Mrs. Emily Wallace lives alone, quite contentedly with her cat Polly. The two have been bonded in a simple fashion for a number of years. Before Polly came along Mrs. Wallace had already outlived two cats and prior to those, three dogs. Each one of these animals had lived to a ripe, fat old age and each one’s death had left her heartbroken. Before her husband’s death she was resolutely a dog person, doggedly so, that is one who prefers dogs over cats.  It was perhaps one of the few bonds that they, her husband and she, had shared.  Together they would roll their eyes at the mere mention of a cat. In fact the notion of preferring cats to dogs was to them, the sign of retardation of character. And to Mrs. Wallace, the test of good character is being able to remain loyal to your belief, no matter what.To change your mind on such a fundamental issue was a sure sign of weakness. So, after 25 years solely in the company of cats, she still publicly considers herself a dog person. But Polly has never taken this personally.

 Mrs. Wallace lives in a little bungalow, on a street with lots of other little bungalows, each one with people of one description or another contained within.  Apart from the odd, minor distinguishing features, such as a porch or a skylight, they are all identical. The Bungalow she lives in is the same one in which she has lived for more than 50 years, the same one in which she has raised four children, all of them cramped up inside there, with her and her dead husband.  But of course the husband wasn’t dead then, he was just waiting, quietly seething, as people generally are in one way or another.  

15years before he died they had had an argument, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace; something, about which nobody recalled.  It wasn’t at all serious but the trauma of it remained.  It remained until the end, never discussed or addressed, no apologies ever made, no make-ups ever embarked upon.  They never ate together again.  They never shared a bed again.  Their mutual existence festered, oozed, and bled.  Until he finally had the decency to die and Mrs. Wallace could get on with her life.

 The children’s physical development within the bungalow seemed to be similar in nature to that of goldfish, in that although they were fed well and as often as necessary they grew only relative to the size of their dwelling and have always therefore been a squat lot.  This is fortunate because if they were not they could not have all fitted inside.  

Since the children left and the husband died Mrs. Wallace has done her best to fill the leftover space all by herself, by eating cakes and biscuits.  The plants in the window alcove have done the same thing and have outgrown their natural size and exceeded their expected lifespan by quite a lot, though not through eating cakes and biscuits but through photosynthesis. Though the plants are impressive in stature when over the years people have remarked favorably on their size Mrs. Wallace has reacted unkindly because she dislikes the implication of her involvement in some way.  She does not wish to take credit for something for which she has had no control over.  If they wish to grow big that’s their prerogative.   

She doesn’t enjoy the ordinary politeness of people and is generally annoyed at the inevitability of what they say.  She would much prefer people to say the thing she was least expecting them tosay.    

 We enter the story as Mrs. Wallace is on the phone to one of her three daughters, the eldest one.

  “Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with it, the smoke just billows out,” says Mrs. Wallace.

“It probably needs a sweeping mother. How long has it been since it was swept?”   

“Oh, I don’t know.  How am I supposed to know that?  You ask such silly questions.”

“It’s not a silly question mother.  Chimneys are supposed to be cleaned each year.  It’s dangerous to use it if it’s all blocked with soot.  It could catch fire.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.  Why do you always have to be so dramatic?  We would go years without cleaning chimneys in my day.  In my day people weren’t so precious about cleaning chimneys.  It never did anyone any harm then.”

 Her daughter’s attention drifts to various photographs she’s seen of people in her mother’s day; aunts and uncles and others from her mother’s street where she grew up, standing around in the street, their faces black from muck and coal dust.  Most of them looked sick enough that they could just fall over dead on the spot.  And hungry enough that they’d stab you in the throat for a loaf of bread if they could get away with it, family or no family.  She then recalls a story she’d heard once about how they all used to clean their teeth with coal dust on a stick; the ‘good old days’.  

“Hey, are you still there?”  Mrs. Wallace prompted.

“Yes, anyway why don’t you just ask Ian to come over and sweep it for you?  I’m sure he won’t mind.  He’s always happy to do things for you, you know that.”  

“Why should I ask Ian to help?  I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.  I have brushes somewhere.”

 “Youshouldn’t do it yourself mum.”

