Intimations of Mortality - 22
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future - what's left of it - may hold.
On the bus into the city centre, I sat upstairs. Had my second cigarette of the day. Tried not to think of what I had done.
In those days, I did not let affairs of the world distract me from my dreams. I did not fill my head with politics. Finance was my Post Office Savings Account. Sport was for losers rather than for winners. So, no grubby newspaper to stain my fingers. I had not recently made a withdrawal from my favourite magazine library. I sat and I smoked and I looked out as the drab grey of my district turned to a more colourful street scene.
It was not raining. Which, in itself, seemed remarkable. But the pavements were still damp enough to reflect the bright shop windows. I hurried to my destination for the day, one of the more expensive - and therefore exclusive - of the boutiques that kept me out of mischief. At least, for parts of my day.
A weekday. None of the frantic energy of a Friday or Saturday, the mad compulsion to find that special outfit to make tonight the night. The day didn't drag - I was never bored in those surroundings - nor did it rush by. There was time to devote to a customer, to make a sale with that added accessory, oh so necessary to complete the look, that added to my meagre commission. There was time to slip out the back for a cuppa and a fag - staff never smoked on the shop floor.
And there was time, just occasionally, to think about the evening to come.
I could still plead illness, go home early and pack my things. Leave before my father got back from work. Disappear without trace.
I would have to say something to my mother, if she was there. Or would I? It would be obvious to her what I was doing. And it would be obvious why. No need to leave a note. She could explain to my father when he got home. Tell him whatever she wanted.
But, like that morning, in the heat of the moment, I could not summon the energy to run. Even as I reflected on my foolish impetuosity, I knew. This was not the time for escape. I needed the finality of resolution. This last rite of passage would break me free, sever any ties of duty, of responsibility. There would be no unfinished business when I left.
The afternoon passed calmly. Another customer. Another sale. Another few pennies on my weekly bonus. She would be back. I could tell.
I couldn't tell if I would still be there to serve her.
I left at five. Walked to my bus stop. The day had stayed dry. I lit another cigarette. Drew the smoke deep into my lungs. A potion. A spell.
The bus was crowded but I found part of a seat beside an overweight woman. So uncomfortable I decided to stand. Swaying to the rhythm of the bus. Pretending that the guy standing beside me was accidentally rubbing against my hip.
The short walk from my stop to the house. I let myself in. Went to the bedroom I still shared with my younger sister. Hung up my jacket. Put my handbag in its cupboard.
I went to the bathroom. Washed my hands and face.
And went downstairs to the kitchen to await my father's return.
On the bus into the city centre, I sat upstairs. Had my second cigarette of the day. Tried not to think of what I had done.
In those days, I did not let affairs of the world distract me from my dreams. I did not fill my head with politics. Finance was my Post Office Savings Account. Sport was for losers rather than for winners. So, no grubby newspaper to stain my fingers. I had not recently made a withdrawal from my favourite magazine library. I sat and I smoked and I looked out as the drab grey of my district turned to a more colourful street scene.
It was not raining. Which, in itself, seemed remarkable. But the pavements were still damp enough to reflect the bright shop windows. I hurried to my destination for the day, one of the more expensive - and therefore exclusive - of the boutiques that kept me out of mischief. At least, for parts of my day.
A weekday. None of the frantic energy of a Friday or Saturday, the mad compulsion to find that special outfit to make tonight the night. The day didn't drag - I was never bored in those surroundings - nor did it rush by. There was time to devote to a customer, to make a sale with that added accessory, oh so necessary to complete the look, that added to my meagre commission. There was time to slip out the back for a cuppa and a fag - staff never smoked on the shop floor.
And there was time, just occasionally, to think about the evening to come.
I could still plead illness, go home early and pack my things. Leave before my father got back from work. Disappear without trace.
I would have to say something to my mother, if she was there. Or would I? It would be obvious to her what I was doing. And it would be obvious why. No need to leave a note. She could explain to my father when he got home. Tell him whatever she wanted.
But, like that morning, in the heat of the moment, I could not summon the energy to run. Even as I reflected on my foolish impetuosity, I knew. This was not the time for escape. I needed the finality of resolution. This last rite of passage would break me free, sever any ties of duty, of responsibility. There would be no unfinished business when I left.
The afternoon passed calmly. Another customer. Another sale. Another few pennies on my weekly bonus. She would be back. I could tell.
I couldn't tell if I would still be there to serve her.
I left at five. Walked to my bus stop. The day had stayed dry. I lit another cigarette. Drew the smoke deep into my lungs. A potion. A spell.
The bus was crowded but I found part of a seat beside an overweight woman. So uncomfortable I decided to stand. Swaying to the rhythm of the bus. Pretending that the guy standing beside me was accidentally rubbing against my hip.
The short walk from my stop to the house. I let myself in. Went to the bedroom I still shared with my younger sister. Hung up my jacket. Put my handbag in its cupboard.
I went to the bathroom. Washed my hands and face.
And went downstairs to the kitchen to await my father's return.
61-69, F
