The time, sponsored by Accurist
is nine thirty-seven
and ten seconds
“What you doing in there?”
She’s managed to stomp into the kitchen without me noticing. She’s glaring at the drawer, half open and half empty.
“Looking for the plates,” I reply, closing my hand around the plastic bag full of notes. “No joy I’m afraid. Did you find any?”
She pushes past me and slams the drawer shut, then straightens the cloth.
She tilts her head back so she can look at me through the half moons of her bi-focals, then she sniffs, blaming me for the disarray of her kitchen table.
“Plates? I’ve got plenty of plates. I don’t know what you want to go looking for them for. You hungry? I’ve got some chicken.”
She stomps across the kitchen to the oven, bends down and tugs open the door.
There, inside, is a wrinkled up chicken, probably left over from Sunday dinner.
“No thanks, I only dropped in for a few minutes. Do you need anything? I could pop in after work if you do.”
She looks at me as if I’ve suggested a quick swim before breakfast.
“I’ve already been shopping,” she shoves the oven door shut with her knee, turns round to face me, leans back against the cooker and folds her arms across her bolster pillow breasts.
“Walked to the Co-op. Got a bus pass, don’t use it. Not like old Jane Barry next door. Never goes anywhere. I told her, you should take the grandkids out for the day. But no. Why should I, she says.
Too tight to spend Christmas, these locals.”
I know we’re in for a long one, so I sit down at the table and close my eyes.
