Awaiting Collection

The letter has not yet come, but it will. She will wait for it. She keeps a space for it in the centre of the notice board. Sometimes she stares at this space as if the words will just suddenly appear. Other things are delivered instead:

Are you ready to move? Our clients are looking for houses just like yours.

On the card there is a man rolled up inside a Moroccan rug. He is smiling because he can afford a new rug for his new house, unlike her and here, where the rented floors suffocate under red-wine carpets. She left her rugs at home; that will be something the letter will mention, when it comes.

She pins the card with the others on the notice board. They are beginning to form a wreath of yellows and reds and greens upon the bare, kitchen wall - flecks of food and faces, exclamation marks and question marks when she herself has nothing to exclaim or ask; and that space in the centre, itself bare but questioning.

The first letter she ever posted was addressed to Father Christmas. She wanted furniture for her doll’s house – all kinds of tables with bowed, curled legs; French dressers with shelves for plates to stand on; bookcases filled with books; a washstand draped with laundry. She remembered to say please and thank you and posted it in plenty of time for Christmas.

The next card is dark blue, the colour of the bathroom walls:

Show your support. Let us improve the areas which matter to you. Remember you can vote by email.

She does not own a computer.

Or letter. Post your vote!

But letters get lost. You cannot always trust the post.

She thinks the letterbox looks like a jeering mouth. And the two wooden panels above it are eyes. And the brass flap of the letterbox sticking out like that is a tongue. It makes an awful noise when it slams shut. And she jumps, like Mother always did when the phone rang, though she is not a fearful person and this area, so she reads, is not as prone to violent crime as it used to be.

We have taken great strides to protect our sense of community. We are tough on crime and tough on the causes of crime.

Here, none of the windows are smashed. And there is no one running, drunk and screaming down the street. The silence here is not like any she has ever known. Her footsteps make no sound upon the carpet. Even her dreams are silent.

She is beginning not to exist.

Without the letter she does not exist.

She pins the cards on top of the others as something else drops in through the letterbox:

Work off those winter blues! First month free!

In winter they used to cheer themselves up by pulling funny faces. Mother’s were always the worst because she could stick out her tongue the furthest and it was always stained red and smelt bad. Then the game would end because it was no longer a game.

She pins the card.

Learn to salsa…

Why cook for yourself when ordering pizza is this easy? Free delivery! * *On orders over £15…

New Year, New You…

Do you want to be your own boss and earn up to £30,000 a year? No qualifications required…

We will take your old carpet away for free!

The carpet is soft against her face. And lying like this means that the brown curtain pulled to one side of the door is a mass of hair and so lying here is like lying upon her belly. The soft, deep breaths soothe her as she used to be soothed, curled upon Mother’s lap like a cat, sleepily counting the seconds until she was scooped up and carried to bed.

You needn’t come back. If you leave now I won’t see you again. And I won’t write.

When she wakes her face is itching. And she has dribbled, saliva stuck to her cheek.

Something is lying on the mat.

We called but you were not in. You have a  Package / Letter / Special Delivery awaiting collection at your local depot *see overleaf*

But none of the boxes are ticked.

The letterbox tongue snaps shut.

She pins the card to the centre of the notice board.