Postcards
It would be better once I got rid of the rug.
I scratched my head and blinked my left eye. I was changing the bin, as usual, on my morning round on Mortimer street. I yanked off my large orange jacket and tossed it over my dustbin trolley. This was the bin the old lady had been dumping the postcards. I’d retrieved three postcards so far. I’d read them a couple of times and they didn’t say much but I knew she was lying. It was as bad as not writing at all.
I got in there, nice and close and stirred the rubbish around but there was nothing out of the ordinary. I’d seen her bin them on three separate occasions; one each time. I’m sure she’d meant to put them in the post-box next to it. She had a thin long stick which she scrapped from side to side with her old spindly arm and wore large black sunglasses. If she took the glasses off she may be able to see. She was as thin as her stick and so bent over she may as well be crawling.
I dropped off my trolley at the local council and passed the box with ‘valuables’ written on it. I’d found lots of things in the bins over the years, mostly junk. Watches, phones, wallets; some with money in which I’d spent but it wasn’t like I’d won the lottery. I didn’t hand the crap in. I didn’t care. Crap everywhere. Un-get-ridable waste. Only the living decomposed but they still lingered on after death; tormenting. There had been a torn up love letter which I’d stuck back together with cello-tape which I’d found after Mum had died. I’d had nothing better to do. It hadn’t been worth it; I didn’t know anything of love. I threw that too in the end but written things mattered. Writing was alive, lived on after it had been written, whether the author was dead or not.
I headed home when I saw Rick, who had lived next door to me years ago, but he didn’t return my nod. We’d been best mates as kids.
The next day, I was finishing my round when I saw the decrepit old bat drop another postcard in the bin. The forth. She was so slow I wasn’t sure she was moving. So stiff, if she turned her head too far it may just get stuck and fall off, clattering and clunking like the metallic ghosts of a junk-yard. She took forever; the stank of senile old bones and unwashed grime leaving a trail. I waited for her to go, pocketed the postcard and changed the bin bag.
I dawdled home, scuffing my boots with a large heavy foot to Mum’s small dilapidated terraced house on Lower Street. I couldn’t afford to do much with it but I’d scrubbed it some, leaving a mixed odour of lemon and rancid squalor behind. Lots was sold and I cleared piles of rotten things, dead things. Her waste had been the most sickening. I hadn’t been the one to bag her up. That, for once, was someone else’s responsibility but they hadn’t disposed of the rug. That was mine. It would be better once I got rid of the rug. It’d been years. Damn rotten rug.
The fourth postcard was more lies. Like the others, she had signed it Mum and addressed it to Hattie Lee. I’d known a Hattie once. The address was in Berlin. I’d never dreamt of travelling. I laid them out on the table. They read;
“I’m fine,” I retched and slumped onto the chair. I closed my eyes and thumped the table but it didn’t help. “Fine”, that word! I scratched my head and blinked my left eye and then swallowed and read the other cards,
“Don’t worry I’m as fit as a fiddle.”
“I finished the elderly marathon on Saturday!”
“I’m feeling better than I have in years.”
Stupid lying old cow.
I got up to make tea and tripped on the blood stained rug. Damn rug! Damn fucking rug! I kicked it hard and kicked and kicked it. I stamped on it, thumped it, threw it, and finally stared at it holding my breath. Deformed and twisted, its coarse edge pointed up, prominent like a mountain, rigid like a hardened heart, in the centre of the room.
I rubbed hard at the stubble on my chin. I know what I’m going to do, I’m going to expose that blind old witch. I grabbed a red marker pen from the drawer in the kitchen and held it above the cards. I had to kill this lie. Kill it dead. Words have life. I struck a big red cross over her words on each card. I hovered, clasping the red pen like a dagger, still, like the lifeless stiff misshapen rug. Four cards, one line. I wrote “SHE’S LYING” in capitals on each of them and snatched them up, clutched my keys and left the house to post them.
I scampered back and collapsed, gasping at the front door. My hands shook as I fought with the lock. In. I headed straight for the red pen and then the rug. I fell on my knees, threw it flat and scrapped a big cross. I went over and over the two diagonal lines until the ink was dry and my knees hurt. Struggling up, I gave it one final kick.
A week passed. The rug was still there. The cross less red; in fitting with the old stain of my mother’s blood. I’d spilt pizza on it and hadn’t bothered to clean it up. I’d dropped a half-eaten apple on it and left it to rot. I was on edge since I’d sent the cards. I’d revealed the truth.
Back on Mortimer street, I realised I hadn’t seen the old lady since the forth postcard and since I’d sent them. She’s probably done for. But she couldn’t take her lies with her. I’d made sure of that. I wanted to get drunk.
I sat alone in the corner of the stale dank pub, with my third pint and couldn’t think why I didn’t drink more often. Sunken on the rickety chair, I dazed off a little. I needed to get rid of the rug.
I finished my pint, got up and bumped into the man next to me. I put my hand up in apology, and stumbled over to the door. A sullen group, all wearing black, pushed passed as I lent on the wall and held the door open. A woman, lagging behind, bumped into me as I finally shuffled out.
“James?”
“huh?”
“James, isn’t it?”
I fiddled with a loose button at the bottom of my scruffy coat.
“It’s Hattie. We went to school together.”
“Hattie,” I said.
“I’m back for my mum’s funeral.”
“Oh.”
“I got back, just in time, and spent a few days with her.”
“Oh,” the button came off.
“It’s a weird story actually.”
“Hmm,” I didn’t know what to do with the button.
“I got these postcards.”
I scratched my head and blinked my left eye.
“Anyway, it’s a long story.”
I rolled the button between my fingers.
“Do you want to come in for a drink? It’s on me. We want to celebrate her life.”
I coughed, “Off home.”
“Oh that’s a shame.”
I shoved the button in my pocket.
“I heard about your mum too. It was a while ago, wasn’t it?”
I crouched down to tie my bootlace.
“Ten years ago? I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry.”
I changed foot and re-tied the other lace.
“I heard she didn’t leave a note.”
I put my hand against the wall and edged my way up, “Gotta go.”
“Oh,OK. I’m here for a while. Maybe I can pop in for a glass or two?”
I tried a smile but I couldn’t remember how to. “Or a cuppa? Are you still at the same address?”
“Er,” I paused, and looked at her for the first time, “53 Lower Street.”
“Got it. Well, until then then.”
I watched her walk inside, “Hattie?”
“Yes?”
“A note, it would’ve…words would’ve helped; some life to them, given me something to..to..”
She smiled and put her hand on my arm.
“She said she was fine...” I said.
“but she wasn’t.”
“No, she wasn’t,” I mumbled.
She nodded, “The postcards, all rather odd actually, but they changed everything.”
“Words matter,” I said,
“Very much. I wish I knew who’d sent them.”
We stood in silence apart from the sound of the dull indistinct natter from inside the pub. I pulled my coat around me, the steady gaze from Hattie penetrating its fold. Stuck to the spot, I faltered and stepped forward,
“I’m off then,” and took another step away from her. She moved swiftly in, and without warning she gave me the warmest, tightest hug I’d had in years.
“See you soon,” she said and entered the pub.
It was a clear night and the dense heavy clouds had been drawn back, a final curtain call, and exposed the bright stars. I had to get home and bin the rug.
