She fries an egg but leaves it then, lying in the pan until it is completely cold. She bites at her nails and glances repeatedly at the window, seeing nothing but her tiny empty garden and the tiny empty sky, until eventually she sighs and lowers the blind. She feeds the cat, though not with the egg, which she seems to have forgotten. While wiping the table she stops suddenly and listens. There is silence but for the usual sounds of the house in the evening and a light breeze outside—no hint of rain—and the tick of the kitchen clock. Perhaps it was that. She resumes wiping, and brushes absolutely nothing into her cupped hand, which she examines briefly then slaps against her hip.
Her neighbors had knocked on her door during the week, on Thursday, just as she was finishing her tea. Two boys. No, no. Men. They're men, and it annoys her, the way a part (what part?) of her brain insists on them as boys. They aren't boys. They are certainly men, and almost or perhaps even middle-aged men. Objectively. They are younger than her but they are not young. How could they be, buying a house? In fact, they are probably the same age she was when she and ... her husband had bought their house. Her house. So, thirty. About thirty. Probably they are older because it takes so long now to find the money. They are either older or richer. Probably both. To be able to buy, just the two of them, a house like this. It was exactly like her house, mirrored. When they walked through their front door they had everything on the right that she had on the left.
A couple, full of smiles, loud friendly voices, one of them northern, bits of tattoos poking out from under collars and cuffs, earrings, nice boys, men, and there they were at her door, one of them with a bag and both speaking more or less at once, all smiles, though, and they have never done this before, it's always been chats over the wall in the summer, meeting out the front sometimes, the northern one calling over when they had a leak, worried that it would spread, but it didn't, but she had never, she thought, had the two of them together like this, certainly not at her door, and she looked from one to the other and was baffled as to what was going on, what on earth they were saying or what they wanted. She invited them in.
Keith Ridgway on the idea of home.
—It won't be insane.
—No, no, not at all, I mean it won't even be, it certainly won't be ... Oh this is lovely.
—We're keeping numbers down, oh it is lovely.
—Is this bigger than ours? It looks ...
—It looks it doesn't it? It's lovely though. Much brighter, feels bigger doesn't it? You have the sink under the window, that's much better, ours is in that corner. Oh, well, that corner I suppose, ha, it's confusing ...
—It's a mirror image isn't it?
—Yes, I know, the same but opposite.
She nodded and smiled and motioned at chairs, but they didn't seem to notice and all three of them were just standing there, the two boys looking at her sideboards as if a little annoyed.
—It was done, she said, ending a small silence that had risen like gas. Last year. The presses. I mean the cupboards. The floor, new taps, work, uh, work surfaces? All that.
—So bright. Cheerful.
—We should start saving.
—We'll add it to the list!
—The infinite list!
And they just stood there for a moment, smiling at her. The two young men, in her kitchen, with their faces and their hands and their necks.
—Do you want to sit down? I can make some more tea?
—No no no please don't, no need for that at all, thanks very much.
—We only wanted to let you know really.
—As I said, we're keeping the numbers down, and it's not going to be a wild affair, we promise. We're too old for that now.
They both laughed loudly at this, which she didn't really understand until she realized they weren't laughing because they thought it was funny, they were laughing because they thought she was old, and the one who had said it had said it without thinking and he had laughed to cover his very slight embarrassment, and the other one was laughing at his boyfriend's minute, barely felt discomfort, laughing at this small faux pas which he had stumbled into in this old woman's kitchen, and the fact that both of them were laughing a little too much at this was making them laugh a little more, laughing at the fact of their laughing, and it was only when all this was going on that she fully understood that they were telling her they were going to have a party.
She goes upstairs again, stepping into each room, looking around. It's warm. She stares out of windows, but the sky is clear and in the back bedroom she scowls at it, gives a pantomime shake of the fist. There's never any rain. There hasn't been rain in weeks. The cat follows for a while, complaining, then disappears. She can't hear anything, but the cat is skittish. But maybe she is making the cat skittish because she is skittish. Skittish, she says out loud. Skitt. Ish.
In her bedroom she closes the curtains almost completely, leaving a gap which she tests to make sure that it gives her a view of the front of their house. Impossible to see the door. Just their patch of gravel next to her patch of gravel. And the bins, theirs and hers, back to back with the wall between them, the colors matching, green, blue, and brown. Had they done that on purpose? Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe the bin men did it. She looks at her watch and the cat reappears, a living thing at her legs. A motorbike roars by. She sits on her bed and then lies on her bed, and then the cat joins her and she gets up.
