On a plate, a microwaved almond croissant, the third after ineffective guesses at using a microwave and many wasted crumbs. And a couple of shortbread fingers from the tin; much safer. A cup of tea. The milk in the fridge is still fresh. Today’s Tuesday. Andrey Saxton can’t have been gone long. The radio talking about things that have no meaning, and Brenda is watching the world in Audrey Saxton’s small back garden. Tits and a robin sip water from a stone birdbath, precisely positioned at the absolute centre of the lawn. The garden is also immaculate and tidy, combed almost. The birds bounce in and out, hopping around the flowerbeds, pecking at tender leaves, tepid sunlight working to bring winter’s shrubs back to life. Clumps of daffodils interspersed with crocuses droop under their weight of rain. Overhanging trees are trimmed not to overhang too far and are also dripping. Crystals scatter the lawn.
At the table, Brenda arranges the letters collected from the hall floor according to date and size. Her little heaps tell her that counting today it has been only four days since Audrey was here. An hour goes by and the radio is getting boring, but she doesn’t dare change the channel in case she can’t put it right again. She finishes another croissant, this time plain. She doesn’t want to be greedy. It’s mainly to practise with the microwave before she forgets how to do it, and wasting food is worse than merely stealing it. She starts a list and begins with: make list and adds say sorry. Chewing on Audrey’s pen, Brenda jumps at the sound of noisy struggles at the door.
She switches off the radio, grabs her pen and list, and rushes to the hall and to the nearest door, praying that it will open. It’s the one to the basement and crouching down on the steps she draws the door to, until only a sliver of hallway is visible. Brooms and mops hang on the back of the door and Brenda holds their singsong banging still, as a chill draft from the outside ripples towards her. Crumbs on the hall carpet dance up. She hears a voice: “bloody thing wants planing”.
And then “Audrey are you here? It’s me. Are you here?” The voice bounced along the hall and into the kitchen along with its owner. An energetic and sparsely build woman, black eyed and fierce looking was calling some more, and feeling the kettle before topping it up. Surveying the many croissant crumbs and empty mug she shouted once again for Audrey, but this time much louder. But Audrey wasn’t there. Odd. She must’ve missed her. Mrs Snipcock waited for the kettle to boil, opening the patio doors and lighting a cigarette as she found a mug and a camomile tea bag. Camomile soothed her ulcer. Over her tea and cigarette Mrs Snipcock decided where she would clean and what she could get away with leaving until next time. Audrey’s car was there, so she was probably in town, most likely at one of those meetings that ended with lunch. It was raining again so she could ignore the outside terrace.
The phone rings once more making Brenda jump and Mrs Snipcock sigh, and this time it’s Audrey herself. “Mrs Snipcock,” says Audrey “… can you hear me? Can you pick up the phone? It’s Audrey.” A long pause and then a click as Audrey gives up. Mrs Snipcock stares at the ’phone. Since it was Audrey Mrs Snipcock determined to not answer it, in case she got into trouble. It might be a trick. The incident with the purple dress and that writer was still livid. “I’m not getting into trouble again” Mrs Snipcock said to the phone, sucking on what was left of her cigarette. Reminiscing aloud why this was so, she set to with the washing up from Brenda’s breakfast whisking the drooping flowers from sink to bin. “I don’t know what came over me. I just had a moment of madness. It was your fault, you weren’t here again. No one was so I don’t know why, but I just had to answer it and be Fiona.” She repeated loudly and in a high pitched faux posh voice: “My Mother’s unavailable at the moment. Can I help you?” Mrs Snipcock repeated it a couple of times, strutting in time out towards the garden to flick her cigarette end into next door’s garden. She repeated snatches of the lengthy discourse on this dress or that dress and which shoes and should she wear a fascinator or a hat or nothing. Mrs Snipcock as Fiona had then advised that the figure hugging off the shoulder minidress in purple silk would be ideal, agreeing that a larger size although unavailable, might be more comfortable, if dinner was involved. Yes, the shoes should be the metallic pink stilettos, teetering risk aside. And the almost matching fascinator, neither purple nor pink, would be lovely.
Despite the anxious concerns about the nipple skimming neckline; her abundance of dimpled back and shoulder fat; and the undulating doughiness of the minor celebrity writer’s knees and thighs, she had agreed, shoes and all. Mrs Snipcock had left a note to that effect she reminded the empty air. Brenda could hear snatches of her monologue as Mrs Snipcock cleaned the front sitting room and continued talking all the while as if she were Fiona. Sitting on the basement stairs, Brenda’s picture of Audrey was starting to come into focus.
It had taken Audrey considerable effort and tact to reverse the purple-dress-and-pink-stilettos decision, a mere few hours before the red carpet beckoned. She managed it by the skin of her perfectly enameled teeth and before irrevokable damage was done to Audrey’s reputation and that of her client. In fact the decidedly porky writer of a highly successful recipe book had swept all before her. A long navy dress of heavy taffeta showed off ample cleavage, framed in a flattering collar, and long loosely flowing sleeves added elegant grace to every movement. Her flat silver pumps obviated all possibility of teetering into the arms of unwilling strangers and her puckered knees and thighs were nowhere to be seen.
A few minutes later and the phone rings again, Mrs Snipcock looking on waiting for the answering machine and Brenda holding her breath and straining to hear. Six rings and then the click as the answering machine kicks in: “Mrs Snipcock it’s me again. I think you must be there by now, so please pick up the phone.” No response from Mrs Snipcock. After the fourth attempt the exasperation is clear as the answering machine clogs up: “Mrs Snipcock I really don’t mind if you answer the phone, and I have to tell you that I shall be away for a couple of weeks, so there is no need to come next week. I’ve broken my ankle down in the country, visiting friends. I can’t drive or come home yet and wanted you to know. Please pick up the phone. I shall be at Longbourne House retreat. I don’t have my phone charger. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks or so. No need to come next week. I know it’s a chore coming when there’s nothing much to be d .” Click as the answering machine ran out.