 “Don’t be silly, I’m perfectly capable of doing it by myself.  I’ve swept it lots of times before.  You think I’m incapable of a simple thing like that, don’t you.”

 “No mum, I just don’t think you should bother yourself when Ian would be more than happy to do it for you.”

 “He’s too busy to be bothered with things like that.  I can’t go ringing him up each and every time I need something.  He’ll think I’m feeble.  Anyway, that’s enough.  I’ll do it myself.  I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

 

“OK, if you really must.  But be careful – you might dislodge a brick or something.  You don’t want that falling on your head - although it might knock some sense into you.”

 “Don’t be cheeky.  I’ve got to go now.  I’ve got things to do.  Why did you call anyway?”

 “Just to see how you are.”

 “I’m fine.  I have to go.  Bye.”

 “Bye mum.  Love you.”

 “Maybe I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”  She puts the phone down. “Humph.  Knock some sense into me indeed.  I’ll knock some bloody sense into her next time I see her.  Where is that brush Polly?  Where did Ian put it?”

 Mrs. Wallace looks around, scrutinizing the hall for any telltale signs of where the brushes might be and so to begin this little adventure.  She narrows her eyes in concentration.  There, in her mind, like a Zen master, she travels through each room in the Bungalow in her mental virtual reality, looking for the brushes.  She peers into each corner of each room and behind all the curtains.  She opens the wardrobe doors and peers inside.  She even imagines bending down and looking under the beds.  After a good few minutes intense searching she concludes, without moving a muscle, that the brushesaren’t there.         

 “I wish he wouldn’t hide things from me.  How am I supposed to find things when he hides them away in all sorts of silly places,” she says.

 She opens a cupboard in the hall where the Hoover and other household cleaning and maintenance items are kept and has a rummage around inside.  There are some angry clangings and clatterings.  Polly sits in the hall, her head slightly to one side watching.    

 “Oh, for Pete’s sake, this is where it should be. Why can’t people put things where they should be?”    

 Then she exits the cupboard in a sort of mock stumble.  A section of her hair is scattered heroically across her face, like that of a farm girl freshly ravished in a haystack.  Polly meows

 “Yes, yes, Polly, in a minute.  I said in a minute.  It must be in the loft.  Though I don’t know why he’d put it up there.  He knows I hate going up there.  He really tries my patience sometimes.  Just wait until I see him.”

 She takes the small step ladder from the same cupboard in which she has just spent the last 5 minutes rummaging.  She places the ladder under the hatch and steps onto it.  It’s a small ladder of just two or three steps and exists only for this purpose, for her to reach the rope.  She steps on it and reaches the rope.  She pulls the rope and the hatch opens and from the hatch drops the beginnings of a bigger ladder.  She pulls the rope attached to the bigger ladder which extends its legs down.  She is then able to step off the smaller ladder and continue to pull the larger ladder until it extends all the way to the ground.  It all workslike clockwork.  

 The loft is where two of the children were put, where the two girls lived their childhoods.  They spent their evenings, nights, and early mornings gossiping, arguing and generally being young girls in this cold pocket of space in the hairpiece of the bungalow.  Remnants of their time still exist in the space, photographs and letters, drawing pins stuck into the wooden side table, odd bits of childish graffiti, and items of discarded clothing still under the bed after 45 years.  The pillows themselves are probably the very same ones which would have held their ringletted heads off the mattresses, before those girls grew up and had children of their own, who in turn also had children, all of whose heads have since been held up off mattresses, using pillows.  

 Mrs. Wallace ascends the steps and as her head sticks through the narrow hole in the floor it catches a sideways gust of trapped draught.  Her eyes take in the unused and forgotten space as a waft of mild decay fills her nostrils and she realizes her error.  

 “Oh, it’s not up here.  Why on earth would it be up here?  Nobody comes up here anymore.”

 The loft space was cold, too cold even for spiders, which explained the lack of cobwebs.  For the two girls it was like sleeping on the roof but without the views.  Back in the day the girls never missed an opportunity to express their suffering to their parents but their parents’ response was like all parents before and since, which was to compare it to their own upbringings, which were far tougher.  I guess it’s called progress and so all parents have suffered worse than their children, whether they have or not.  That’s just the way it is.  Because suffering is relative andrelatives love to suffer.    

