Mary Randall moved to Munich, or Berlin, or Geneva, so Agnes heard, but here she is, squeezing avocados in Sainsbury’s, wrinkling her nose, no doubt in disapproval at their failure to be sufficiently soft to eat smashed on her sourdough.
Mary Randall’s back, she says, to tie up loose ends, clear out the crap from her dead parents’ property, sign some papers, lay some ghosts to rest and thank God for her great escape. She can’t believe, she says, that Agnes didn’t get out too, can’t believe she stayed put in this shithole. And teaching? My God, she must be a saint.
What times they had, though. Remember when, and when, and when, Mary Randall says, and what Agnes remembers is the wet patch on the back of her summer dress like a red Rosarch inkblot test, and one to match it on the chair she had sat on and Mary Randall’s pointing finger and Mary Randall’s wrinkled nose, and Mary Randall’s posse of girls giggling behind their hands and the names that stuck long after the stain had been laundered out.
It’s been lovely chatting Mary Randall says, finally selecting her avocado and teetering off on her Jimmy Choos. Good luck with those ghosts, Agnes calls after her, neglecting to mention the streamer of toilet paper that has somehow managed to attach itself to Mary Randall’s stiletto heel.
Alison Wassell is a writer of short fiction. Her words have been published by The Bridport Prize, Fictive Dream, Does It Have Pockets, Gooseberry Pie, Frazzled Lit and elsewhere. She has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net.
No comments:
Post a Comment