Mattie Holland

Nobody notices what they don’t want to see. But sometimes I can’t help myself. I glance at the screen and see her trudging up Risk Street, pulling on the leach, her little dog, trailing behind her, as if the dog is on wheels, as it scampers up and down through the thick snow.

‘Hamish, Hamish,’ she screeches.

I have the most up to date, covert, listening devices, so that I can almost hear Mattie Holland’s heart beat, underneath her bundled up lairs of clothing, and her thick Westminster coat. I don’t really need anything as hi-tech as that, but I’ve always loved gadgetry, the binary codes of modern life, although I must admit it does make me lazy.

I know that she is coming to my house. It’s a cul de sac. There is really nowhere else she can go. I heard the yapping of the dog Hamish and the squeak of our gate getting pushed open, like one of those old Hammer House of Horror films, that I used to so enjoy. I take a deep breath, and almost waste it, by asking God to let her go somewhere else, anywhere else, but here. But that would be, as I should know, a sin. And the base pairing of sin-selfishness, with a waste of energy, could shape something old, out of something new, and leave a space for new creation. And I just can’t be bothered with all that old folderol. So I don’t answer the buzzer.

I’m really too long in the tooth, so shouldn’t be annoyed. I turn my back from the screen and try to ignore her. But the cloying smell of her seems to creep up the stairs, under the closed door and pervade my bedroom, so that I can almost taste her.

‘Ow, OW, OW, Ow,’. There is a thunderclap and lightning flash. My ears ring with a kind of tinnitus, and I shake my head, whether to shake it out, or, after all these years, in disbelief, I’m not quite sure. Mattie Holland, once again, holds Hamish up to the intercom and croons to him like an old hag, ‘come on Hamish speak to Dr Lvei…OW, Ow, ow’.

‘Hallo,’ I say into the intercom, perhaps sounding more cautious, that I should, but I just want to be left in peace.

‘It’s me!’ Mattie Holland, said simply, as the walls seemed to shake.

‘And Hamish! Say hallo Hamish.’

Once again she hold the Yorkshire terrier up to the intercom. And Hamish barks and barks and barks, as if his life depends on it, as it might well do. Mattie, who knows nothing about the hidden cameras, even holds his paw up, as if the dog is waving, but she becomes distracted by the blowing wind and the thump of a thick limb falling off the old rowan tree at the door.

I press the buzzer to let Mattie and Hamish in and the main door slowly opens. But it’s not quick enough for Mattie. She shoves the door, so that it flies open and almost rebounds shut. She blocks it with her booted foot, as if practiced in that move.

Hamish wanders into the centre of the living room, sniffs the air and howls. Mattie moves, with surprising dexterity for her age, and quickly scoops him up and sits him atop her ample breasts, which act like a doggy shelf.

I glide down the main staircase, but Mattie is too preoccupied, with Hamish for her to notice.

She looks up and sniffs.

‘I’m sorry about that. He only does that when he gets excited. I’m sure it’ll clean up fine,’ Mattie says, of my 2500 year old rug, carefully woven from the skins of long extinct wolves.

I smile. But it doesn’t quite turn out as I expected. It is my turn to speak, to make an impression, to ask a question. ‘You have rubbed yourself with garlic?’

‘I just love your accent,’ said Mattie, as Hamish, growls at me and struggles to get free, to get down, perhaps to do some more excited peeing.

‘Aye, it’s that chicken and garlic thing. Two for a pound. I’ve got a whole freezer full. I mean you cannae really knock that back can you?’

‘Hamish behave yourself.’

Hamish, like a stoat in a hessian sack, almost wrestled himself free from his perch on Mattie’s breasts. I thought about how best to skewer him.

‘Yes,’ I said, in clipped tones, ‘I speak most languages of the world.’

‘Aye, that’s great,’ said Mattie, ‘you speak everything, but Scots. Don’t worry. I can understand, you foreigners, really well. I really need to be going. I just thought I’d drop off a wee present, it being Christmas and you helping my man with his insomnia. I mean I don’t blame you, at all, for him dying. You did your best. And he was almost as old as you’.

‘Here.’ Mattie handed me a little package wrapped with Christmas Santas. I had to admit there may be nothing new under the sun, but this hadn’t happened for a while.

I carefully unpicked the packaging. I didn’t like waste and might stuff the dog with it. My head jerked back. I put the package carefully down on the mantelpiece, nudging it towards the roaring log fire.

‘A crucifix?’ I said.

‘Don’t thank me. It’s not real gold and…’ Mattie sniffed, as if she was going to cry, ‘since you’ve not got anybody and I’ve not go anybody…’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘Yes,’ I stopped nudging it. ‘I think it’s...’

‘Why don’t you put it on then?’ said Mattie.

I rose to my full height, the fire casting my shadow over the whole room. But Mattie’s ample breast and Hamish sudden yelping made me take a step back.

‘I’ll put it on later, and it’s getting so late,' I grimaced, looking at my wrist, as if I should have a watch; one that worked.’

But all such subtlety was lost on Mattie.

I stared into her eyes. ‘I think you need to take the dog out. It needs the toilet. I think you need to take the dog out. It needs the toilet.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ said Mattie, storming out the door, and hauling Hamish, like a doggy bag, with her, ‘you think, I’m deaf. We know when we’re not wanted.’

I went quickly after them, breathing on Mattie’s back and neck.

‘I’ll visit you later,’ I let her know.

‘Don’t bother,’ said Mattie, ‘Goin' look at yourself in the mirror. I’ll be too busy. And I think you’ve been drinking.’