E isn't for - Days of Grace

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Over the summer, everything had been easy. The first days of autumn
struck her like side impact of a juggernaut. Bernard had gone back to
the place where he taught leaving Clare was alone again. She struggled
for air, sucking the telephone receiver, gasping his name. Bernard
talked well. He talked up sunshine and afternoons on the beach until
they danced before her in the room. But when she replaced the handset
and reached out for them, the images popped into grey puddles on the
floor.

She tried to bury herself. She moved to a different flat. This one
sucked a view of the sea through windows that would not keep the heat
during the winter. She had already noticed beads of condensation on
them in the mornings. She told Bernard that there was no phone. There
was a phone but she did not want to have it connected. The string of
numbers printed above the dial looked too peculiar to commit to memory.
It gave them distance too, a physical barrier to their communication.
To speak to Bernard, she had to walk to a kiosk through a badly lit
maze of litter at a predetermined time. Some days she went, some days
she did not. One day, when she did go, there was no reply.

It was as if she wanted to bring troubles upon herself. She collected a
few days' credit card applications from the neighbour's post and filled
them out in neat black ink, pressing her tongue to the corner of her
mouth. She counted down the days until the prized rectangles arrived,
until she could peel them from their card mountings and buy electrical
items, glassware and cat food. Then she would by herself a kitten,
fresh from the pound. Clare rose early each morning to rifle her
neighbour's mail, palpitating with excitement. But the cards never
came.

Instead, a red letter in a brown envelope fell through the slot and
settled itself on the mat. Her name typed in caps. Not her married name
either, but her maiden name. Somebody had found her. She skirted the
envelope, in case it was booby-trapped, and fled the building. At that
moment, she intended to fly the town too, but it was early still and
hunger got the better of her.

Without plastic, she had only the flimsy cash in her purse and a
handful of change that jumped like little silver fish between her
pockets. She couldn't get anywhere, so she might as well barricade
herself in one of the cafes that splattered the sea front. She found
one that looked as if it had closed several years ago and tried to look
invisible. She sat by the window, hoping for a piece of the water, but
all she got was red brick, lashed with last winter's storm salt.

The waitress smelt of cigarettes and chip fat and her left arm hung at
an awkward angle. She glided up, stroked a pencil against her pad and
glided away again. Her behind strained beneath her uniform. Clattering
came from the back room. A rough cough. Clouds of steam hissed through
the doorway. Clare pulled coins from her pockets and arranged them in
tidy piles on the plastic tablecloth.

'Not enough there to go anywhere,' said a gravely voice.
A man and woman stood, side by side, in front of the table. She wore a
purple hat, wool coat and clutched an umbrella. He wore shorts and a
shirt, rolled up and unbuttoned to his chest, white hair poking
through. They looked like the figures from her mother's
barometer-clock.
The woman said: 'Don't worry love, Albert will sort you out your
breakfast,' and sat down right next to her. When she sat down a
raspberry sounded from the cushion. 'Gone on Albert, sort this poor
girl out a cup of tea.' She shooed him away, Clare caught a whiff of
stale perfume.

He was old, but his eyes hadn't lost their strength yet. He swaggered
towards the backroom. The old lady put her hand on Clare's. It was
cold. 'He may not look much, but he's still a rocket in bed,' she
whispered, and she started giggling. Not a cackle but a contagion that
drew Clare, tugging at the gristle around her mouth. She pictured a
rude little wind-up toy, the two little figures enjoying an over
winding.

'We thought you looked lonely love. Let us sit, we'll soon cheer you
up.'
The woman took off her gloves and put them on the table. Then she
opened her handbag and took out a knife and fork, wrapped in a white
napkin. 'I don't trust the cutlery they have in these kind of places.
Now,' she padded Clare's hand, 'tell Auntie Renee all about him.'
'He's gone now, and I'm so lonely. I don't miss him, don't miss that
man, but I do miss a man.' The words just fell out of her head, she
hadn't even seen them up there, let alone though about them. The old
woman giggled again.
'That's right, you can tell Auntie Renee.'
'She used to be a fortune teller, you know.' The old man had returned,
coffee spilling from his shaking hands. Clare reached over and took the
mug, wincing at the scalding, nearly dropping onto the table.
'A mystic, I was a mystic. He never gives me credit. Albert used to be
a strong man, but you can't keep that sort of life up for ever, can
you? It all catches up with you, sooner or later. Now look at him.
Shakes all over, all day long.' Albert