 Mrs. Wallace, having decided it was a fruitless search descended the ladder again, leaving the cold musty little space with its eerie decay back in the hands of time.  Polly meows

 “Shush Polly.”  Says Mrs. Wallace

 She clambers down the ladder and then pushes it back up.  It is satisfying for her how easily the ladder pushes up and folds back into itself, like the leg of a spaceship, and how faultlessly the door closes behind it to hide the space completely.  Mrs. Wallace has always felt great satisfaction in its workings, ever since the first moment it was installed.  Neither she nor her husband (who was alive at the time) had anything negative to say about it.  It just worked.  That is another of the few things she and her living husband agreed on.  It is one of the few things in her life which has always worked just fine.  

 Polly meows.

 “Shush I said.”

 Polly meows again.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake Polly, OK,” says Mrs. Wallace in a fury.  “It’s always about you, isn’t it?  Let’s stop everything and feed Polly shall we?”  

 Mrs. Wallace clatters about in the kitchen, banging cupboards and bowls as loud as she is able to without causing damage.  That done, enough commotion caused, the bowl of biscuits is thrown down in front of Polly who starts eating immediately, oblivious to any kind of anger.  She purrs as she eats, as cats do.

 “Happy now?”

 Mrs. Wallace stands over Polly like a cold-war monolith, her legs apart in a power stance and her arms like wrought iron girders, arched and pressed against her hips.  A few moments pass like this, quietly, as she watches Polly eat.  The sound of Polly’s purring calms her temper.  

 “I can’t spend all day looking for the brushes, can I? I’ll just have to go and ask them next door if I can borrow theirs.  They owe me a favor.  They still have my garden hoe.   I’ll do it now.  No time like the present.  You wait here.”

 Outside, the wind is blowy.  Mrs. Wallace thinks for a moment that perhaps she’s dressed inappropriately, perhaps she should go back inside and get a coat.  She decides against it.  She’s only going next door so she can put up with a little cold for a few minutes, that it’ll do her good.  A little suffering never did anyone any harm, she thinks.  

 The bungalow next door is identical to hers, other than the additional tiny porch stuck on the front door, essentially a door on a door, to stop the first door getting cold, just about big enough to put your shoes and little things into.  Mrs. Wallace had always said it was hardly worth building the thing in the first place.  She rings the bell and waits.  After a moment or two she hears the sound of locks unlocking.  The clicking of one lock after the next seems to take forever and Mrs. Wallace is visibly irritated by the delay.  Finally, the door opens.

 “Hello, Mrs. Wallace.  How are you?” Asks Mrs. Simm.

 “I’m very well thank you, Mrs. Simm,” says Mrs. Wallace.  “How are you?”

 “Very well thank you.  We’re just watching Cash in the Attic.  How can I help you?  Have you come for your hoe?  I can get it for you it’s in the shed somewhere.  I’ll just go and get it.”  Mrs. Simm begins to turn away.

 “That’s OK Mrs. Simm.  I actually came to ask you a little favor.”

 “Oh yes, how can I help?”

 “I want to borrow something.  Do you have the brush and sticks and things for cleaningthe chimney?”

 “Oh yes, we do, somewhere.  I’ve never used them.  I let Glenn do that sort of thing.”

 “Well my chimney’s got to be swept and it won’t sweep itself will it Mrs. Simm?”

 “Are you going to do it yourself, Mrs. Wallace?  You are brave.  I wouldn’t know where to start.”

 “Well it’s hardly rocket science is it Mrs. Simm.  Stick the sticks together and bung it up there.  How hard can it be?”

 “I suppose so.”  Mrs. Simm’s concentration is snatched suddenly by something happening on the telly.   “Well ok – I’ll go and find them.  I’ll be back in a jiffy.  Would you like to come in and wait, Mrs. Wallace?”

 “No no, that’s quite alright Mrs. Simm, I don’t think I will.  I don’t want to have to take my shoes off and then have to put them back on again.  It’s such a faff.”

 “Right you are.  Do you mind if I just push the door to, to keep the heat in?  Glenn will complain otherwise.”

 “Not at all.”  Says Mrs. Wallace.

