the landing at the birds twittering away, up high in the one and only tree. Agnes had followed him up all those stairs once, just to see where he went, but she’d had to stop and rest after each flight, and had needed some strong tea and a couple of paracetamol as soon as her aching joints had made it safely back down again.
She took off her reading glasses and tried to switch to the other pair she kept for distance, the two pairs dangling side by side from adjacent chains around her neck. The chains were tangled together today and it took her a few moments to unwind them. She muttered to herself and winced as she stood. Her knees were playing up again, as usual.
Going to the window, she lifted the edge of her newly washed nets, popped on the right specs and peered out into the street. Dull, grey, October drizzle, with another winter not far off. Traffic bumper to bumper, wipers swishing across grimy screens, the male drivers drumming their hands on their steering wheels, the women taking the opportunity to peer into mirrors and redo their make-up or neaten their hair. An ambulance was trying to make its way through. Was there really any need for the siren? Sometimes she thought the drivers just did it to make themselves feel important. It’s not as if it couldn’t be seen, what with the blue light and all the cars doing their best to mount the kerb and get out of its way. More cracks in the pavement! It’s a wonder more folk didn’t trip and sue the council for compensation.
From two floors above, she could hear that baby screaming again, probably woken up by the racket going on outside. She thought of going up there to complain, but she couldn’t face the stairs, and what good would it do, anyway? How could she tell a baby to be quiet, or expect its mother to make it? Babies couldn’t help it, could they? Crying came naturally to them. Their way of saying something was wrong. Perhaps she should try a bit of weeping and wailing and see if it helped. See if anyone came running to pander to her every whim, to make things right again. She smiled to herself. She was just being grouchy, that was all. Blame it on the knees. Silly old woman!
Ah, well. She might as well watch some telly now she was up and about. Her favourite antiques programme would be starting soon. The one where they found hidden treasures in people’s lofts. As if! All they’d found in hers when she moved was Donald’s old army pay book, some dressing-up clothes from William’s am-dram days, and a pile of dusty photos, mostly of people she didn’t even recognise, let alone remember.
Still, they might have some teapots on the programme today, if she was lucky. Agnes liked teapots. They were a passion of hers. Old ones, obviously, and some of the more unusual, novelty ones too. Not to use, of course. Oh, no, she had to admit that, being by herself so much of the time, a teabag dunked straight into a cup of hot water did the trick quite nicely these days. But there was something undeniably beautiful about teapots. To look at, and to touch. Such smooth shapes, such elegant spouts and handles. In fact, she’d built up quite a nice collection over the years, even if they were all boxed up in William’s garage now because she didn’t have the room.
She sighed. What was the use of thinking about all that stuff? Her life had changed, and she knew full well it was never going to change back again. At least having the telly on, perhaps a bit louder than necessary, might just help to drown out all the incessant noise.
*
The plane lurched as it hit yet another air pocket, knocking a passing stewardess, hip first, into the side of Patsy’s seat.
‘Sorry, Madam.’ The girl carried on up the aisle, totally unfazed, small uniformed hips wiggling easily from side to side. All in a day’s work, probably. Patsy closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thanked God she didn’t have to do a job like that.
‘It’s just a bit of turbulence, sweetheart.’ Michael picked up Patsy’s hand and stroked it reassuringly, fingering the new diamond ring that sparkled under the overhead lights. The ring he had laughingly told her he still couldn’t quite get used to, even though he’d put it there himself, only two days before. ‘Nothing to worry about. We’ll be landing soon.’
Patsy smiled at him, trying really hard not to be sick. She was not a good air traveller, and if there was one thing guaranteed to put a man off for life, it was watching a girl being sick. She’d done it once, after a party. Vomited all over the front seat of some boy’s shiny new car. She could still remember the acid taste and the pervasive smell of it, clogging her nostrils, caked onto her dress and mixed into her hair, as it spewed out between her trembling fingers when she tried to hold it back. The huge dollops of it running down the upholstery and onto the rubber mat at her feet. And the look of utter horror on the boy’s face as he pulled over and stopped the engine and watched her lean out over the kerb, spilling the remaining contents of her alcohol-fuelled stomach all over the road. She could no longer remember his name, but she would never ever forget that face. Or that feeling.
Oh, no, if she was going to be sick, it had to be somewhere else, out of sight, away from Michael. She stood up, unsteadily. ‘Won’t be long,’ she said, slipping her hand out of his and edging into the aisle.
‘Seatbelt signs are on, Pats. Maybe you should stay here for now …’
But the loo was only a few feet away, and she needed privacy, some time alone before they landed. She shook her head, tried to smile, and stumbled into the cubicle, sliding the bolt across, and landing with a thump on top of the loo seat.
You’re going to have to get used to sick if you’re going to be a stepmum, she thought. And temper tantrums, and potties, and God knows what else. She bit down hard on her lip. She wanted to do this. Of course she did. For Michael. He’d already missed too