Sometimes when she walked to the shop after dark she felt momentarily free; the black sky above her, the headlights of the oncoming traffic. It seemed to her a ridiculous thought that a walk to the local off licence after-dark could denote to her a freedom, but it did somehow. She would leave her house by the front door and the opening of the gate; the lifting of the latch; the silence of the dark street... it would feel a dash to freedom as she quickly loosened the fact of what left inside.
In that short walk alone to the shop her head was cleansed and she became a body of the other bodies going about anonymously.
To the shop she went, drinking in the black sky and the charging headlights and the chicken shop and the Polish shop and the off licences and the men smoking their cigarettes in the doorway of the pub and the man fly tipping unnoticed on the corner of the busy street.
The shop itself was another matter with it's narrow doorway and garish lighting. Today it was the unfriendly one who did not speak or smile. As she gathered together her shopping in order of priority: bread, milk, four cans of lager and a packet of tobacco she decided not to make the effort of even talking or smiling as she might with a more friendly staff member, and the exchange was silent and unsmiling with no hello, goodbye or thank yous in sight. sShe had not the effort .
Glancing in the black reinforced glass of the door she caught an impression of her reflection and saw a woman removing her alcohol and bread and milk and tobacco from the counter and putting it in the bag. She looked tired and sad. She didn't look how she felt when she stepped out through the gate and walked to a brief freedom.
There were four knocks at the door this morning after the rage had ended. Sharp knocks. Police knocks. Like gunshot, it may not be a sound you should recognize for not hearing it regularly, but when you hear it you know it is a gun being shot, or the police knocking. It is plain and characterless knocking, not threatening like a bailiffs knock, but just cold. She was actually glad they had been called. She had wanted to call them herself when the two were fighting entwined with desire of hatred. Step father and stepson wrestling with intent, knocking the cooker against the wall and splashing extra virgin olive oil onto the ceiling that she would have to clear up later, she couldn't help but think, whilst struggling to separate the passionate containers of sudden condensed hatred.
On the way back from the shop she felt heavier and flat approaching her house. She didn't know who had called he police, a concerned neighbour said the police man. Sorry about the noise she'd said to one earlier... Noise?I haven't heard anything she had replied...........
She had cried a bit, exasperated. He is under a lot of stress she said, he works and works to pay the bills, he is not bad. They were fighting. He was not fighting, he was shouting and my son grew angry. They fought.
My daughter was crying, it felt Victorian, she thought the police would take away her daddy.
But they left unworried about our safety but warning that next time this happened they would involve social services.
She just felt slapped hard in the face.
It was rubbish having the police come.
It was rubbish having a situation where the police had to come. She was glad they had come it was a warning, but she was sad that she had to have a life where the police needed to be called.
What about the daisies and the daffodils and the happy things.
Fields of yellow and blue?
Everything seemed so complicated.
She wasn't sure of another way of things where she'd needent even buy the lager and the tobacco with the bread and milk, where a walk to the shop wouldn't be the pinnacle of her freedom.
She wondered how the other her was doing right now the one that got away and who didn't buy beer and tobacco with her bread and milk and who didn't have neighbours call the police because of the noise.
The other she's brother didn't become horribly unwell when she was 15 and be taken from the house sectioned and stolen from her; the other she never pretended she'd lost the key only to discover it when she saw her fate was sealed.
The other she didn't have to bear with anger from people she knew or brittle cold conversations with her son when he was angry and in a mood with her.
The other she's sister was still alive, singing and published and happy with her little boy and giving her advice at times like this, breaking it down, ahhing and sympathizing really?ing and offering useful nuggets of wisdom about it all whilst planning a next adventure of sunny days and rose wine and children playing in the secret garden or a fine egg on toast.
The other she didn't stop dancing and pretend to lose her key.
She was out there somewhere in a parallel place doing things just how they were meant to be. All suntanned and confident and cosy with life and doing it all just right and everyone she came into contact with were well formed with no issues and she was the best mother ever imbuing everything just right for the best always.
The floor was dirty where the hurricane had broken and the salt bowl had spilled and the bowls had smashed and tomorrow she'd have to start all over again and clear it all up.
The other she lay down comfortably and happily snuggled in her bed and went to sleep.
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