 Mrs. Simm closes the door but leaves it off the latch.  Mrs. Wallace hears the conversation inside.  She realizes it’s a bad time, in the middle of Cash in the Attic.  She should have known better.  She just makes out the words, “You go” and then, “I’ll record it” and, “It’s such a Faff”.  

 In the meantime, Mrs. Wallace talks to herself under her breath, in a tone of mockery, “You are brave Mrs. Wallace.  I wouldn’t know where to start.  For Pete’s sake – what’s wrong with everyone?”  The door opens again.  “Oh hello,” she says, taken by surprise.  

 “Hello, Mrs. Wallace.  Marie asked me to ask you if you need any help sweeping your chimney.”  Says Glenn smiling happily.  

 “I told her I could do it myself.  What’s wrong with everyone?  I’m not incompetent you know.”

 “Well OK if you have any problems just let me...”

 “Yes yes, I will.  Are those sticks and things?”

 “Oh, yes, here.”  He passes them over to Mrs. Wallace.

 “You should let Glenn do it for you Mrs. Wallace.”  The voice says from inside the house.  “He’s very good and he won’t change much.”   She laughs.  Glenn laughs also.  

 “No not much at all Mrs. Wallace.  My hourly rates are very reasonable.”

 “Well, I’ll bear that in mind.  Thank you, Glenn.”  Then she shouts to a space inside the house, occupied somewhere by Mrs. Simm, “Thank you, Mrs. Simm.”

“No problem Mrs. Wallace.” The voice comes back from inside.

 “Be careful won’t you.”  Glenn says.

“I will thank you Glenn.”

Shouting from inside, “Be careful Mrs. Wallace.”

 Shouting back, “Yes yes I will be careful.”

“Bye,” says Mrs. Wallace.

 “Bye,” says Glenn.

 “Bye,” shouts Mrs. Simm’s voice.

 “Bye,” shouts Mrs. Wallace back at it.

Mrs. Wallace walks back across the graveled drive to her own home, mumbling to herself. 

 “What’s wrong with everyone?  It’s hardly rocket science, now is it?  It’s not like I’m taking the QE2 around the world…  It’s not like I’m building Notre Dam Cathedral…  It’s not as though I’m… It’s not… people should just mind their own business.”   

 Back inside her own home and Mrs. Wallace takes the dirty bag filled with the brushes and poles into the living room and leans it against the wall.  She notices that her hands are dirty from carrying it and she pulls a little face.  Then she stands for a few moments observing the scene.  She looks at the fireplace.  She looks at the ornaments on the ledge above.  She looks at the ornaments on the fire grate below, at the pictures which hang on little hooks on the brick surround, at the coal bucketand the little coal shovel thingy hanging on its hook next to the little matching brush and picky uppy thing.  Then she looks at the deep pile white rug which rests in front of the fireplace.    

 “I need to get some newspaper.”  She says.

 “Meow!” says Polly in agreement.  She is slouched, observing with interest on the chair at the far end of the room near the window.     

 Some 15 minutes later and Mrs. Wallace has prepared her space.  She has moved all the movable items and has covered all the non-movable items with newspaper or old sheets.  She has done a pretty good job.  Everything in the room is covered or removed including Polly who has a little sheet over her.  Mrs. Wallace has also prepared herself and has changed for the occasion.  She is wearing a set of decorating overalls she found in the airing cupboard.  They are a little tight but they do the job.  She has also put on one of the old hats she used to wear at the factory.  On checking herself in the mirror she is pretty pleased with the result.  Just then the phone rings.

 “Oh, who can that be now?”

She answers the phone.  

 “Who....? Oh, Glenn…. Hmm…. No really, I am fine….  Yes, yes, but I’m fine Glenn thank you…. Yes, I understand but I really can manage…. It’s kind of you but it’s really OK…. I will…. Yes, I will…. Goodbye…. Yes…. Goodbye Glenn.”

 Mrs. Wallace walks into the living room quietly and looks at the preparations she has made with some pride.  She looks at the clothes she’s wearing and readjusts the hat on her head.  She then takes the brush out of the bag and attaches it confidently to a black stick.  She kneels on the floor in frontof the fireplace and sticks the brushy end up the chimney.  It doesn’t go very far up at first.  It seems to be getting caught on something.  She gives it a couple of sharp heaves but it doesn’t go anywhere.   Then after a further sharp shove, it lifts further and a great deal of black soot falls into the grate.  

