Again this year, I try to use our flights to Italy. Thwarted by both Covid and Brexit delays, now there’s a new block interrupting my sunny horizon, my Mother doesn’t like me leaving her. It’s hard going away when you have an elderly relative dependent on you. When I got back from my last trip, mum had clearly taken a turn for the worse. She’d become depressed, the loneliness of old age hitting her hard, just me not being “around” for all that time. That’s how she was, when I returned from a one-night stay in Birmingham. God only knows what’s going to happen when I vanish to Sicily for a couple of weeks. Brexit and covid are nothing, when compared to a wily frail old lady, staggering in my way. Im never gonna bet let out again.
I have a vision of my future, where I’m locked in my own basement, with a small TV (no Netflix) for company. No bars on windows – bars in my brain. (She watches the News and the Soaps, so she’s surprisingly well informed on these long-term captor situations). Padding around below stairs in my slipper socks, no footsteps, no footprints pointing to my existence. Trapped, remembering what sunshine was. Why-oh-why, did I provoke her with that trip to Sicily? Why couldn’t I just have been happy with a day at the monolith of material happiness, the Bull Ring shopping centre?
My eyes are roughly level with her feet, I can watch her shuffling around the house. I sob quietly at all I’ve lost and she turns up the cheery theme tune to The Archer’s, on Radio 4, to drown out my annoying noise. I hear a neighbour banging heavily on the front door, asking her to ,“Turn that bloody noise down”. She pretends to be deaf, smiles sweetly – pointing at her ears then, “accidentally” slams the door in his face.
Occasionally an old friend, or a concerned neighbour drops by to check-in on her. “Cruel” and “selfish”, are words I catch from their conversations about me. Little do they know, I’m right here where she wants me, under the stairs. They haven’t seen me in years, no one has. One day, she toddles off to a Doctor’s appointment. All fluffy white hair and ole lady charm, for him. I venture out to enjoy my house, my home, all alone.
I walk into the the kitchen and the once white walls are now covered in decorative plates, displaying the beaches of Spain, in vibrant technicolor. There is a plastic 1970s rug, covering the flagstone floor. The patio doors are blocked by an varied array of 20 to 30 small china saucers, on the floor, encrusted with bits of brown. A dirty cat flap, has been cut into the dirty patio doors, she’s got herself a pet. Outside, I can see my expensive oak table, rotting in the garden mess. A massive chest freezer absorbs the space in the kitchen. I lift its lid and look inside. It’s been stocked for Armageddon, full of discounted foods with illegible sell-by dates. I slam the lid shut, feeling grateful there’s no human body inside, nor enough room for mine.
I venture into the living room and see my once-white sofa, occupied by three scruffy cats, curled up comfortably on the cushions. There are another two cats, a tabby and a black type, stretched out along the sofa back. These cats are clearly more at home here, than me. Clumps of cat fur have been felted into the upholstery, kneaded in by paws. I feel something tickle my leg, as an orange cat rubs past me. It reaches it’s front paws up the arm of the sofa, suddenly shredding the fabric with its sharp claws. I open my mouth to shout obscenities at it and a lump of floating cat hair dives down my throat, suddenly I’m choking. I stumble away gasping for life, no cat comes to check on me.
More cats are lying on the filthy stairs, as I venture up, they follow me with their contemptuous eyes. I enter my bedroom, my dresser is covered in circles of yellowing lace. Amongst them, is a large collection of Lilly of the Valley scented products; yellowing labels, peeling at the edges. There’s an acrid smell of ammonia & Lily of the Valley, coming from the bathroom. I push the door open and see my walk-in shower is lined with cat litter trays and gravely mess. A feline arse is pointing in my direction, pressed deliberately, against the glass screen. I turn away, I’ve seen (and smelled) too much.
Retracing my steps through the house, I arrive at the basement door. My hand rests on the handle. I enter and shut the door, sharply behind me, grateful no cats got inside. Flicking on my little TV, I see my favourite advert playing. I hum along, escaping in escapism, the camera flies high above the buildings and people. They’re smiling & I imagine I’m one of them. Happy in that monolithic utopia – the Bull Ring Shopping Centre – the place of my dreams.
Sicily still beckons me with its middle finger. I cavort towards it, showering the Island with non-refundable deposits; while praying to the god of travel, Saint Tui-of-Covid, that my insurance covers World War 3.
XX
