glittyknittykitty

November 11, 2007

Nanowrimo: churlish

The Major comes forward into the group. I think the best thing for all concerned is to simply get him lying down somewhere quiet where he isn’t going to be disturbed, either by other people, or overzealous care. Let’s take him to my cabin. Yes, he says, looking at Mary- my spare room is always made up for visitors too. Might as well use it. He sighs. You can stay and keep an eye on him if you must.
So that odd little procession lifts itself back up on to its carnival wheels and heads out of the door again, stranger wrapped in a faded red blanket, his feet almost dragging on the concrete slabs of the path now, with the Major up front, chest puffed out and ready to fend off admirers or attackers, and Mary trotting behind with a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. Seagulls wheel overhead flicking back and forth under the clouds, feathered ticker tape.

It doesn’t take long to get to the Major’s cabin, with its perfectly trimmed box hedging, shell encrusted concrete birdbath (a must for this year’s cabin), mended steps and shiny, shiny greenhouse glass panelling glinting. Midge always marvels at the jewel-like quality of the Major’s glass panelling. He must get out there with bleach and a toothbrush every morning, he thinks, to keep it algae free and as clear as air like he does. It shows a dedication or a foolish defense against the reality of the current situation, and Midge isn’t sure which is better. To fight and fight even when you know everything has gone to shit (and there is a certain amount of dignity to that position), or just relax and take things as they come. Midge feels more of an affinity for the latter position, but gets a twinge every now and again, mainly in his buttocks, that makes him wish he had more fight in him.

The party wedges itself in the gateway to begin with, but shuffle through eventually, with the Major rummaging for his keys in the deep pockets of his herby slacks. Door open, sun room door opened in to back bedroom, stranger laid out on the bed, shoes off to one side, jacket and trousers slipped off and passed to Mary. His eyes are still open, but he doesn’t seem to be responding to anything now, so they move him like a puppet, a doll, lying him on his back, legs stretched out, arms by his sides, the blanket lain over him, with a sheet between (the blanket being too scratchy to be next to the skin, says Mary) and then all four standing back to look at the lying in state of the stranger pulled from the sea.

Posted by scumkitten at November 11, 2007 07:31 PM