 “Ahh, you see.  It’s not difficult at all.”  She says with satisfaction.  “And by the looks of it, it really needed doing too.”

 She attaches another stick to the first stick and shoves the brush further up.  More soot falls and lands as planned onto the newspaper.  She then attaches the third stick with not a small amount of satisfaction.  She tries to push it up but it gets stuck on something.  She keeps shoving but nothing happens.  She pulls the brush down but it won’t dislodge either.  It seems stuck.

 “Bloody typical,” she says.  

 She twists her body and sticks her head up into the fire grate to look into the throat of the chimney.  She sees nothing but black.  She waits a moment hoping that her eyes will get used to the dark.  She twists the brush slightly, causing a pinch of soot to fall into her eye.  She flinches and just starts to pull herself out instinctively from the fireplace when she feels a knock to her head and then a sparkly burst of bright light fills her mind.  Bright shapes twist and turn inside her head like colorful fairground rides, all exquisitely lit and dancing.  The soft clicking songs of unseen birds ring in her ears. The scent of unknowable forests fills her nostrils.  She is dazzled by the beauty and bigness of it all and she smiles.  It’s the last flash, intense and celebrating, then everything’sgone.        

 That’s it for Emily Wallace.  She died when a brick landed on her head.  It only took a moment.  Whether it knocked any sense into her isn’t relevant any longer.    

 Polly is alerted to a change.  She jumps down from her chair and walks up to Emily.  She sniffs her body which lies slumped in the fireplace.  She sniffs the small pool of blood which has gathered around Emily’s head.  Then she sits next to her and gives herself a bath, licking her paws and rubbing her head and body all over.

 Emily’s concluded her participation, so she’s left.  Her final role has been played out, admirably and brave.  This final role was the last of many.  As a mother she played an adequate part, and although her children love to complain they will miss her desperately.  As a wife she was less committed.  As a colleague she was a natural, a leader of men.  She fell into the role with great ease and always led from the front.  She was unpredictable and explosive as a friend, though generally loyal, generally memorable.  She played cook effectively but without joy, but as a gardener she was enthusiastic and she could talk about her tomatoes for hours.  She played the actress when it amused her, the flawed philosopher when she thought it would annoy someone, the comedian and singer with gin in the mix.  In the earlier days she played dancer too when enough booze had been consumed and there were people to impress.  She had played a femme fatale, a seductress, a slut, an arch enemy, a betrayer of friends and family.  All of those roles she had played with great enthusiasm.  She had played carer and nurturer too with dutiful presence though never with convincing sympathy. She had been a revolutionary, angry and passionate.  She had been a child, scared and vulnerable.          

 Polly finishes her bath and walks up to the body.  She licks Emily’s face.  She continues licking for several minutes.  Then she leaves the house through the cat flap.        

 As a girl Emily was left alone.  And as a woman she kept herself to herself.  She could see what many, as it appeared to her, couldn’t or didn’t want to see.  She could see through the thin conciliatory layer that society wore as a face.  She had no time for them.  She was avoided by and so at once rejected a society who had no wish to be exposed by her piercing look. As a child she was given a wide birth by the other children.  They called her names, but always from a distance.  They wouldn’t approach her.  It was rumored she might bite.  So she sat alone.  She was ragged and her teeth were sharp.  Her eyes bore into them with a demonic rage which bubbled and hissed.  Emily’s torment was fierce and malevolent, remote and unutterable.  Her pain was rolled up tightly, deep inside of her, a secret.  Nobody would ever find it, she made sure of that.  Though they might see signs of it burning, there in her eyes somewhere, if they looked hard enough.    

 She is smiling now, as the woman who had a life despite all the odds, beautiful and loved, with glittering starlit secrets. Her face appears softer.  There are no lines of worry or anger.  There are no wrinkles, just a delicate smile on a youthful face, graceful.  Her whole body seems lighter, weightless like she could lift from the ground and be air.  Because now that thislife is over, with all its details and significance, all that’s left with any real meaning, is the love of a grateful animal.