The Note

When she looked down, the case was just there. Beside her bed. Small. Light as a feather. It took no effort to slide it onto the duvet cover. A satisfying one-handed action. She didn’t even need to get out of bed! It felt empty. Should she bother opening it? Well, it would take no extra effort to check that there was, indeed, nothing inside. So, she was quite surprised to find the note – a folded piece of A4 with Tomorrow 10:10 written on it. In big letters and in gaudy fluorescent pink pen. Quite an important message, seemingly!

Words have such definite meaning, she pondered. Sometimes with subtle nuances to make the word used even more specific – but other times they are just plain codswallop. Because if the note was written yesterday then Tomorrow might, in fact, mean Today. So, the note might actually mean: Today at 10:10. How both confusing and intriguing! She liked words – the sound of them: a crack of thunder, torrential rain, obstreperous children. And the descriptiveness of certain words: clotted cream, slippery snakes, slimy slugs. The contrariness of others: that huge is a small word for enormous, and abbreviation is a big word for something short. That some flower names like Lupinus Polyphyllus sound like a life-threatening infection, but are just plain old garden lupins! She used to love gardening.

She considered herself a bit of a wordsmith in her time. Quick at crosswords and always able to pen a verse - albeit short, but witty and well received - in friends’ birthday cards. But those friends - where are they now? Gone or lacking time to respond maybe? Time whizzes by. Hardly time to comb your hair!

She glanced at the clock. 8:56. Four minutes before the alarm. She always set the alarm for 9am but that pattern was futile – meaningless - because all her life she had always woken before it went off. But that didn’t equate to her having control of time. Nothing controls time. It just goes on and on relentlessly - tick tock tick tock to the grave. All the same, even if she didn’t have the clock, the vertical luminous line of daylight at the join of the curtains strongly hinted at morning. Such a clue was not lost on her. She should have tried crime writing. Miss Marple strikes again! So, the 10:10 should be easily solved. She just needed to put her mind to it.

There must be more to go on? She tried to steady the glass of water in her hand. She was giddy with excitement at being a detective. No doubt about that! She swivelled her legs out of bed, both together, like two glued lollipop sticks, until both feet were plonked precisely onto the middle of the fluffy cream mat at the side of her bed. But, meticulously, Miss Marple had noted that the cream colour was now a dirty taupe because of that repeated action every morning. She had preferred the dark red patterned rug. But Chloe said that the cream one would go with everything, and suited the room perfectly. Chloe knew about décor. In fact, Chloe knew everything about everything. The room seemed stark but Chloe said it was minimalist. It was a big word for nothing much.

Miss Marple was digressing somewhat. Because, as she had glanced at the cream mat and had noted how worn it had become, it was at that very moment that she spied the other case. It was flat on a low stool and now located very close to her. The mystery continued. She bent down to further investigate it, but it was unexpectedly very heavy. She needed two hands to haul it up the length of her bony legs and onto her knees. She had seen vehicles with caterpillar treads with the same movement – effective but somewhat haphazard over uneven terrain! The word caterpillar tickled her! Could the case be a heavy fat caterpillar then, and now ready for metamorphosis! She unzipped its bulging belly. The zip sounded unusual – it wasn’t easy to find the exact word to describe the noise of it. That bothered her a little. She liked to find the exact word. But her mind fancifully imagined an exotic butterfly suddenly and dramatically emerging into her drab cream minimalist bedroom with its half-opened curtains and sombre early morning mood. So beautifully fluttering around. What a sight that would be!

Then a claxon of jarring repetitive ringing startled her out of her skin. That infernal alarm made her jump. Again. Every time. Although she knew it was going to happen. Her whole body juddered. Her wrists jolted and the photograph frames slid out of the case like a dropped pack of silver-edged playing cards. All of them followed suit.

A spread of smiling faces lay around her feet. It was too dim to make them out in detail. Some of the faces looked the same. Vaguely familiar to her. The young children looked so amused by life and so agreeable to the lies of happy endings. Children have much to learn. Still, children are programmed to believe what they’re told. And children don’t request to be born – the decision is made for them. But once they’re born then their requests and demands begin: I want, I need, I deserve, I think cream is more practical than dark red and easier to match, I think I know what’s best, mother. It’s as if your life reaches a point where your will needs to be diluted with the meanest pinch of colour. As if it’s too embarrassing to allow you to have what you want, because other people are in charge now. You have become the merest tint of what you were. Fading away. Your life decluttered. In order. And time has become symmetrical. 10:10 not 10:09 or 10:14 or 10:29.

10:10 seemed quite friendly. But there was always a need to be wary now. Even time could not be trusted these days. Who’d be a detective? So, it was 9:21. Time to savour 49 minutes, just in case Tomorrow is today? What utter confusion! Who’d have the patience to be a detective? Say it was your last 49 minutes, what would you do? Maybe get up and make some breakfast? That’s always a good start, at least! And open the curtains and let that beautiful sunny day gush in with a sudden torrent of brightness and energy – like a gang of primary kids racing in, to scream your day into a right old whizz bang! That energy of youth, unstoppable, needing to dash past you and leave you upright if you’re lucky, or spinning on your core if you’re not. A bit like Wonder Woman twirl-birling into action! But no call for Wonder Woman today, thank you very much. A more sedate, reflective Miss Marple will suffice! Best keep those curtains closed for bit longer. Heaven knows what might happen next if they were flicked open with that swish of Chloe’s hand? And that Morning Mum. With no notion of what drama she might unleash into the room!

