The street is grey, charcoal. Candles can be seen flickering like fairies in the windows of the other inviting homes. It is day. The unforgiving grey clouds hover above, watching. They threaten rain. The children stand huddled together, all eleven or more of them, various shapes, sizes, ages and sexes, all in various extents of disarray. Siblings. In amongst them stands a girl at the awkward age of thirteen. She is neither the oldest nor the youngest, and to an onlooker she would seem unremarkable, indistinguishable from the others surrounding her. She is tall for her age, though not as tall as Jack, the eldest. She shifts nervously and fiddles with the buttons on her dress until their mother, a short, stout and proud looking woman, tells her to stop fidgeting. It was impressive, really, how one woman could give the air of never paying attention yet still manage to know the instant one of them had done something they shouldn't. She has a quiet, enduring strength about her. One of the older girls is complaining and by the way the others are either ignoring or rolling their eyes at her this is to be expected. A younger boy that they call Billy is crying, his tears glistening as if snails had travelled down his face. Their Mother disappears into the small, closed house, checking in case they had forgotten anything. Either that or she was saying her own private goodbye. They wouldn't be coming back. The girl sticks the end of her hair into her thin line of a mouth. It is the colour and texture of straw. Her water-coloured blue eyes shine with unshed tears as she looks imploringly up at Jack. He tenderly reaches down and removes the soggy hair from her mouth and ruffles it, prompting a tender pinch and a smile. The mother comes back out, locking the faded door behind her. Her face, once pretty but now grey and drawn, gives nothing away. In her hand is a tiny tarnished spoon. She stands amidst the crowd, her cheeks dusted pink and florid. Her painted pink lips give a sultry smile, her mouth a girlish giggle. Her lids flutter above her shining cornflower eyes like a pair of painted ladies. She looks up at him, then away. Shy. Teasing. A grin crosses his boyish face making him appear, for a moment, younger then he is. In one swooping movement he brushes his burnt umber hair from his forehead. His aquamarine eyes sparkle with possibility. He leans towards her tiny swirling ear and whispers, softly, quietly. Her cheeks flame fuchsia, her innocence peeps out of her widened eyes, timidly, curiously. He offers her his arm. She gracefully accepts, stooping slightly as he is shorter, sturdy. They float away together, melt into the clamorous crowd and appear, unscathed, out upon the street. They drift along gaily, her hopping and twittering excitedly, him smiling indulgently. They slip silently into 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea. She stands hunched over, back bent like an old woman. From afar she is indistinguishable from the row of other identically posed women. They are mannequins. They are wearing large blue overalls that cover their curving bodies like a collapsing tent. They stand still, all in a line, their hands moving monotonously through the same routine with the synchronicity of a shoal of frightened fish. Their robotic arms move left, clench, right stop click pop click pop left. Their eyes are glazed, unseeing. The deafening whirr of the conveyor belt is so loud it becomes quiet. After a while you cease to notice it. The constant buzz of the machinery is a fly in your ear that won't leave, a nasty alien bluebottle. It has moved in for good.听 She turns, glances at the sloth-like clock, its inaudible tick reverberating in her head. Her face is as pale as alabaster. It is clay. If you dropped her she would shatter. Her watery eyes stare sadly as if in mourning for the lifeless figures that pass continually by. Blind. She is seventy-two yet she still stands tall. Although maybe not quite as upright as she once was, slightly stooped and uncomfortable looking, she still looks proud. Her smoke coloured hair curls like clouds against her head. It was done today. The lipstick upon her mouth looks alien, out of place. She did not put it there. Her daughter said it would look nice, and painted it on. She bends down stiffly, her body clicking and groaning like a rusted, neglected hinge in need of a good oiling. The damp fusty smell of cardboard and unsettled dust fills the air. She coughs. She is surrounded by big beige boxes and haphazard possessions: an egg timer, three fur coats, ornaments, a jewellery box, crockery, a doll, photo frames and more. A lifetime of objects. She picks up a garish, orange cup and looks at it with distaste, then clinks it back down disinterestedly. She picks up a battered black box and hesitates before carefully opening the rusted brass clasps. The dull, amber coloured wood, a shadow of its former self, gives a half-hearted glow in memory of its former glory. She tenderly removes the bow, the once gleaming, immaculate hairs now pale and ragged. She gingerly removes the frail body from its coffin and lightly caresses its shape with the tips of her fingers, afraid that at any moment it will turn into ash. The strings have become brittle and one snaps with a deafening twang. She jumps with fright. Her pale eyes grow watery, threatening to overflow. She puts the violin away. She plunges a soft, withered hand into a box. Her hand fixes on something, her dishwater eyes flashing with nostalgia. She pulls out her hand, a knowing smile pulling at her fragile lips as she slowly, painstakingly opens her freckled fist. Nestled in the palm of her hand like a fragile injured bird lays a tiny tarnished silver spoon. |