—No, she says.
She goes to the wardrobe, deciding that she wants to change her clothes.
They had offered her things. For the noise. Not that there would be much noise. It would not be very loud, they said. They hoped, they said, that it would not be very loud. They had just wanted to tell her in person, rather than sticking a note through her letterbox. Notes through letterboxes wasn't very neighborly, was it? Bit passive-aggressive somehow said one of them, and Yes, I suppose so said the other. So they'd argued about that. One of them, that one, had said Let's just stick a note through the stupid old cow's letterbox. Or something like that. Anyway, they said, we thought we'd just call around. Really sorry to interrupt your tea. And bring some things, said the other one.
—What things?
—Well, where are we, here we are, this is a
He was pulling some sort of, what on earth, headphones? Big black things, with the big fat pads for the ears.
"I don't fear the wrath of God, but His nervous laugh scares the hell out of me."
Cartoon by Paul Noth
—Headphones here, for this, which is this old
A small ... a phone?
—An iPod. My old iPod. And I don't know what you like obviously, or even if this is a stupid idea, you might not want to listen to anything at all, but there's playlists on there, some easy-listening things, some pop stuff, and some classical as well, you can, will I show you what, will I show you how this works?
—I know how an iPod works she said. I have an iPod.
—Oh! Oh, well, there you go.
He started to put it back into the bag, laughing again.
—Well, you're all set for that already then, not that I think, you know, like we said, I really don't think it's going to be all that, well you never know, anyway, most likely just the music, the bass, and a bit of, ha, babble, and here are some earplugs as well
He laughed and showed them to her. A little box from Boots. He put them down on the table.
—It might get a bit loud at some point said the other one. You know. And they, the earplugs I mean, might just let you get to sleep or whatever. Because you know the way these things go. They can go late sometimes, people won't leave. So the earplugs might just
—Well, O.K. Thank you.
She had her own earplugs. She didn't have an iPod.
—And this is in case none of that works said the other one. He was holding a bottle of wine. He laughed, put it on the table. It's a nice red, well, we like it. In any case, that's yours.
—Thanks. There's no need for that.
—Well, it'll do no harm. And here's some chocolate mints, if you like that sort of thing. I love them. I could go through a whole box without even noticing.
—He could, and he does.
—Anyway, that's the lot.
She looked at what they'd brought for her. She pictured herself in the living room, in the armchair, her ears plugged with foam, drinking wine and eating the After Eights.
—What time is your party?
—Oh, I don't know. I imagine it won't get going until after nine or something.
They looked at each other.
—Eight, nine. Whenever people show up I suppose. With the long evenings no one thinks it's evening until the sun goes down. Especially if it's a nice day, which is what's forecast.
—Saturday?
—Yes, Saturday. This Saturday. You'll be here?
—Yes. Yes, I'll be here.
Where else would she be? They all looked at each other.
—That's everything. I think.
They moved toward the door, quieter now. She had not helped, she thought. She had been silent and they could see her face. She wanted to smile and laugh and joke with them. Tell them that it was fine, they weren't to worry, they should have a nice night, make as much noise as they liked, she wouldn't mind. But she did mind. She felt anger. She was angry. That, in any case, was what she told herself.
—Such a lovely house.
—So lovely.
—Thank you.
—Bye!
—Bye!
—Bye.
She runs her hands over the wall as she goes downstairs. Over its peculiar bumps and mounds. She has put on a pair of pale cotton trousers which are too baggy but cool, and an ancient top that had been his. Hers. Hers then his now hers. It is difficult to explain. The cat is annoying her, following her, looking at her, making plaintive little noises.
—I don't know what you want.
In the kitchen she runs her hands over the wall between the fridge and the cooker. Stares at it. Turns her head and rests her ear against its cool lumpy surface. Everything is quiet. Everything. Nothing. Her hand in front of her is wrinkled, its skin doesn't look like her own. She lives less in her body now, she thinks. After all that. Her body is ceasing to be relevant, even to her. It has less and less to do with her. And it is healthy, it remains healthy, which is the strangest difference. It is like having an elderly friend who you rarely see.
The paint on the wall is a very pale green. She has no interest in repainting anything. Ever, she thinks, childishly. Ancient. Lives are like buttons.