The confidence of children! That expectancy of knowing the outcome in a predicted precise order. Chloe would hate disorder at her feet. Pictures cluttered and stationary by their own rhythm. Nevertheless, the frames needed to be brushed away from her swollen ankles. She was always fearful of nicking her paper-thin skin. Likewise, fearful of slipping, falling and knocking a limb into a bruise. She had pills for this and that, and pills to counteract the effects of this on that. They were kept in seven easy-to-read compartments marked Monday – Sunday, with three further subdivisions for each day. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were empty. Best take Thursday morning’s soon then.

So, to recap, she’d already assessed that it was morning, that it was Thursday, that it was sunny and that the room was cream and faded, and that the sunlight was being withheld meantime. No flies on her! She felt a little light-headed but she hadn’t had her breakfast yet.

She used to love scrambled eggs on toast, but only if she made them herself. She hated scrambled eggs if the milk separated and soggied the toast. Yeuch! The thought of it! She used to like porridge if it floated stiffly in a moat of milk, like an island, that was then thickly dusted with sugar. No inappropriate additions of sultanas, fruit or honey. That wasn’t porridge! Now she preferred two crackers and butter, and a cup of sugared tea. Two teaspoons.

Chloe always tried to trick her into having a cooked breakfast. Sometimes she liked the look of the sausage and black pudding. But then there would always be another sausage, added like a twin, and bacon, beans, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast. A full family breakfast. It was all just too much. Too scarily too much. Too wasteful and too off-putting.

There wasn’t much Chloe could add to two crackers. She had tried adding two chunks of cheddar but Monty easily caught them, in one gulp. That dog liked his food! Stop that Mum. Monty’s on a strict biscuit diet. Just like me then – two crackers! Louis said Gran’s cream crackers. Cheeky limmer! I laughed. He’s quick, that one!

I’m so slow. Not so nimble. Can’t bend down to pick up the photos.

Too proud to use your stick, woman?

‘But, Steve, I’m not old enough for a stick! At least I can open the curtains.’

Leave them, lass! 5 more minutes won’t harm. Anyway, there’s nothing worth seeing.

Steve always knew the answer!

Steve liked colour: Jaffa Orange, China Blue, Leaf Green. Strong definite colours and strong coffee, not milky. How he’d mutter at all this cappuccino and cream in our bedroom! No body to it, he’d rightly declare! So, where is he? Never here when you need him. Long gone.

No smell of Brylcreem smeared on the pillow; no tripping-hazard slippers to ambush me in the least likely place to find a pair of slippers; no crumpled newspaper pages lying all over the armchair – all askew like sections of an annoyingly difficult paper sewing pattern, abandoned, left for me to reform into a tabloid. No haze of cigarette smoke to stink up my neatly pin-curled hair. No sludgy orange patch on the ceiling above his favourite chair.

The ceiling got painted Barley White and Grandad’s armchair was replaced with one accommodating an automatic footrest. Cream damask. A very nice one, Chloe said. My own one. Steve was a lazy man. Prone to sleep. Short in the grain. Quick to swear. Independent. Cranky. I still miss him. The old bugger! 2 peas in a pod, he said we were. He was such a fibber. He didn’t really know me at all.

Chloe planted his photo in a silver frame on my dressing table. I never glance at it. I don’t dare let the thought of him linger and grow. Smiling and pretending to be here, when he’s long gone. Such a lie. He was such a fibber, so he was! Lifted me - heels clean out of my sling backs - till my shoes were just dangling from the tips of my big toes! He was a muscular man. Had a motorbike, a moustache and a cheeky grin. Dropped me off at my front door that first night and I was smitten long before the kiss.

And he could count. Always good at numbers. Even difficult ones. Thirteen nines. Fourteen sevens. Sixteen sixes.

I’m good at numbers. You’re better with words. He always said that.

‘So, what’s ten tens all about then, Steve? And don’t you dare say one hundred! Even I know that! Cat got your tongue? You’re never here when I need you. Can’t count on you.’

Even he would have smirked at that one! I can see his face so clearly sometimes. In the finest detail. He was a handsome man.

I turned around and she was there. Erect and brazen in our bedroom.

Oh Mum! You’re not even dressed.

You promised you’d be ready with your things packed in your little case. Remember we discussed it? I left the note in there. Ten to ten today. Remember?

And what are you doing in the dark? Let’s let some light in. It’s nearly 10 o’clock.

And you’ve spilt your water and you’ve not even taken your tablets. And all this mess on the floor. You set the alarm, didn’t you?

Please don’t cry Mum! I’ve just startled you. I’ll help you get organised. We’ll be ready in no time.

Remember we’re trying out Oak Hall for a week. Just for a week to see how you settle in. We talked about it, remember?

You’ve a sweet little room and it’ll look so homely with all your photos there. Come on. Time to get you sorted. I said we’d be there about half past. Best get a move on!

The small case was Pandora’s Box. I should never have opened it.

You’re hopeless! How often have I told you? That nose of yours, whispered Steve. I said one day it would get you into trouble! Remember kiddo? So, you’re on your own now. On Your Own.

~~~