as usual to close the garage door when she went shopping. Steely-edged rain clouds filled the sky, drops already spitting at the privet.
2
A bottle of Golden Miracle Skin Lotion, a tin of Super-Quick Hair Eradicator, a flask of Nutritious Fast-Working Pore Food, and a jar of the most efficient Blemish Flattener that science had so far been able to concoct, broke and scattered under the hammer. A fragment of cream-coated glass hit the dressing-table mirror, and she stopped before the next swing because it seemed that her elbow was about to crumble. Blows from everywhere crossed her heart.
In all justice she had to thank George for having such a wide range of hammers. He could never resist a nice-looking red-handled claw hammer set in a row of diminishing sizes in a shop window. He had to go in and get one. If the income tax had really wanted to know how rich he was theyâd have to weigh him in hammers like the Aga Khan in gold. There were probably enough in his tool shed and factory for both of them.
She threw the hammer on the bed, and put a few tubes and lipsticks into her case, then sent the rest of the trash over the carpet so that he would know something had altered in his life when he found the garage door open and the house empty.
She pulled sensible blouses, skirts and dresses out of the wardrobe, folding them into her case. Early risers have plenty of time, so she lit a cigarette, and thought of igniting what couldnât be taken. A few drops of paraffin and up it would go. âI donât hate myself that much,â she decided, âso I wonât do it,â having to speak her decisions before being able to follow them with action. The thought of such a fire scorched her hands and face, and she stood back from the bed a few moments, rubbing her palms together. Then she took tights, pants, vests, bras and stockings, handkerchiefs already folded, and packed them in neatly, but lifted everything out again to lay shoes on the bottom, and fit in two of the heaviest sweaters.
She sat on the bed, cases full but not closed, failing to leave. Hadnât got this far before. What did you do? How did you do it? It was like waiting for someone to come and haul her off to prison. A better idea was to run away from the house and go over the fields, throwing off her clothes bit by bit till she was naked and could crawl into a wood, go to sleep and never wake up. It was as impossible to run away as it was to die, and felt like one and the same thing now that she was trying.
The dialling tone purred. Didnât want to take her gaze from the beige carpet. The whole day could go by, and he would come home and gently put the receiver down before pushing her on to the settee and shouting it was about time she grew up and stopped giving him such a bloody hard time. She took her parentsâ small black Bible from the dressing-table drawer and slipped it into her case because she had read it as a child, and the dates of births and deaths were inscribed.
âOh no,â she said, âitâs not going to be like that,â and dialled a taxi, still hoping the number would be engaged or out of order. It wasnât. When the car came she was glad there was no one to say goodbye to.
3
Her two cases were near an empty platform seat, and she walked to get warm rather than go in the tea-bar waiting-room. Someone who knew her might phone George, but if by magic he came down the steps she would throw herself under the mincer of a non-stop train. She preferred to be in the cold wind where people didnât look at each other, for if they did they might see her, and she wanted above all to be invisible.
There was a smell of smoke and diesel fumes. Shining rain-needles slanted on to the rails. Her life was her own â as cold as the weather was â and no one knew better, but she felt she would never wake up from the disabling fear that made her arms tremble as if she would be unable to lift her cases. She
2
A bottle of Golden Miracle Skin Lotion, a tin of Super-Quick Hair Eradicator, a flask of Nutritious Fast-Working Pore Food, and a jar of the most efficient Blemish Flattener that science had so far been able to concoct, broke and scattered under the hammer. A fragment of cream-coated glass hit the dressing-table mirror, and she stopped before the next swing because it seemed that her elbow was about to crumble. Blows from everywhere crossed her heart.
In all justice she had to thank George for having such a wide range of hammers. He could never resist a nice-looking red-handled claw hammer set in a row of diminishing sizes in a shop window. He had to go in and get one. If the income tax had really wanted to know how rich he was theyâd have to weigh him in hammers like the Aga Khan in gold. There were probably enough in his tool shed and factory for both of them.
She threw the hammer on the bed, and put a few tubes and lipsticks into her case, then sent the rest of the trash over the carpet so that he would know something had altered in his life when he found the garage door open and the house empty.
She pulled sensible blouses, skirts and dresses out of the wardrobe, folding them into her case. Early risers have plenty of time, so she lit a cigarette, and thought of igniting what couldnât be taken. A few drops of paraffin and up it would go. âI donât hate myself that much,â she decided, âso I wonât do it,â having to speak her decisions before being able to follow them with action. The thought of such a fire scorched her hands and face, and she stood back from the bed a few moments, rubbing her palms together. Then she took tights, pants, vests, bras and stockings, handkerchiefs already folded, and packed them in neatly, but lifted everything out again to lay shoes on the bottom, and fit in two of the heaviest sweaters.
She sat on the bed, cases full but not closed, failing to leave. Hadnât got this far before. What did you do? How did you do it? It was like waiting for someone to come and haul her off to prison. A better idea was to run away from the house and go over the fields, throwing off her clothes bit by bit till she was naked and could crawl into a wood, go to sleep and never wake up. It was as impossible to run away as it was to die, and felt like one and the same thing now that she was trying.
The dialling tone purred. Didnât want to take her gaze from the beige carpet. The whole day could go by, and he would come home and gently put the receiver down before pushing her on to the settee and shouting it was about time she grew up and stopped giving him such a bloody hard time. She took her parentsâ small black Bible from the dressing-table drawer and slipped it into her case because she had read it as a child, and the dates of births and deaths were inscribed.
âOh no,â she said, âitâs not going to be like that,â and dialled a taxi, still hoping the number would be engaged or out of order. It wasnât. When the car came she was glad there was no one to say goodbye to.
3
Her two cases were near an empty platform seat, and she walked to get warm rather than go in the tea-bar waiting-room. Someone who knew her might phone George, but if by magic he came down the steps she would throw herself under the mincer of a non-stop train. She preferred to be in the cold wind where people didnât look at each other, for if they did they might see her, and she wanted above all to be invisible.
There was a smell of smoke and diesel fumes. Shining rain-needles slanted on to the rails. Her life was her own â as cold as the weather was â and no one knew better, but she felt she would never wake up from the disabling fear that made her arms tremble as if she would be unable to lift her cases. She
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