Walls. By CpSingleton © 2014
Maria Worthington was thoroughly shattered.
As she trudged home after her long shift at the supermarket the heavy, cold rain poured down her ineffectual jacket collar and onto her back.
The full shopping bags tore her arms out of their sockets and bit into her already blistered hands. She felt well and truly exhausted with life.
She hoped that her son, Colin, would have a hot cup of Yorkshire tea ready for her when she arrived home and she could almost smell the aroma of a cooked tea wafting from the kitchen.
She also knew that that was as much a likelihood as a limousine with George Clooney pulling up and whisking her away to Cleethorpes for a dirty weekend.
She headed up the steep incline of Ganners Hill, cursing the council for their lack of bus route. Each sloshing step, in the descending muddy river, was just another on the path to her miserable life.
At this point in her short span she would settle for Georgie-porgie stopping by in a beaten up Robin Reliant.
She was thirty-six going on eighty and shared a house with a jobless dreamer and damp rotting the walls.
She could actually stop and cry if it would do any good.
‘Stop it!’ She scolded herself.
The voice of her step-father telling her that crying would do her no good flashed through her tired mind.
Eventually at the top of the hill, she stopped to give her arms a rest and was rewarded with a deluge of filthy, freezing water scythed by a thoughtless passing lorry.
She stood, arms out, blowing raspberries of gritty water through her thin lips, aware that passing cars were laughing at her plight.
What could possibly happen now that would be worse than this? She thought.
Unwilling to find out, she picked up the plastic bags full of value tins. Fountains of water sprayed through holes in the plastic onto her and the pavement, as she trudged the last hundred yards to her council terraced house on Willow Drive.
She remembered when the council told her that they were moving her to Willow Drive. It had sounded peaceful and warm. It was, however, as far as New York from either. The whole street was a toothless snarl of boarded houses and drug dens. It carried a terrible nickname. A nickname you only heard about when you were handed the keys: Bastard’s Row.
She slouched in to her tiny, dark front garden, despondently noting that the privet hedges needed trimming and had for a year or two. Colin was always about to do them. She’d given up asking him. When the rain stopped -which it never did- she would trim them herself. She edged through the forest of leaves, dropped the bags and entered the mess that was her home.
The putridity of the full kitchen bin immediately wrinkled her nose. She had specifically asked Colin to put them out before she had left for work, nearly fourteen hours ago.
‘COLIN!’ She screeched. The anger took her mind off that fact the she was beyond wet-through. ‘COLIN WORTHINGTON I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! I WANT YOU OUT!’ Silence was the only reply.
That’s odd, she thought.