Brenda stepped out into the new morning air of Gatwick Airport, far from scents of mustard seeds and ginger. Soft pale Merino wool wrapped about her covering the dirty jeans and bleach stained sweatshirt in elegant folds. Their tapered edges lifted feather light in a slight breeze as Brenda wheeled her not-her suitcase out into the morning. It was drizzling slightly so she hurried to the car carefully keeping the cardigan’s edges away from the puddles, unaware that she almost looked confident. She stowed the luggage and then climbed cautiously behind the wheel with all of the cardigan safely inside the car.
The police would surely come for her soon, but as she pulled onto the M23 heading for Croydon she began to hope that it wouldn’t be straightaway. Meeting Audrey Saxton would be awkward, but at least she could find out when Audrey had noticed her car gone from the drive at Turzel House. And would she even be home, without her car? Trains? Friends? The intrigue kept Brenda calm as she cruised north in her immaculate new world. The friendly voice on the satnav was another encouragement although Brenda couldn’t quite follow the French. It didn’t matter, reading the map on the screen was enough. And soon she’d got the hang of agosh and adrat.
The motorway grew steadily slower and more clogged and Brenda’s driving less bold, as London sucked in all comers. The weather had turned from raining a slow drizzle to pounding hard and rhythmicly on the windscreen. The wipers’ variable speeds added to the visual and aural clamour. Outside the morning’s soft shades were heading for gloomy grey afternoon, turning slowly colourless as the day breathed in the light and breathed out dusk bit by bit and dusk was winning. Negotiating heavy traffic was a new and nerve racking experience, but Brenda figured an accident wouldn’t matter because the police would come. Her nails chewed, her belly empty she pulled off the motorway and headed for the warm orange glowed car park of a Sainsbury’s superstore. Flowers she decided. Flowers she can buy with her Nectar card unexpectedly forgotten in her pocket, and not locked in his drawer with her driving license and her expired passport. There are enough points on it to buy a sandwich, some salt and vinegar crisps and a fizzy drink as well as flowers. Watching shoppers to-ing and fro-ing, irrationally anxious he might appear, Brenda sits in the car, careful not to drop crisp crumbs and bits of cheese. The scent of chrysanthemums rises soft and encouraging.
By the time Brenda reaches Pimlico it is dark and the rain is easing. Glittered pavement stretches away from Brenda, sitting still and watchful in the dark and silent car. A dark and silent house, black bricked, wet, moonshined. The house stares out at the night. Blank, faceless, its uncurtained windows gleam back dead and anonymous. No one home. It takes a long time before Brenda dares fish out the front door keys and gather up her little bouquet of slightly tired chrysanths. Stepping out into the night away from her haven Brenda moves super slow towards the house, keys in hand, flowers crushed in the crook of her arm, the handbag tight to her chest. She has no idea what she’s doing and she’s watching for sly signs of life, a face shining out of a window, light glowing from unseen recesses to expose her.
There are many keys and her hand shakes, as one by one Brenda tries the lock. She notices in the mirroring street lights that the bottom of the door is scuffed, so with each key and with every turn she kicks at the scuff marks. And eventually the door groans open and Brenda finds herself slipping on unretrieved post. Her flowers held tight, she slams the door hard behind her and drops the incriminating keys, a murder weapon for someone Brenda no longer wants to recognise. Breathing hard and sweating under her dirty clothes and warming Merino, Brenda sank down onto the letters in relief. No alarms were ringing, no one was stomping down the stairs or rushing in from some dark room to accuse her. She was still alone, it was still just her, slightly less clean with her drooping flowers and her slowly yellowing bruises.
As her back started stiffening and her relieved tears chilled in the cold air, Brenda heaved herself to her feet. Her phone traced a meagre path of light along a wide hallway, past a sitting room and closed doors, leading Brenda into a kitchen. She found a breakfast table and some chairs, a small armchair and side table where she put the phone, its screen filled with missed call notifications and messages. Shaking slightly she stared at the phone until it went black and then switched it off altogether. Night streamed in through a glazed ceiling and there was a clock tick tock ticking soporic soft. Brenda sat down on the chair to wait for what would happen next, with no idea what that might be. Emotionally spent, she clutched the flowers tight in her folded arms and let the bag fall to the floor. She leant her head back with a cautious sigh and waited for Audrey Saxton to come home. Images of speeding cars and crisp crumbs and sandwiches, Sainsbury’s customer toilets, shopping trolleys, a scalding shower, a beautiful long lashed girl, an Asda shopping screen and a black suitcase, flicker and slide silent and random across her emptying mind until she is fast asleep.
Bright sunshine melting through a rain splattered glass roof teases warm at Brenda’s hair, her flowers limp and tired in her arms. Amber softly spreading helps her slowly awaken to see the room around her. Tidy to the point of obsession, every object on the black granite counters is perfectly positioned, straight and equidistant from its neighbour. Tall plants bright green against austere brilliant white walls, stand to attention bathed in dawn’s tepid gold. Brenda cannot focus very well on where she is, the time, the curious light melting all around her. She hears the phone is ringing and starts in panic but Brenda stays in her chair, her safe haven floating on an alien sea.