She did a little agony dance whilst she waited for the pain to ease, blowing on her fingers. Damn. She’d need to get outside to dunk her hand in the cold water barrel.

Her oldest friend, Tilsbury, was always harping on about that darned pan; said that using it, without a lid, instead of a kettle, might prove disastrous one day. Gloria wouldn’t buy a kettle, though. Said she didn’t have the money for expensive items like that. Well, her son, Clegg, had given her a credit card for ‘essential items’ but she never went anywhere to use it. In fact, she rarely went out at all. She didn’t really need to.

Today she’d knocked the pan by accident, reaching over to check the potato soup she was cooking for their lunch. These days she was always eating potato soup, on account that she had a large sack of them, out back, that Tilsbury had got from someone in the know. She liked that it could be a cheap nourishing meal when she had onions, carrots and a good stock in it.

But, today, she only had potatoes. Add a bit of salt and it would have to do, she’d thought. Anyway, the hot water for their tea, boiling away in the pan next to the soup, had sploshed onto her left hand as she’d leaned over the grimy stove to stir their meal.

Gloria grunted as she hitched up her Crimplene dress and clambered over the piles of squashed cardboard boxes and magazines, nearly slipping on mouldy teabags, decomposing potato skins, marmalade-smeared crusts and other detritus around the kitchen sink unit. She no longer noticed the stink like rotting cabbage. Empty, dripping or congealed milk cartons, plastic bags and other household rubbish also littered the floor – more obstacles to tackle – in order to get to that cold water barrel, outside by the back door. The original Georgian taps in her kitchen sink had long since seized up. So the only water she could use was in that rainwater barrel, outdoors: for cooking, for occasional washing, for everything really.

But, at seventy-nine, she knew she was getting too old for all this.

Her fingers were blistered from similar events. A kettle would make things easier, of course. But it wasn’t just the money. She felt pretty much housebound now, more from lack of motivation and despondency than anything else. There wasn’t anything physically preventing her from doing things. She occasionally forgot things but she wasn’t an invalid and she didn’t need to use a walking stick yet, even though she was a bit wobbly on her feet sometimes. So she could go down to the shops if she wanted. She just didn’t want to, any more. Anyway, Tilsbury would pop by and get her the things she really needed, when she needed anything.

‘Go fetch us a tub of marge,’ she’d say to Tilsbury, when he came round to see what else she needed before he went to fetch her pension for her. ‘Bit of honey wouldn’t go amiss, either. And get me a bar of that Imperial Leather soap. I likes that, for a treat, I do.’

So Tilsbury, duly, got all the bits she needed from the corner shop and collected her pension as well. And her son, Clegg, got her teabags, carrots, eggs and bread, when he remembered to come see her. He hadn’t been to see her in a while, though. Three weeks four days, to be precise, Gloria noted, missing him. She crossed the white squares off on the calendar board attached to the back of the door – the calendar board Tilsbury had made and put up for her – in between her son’s sporadic visits. She counted the days until he reappeared at her door, hopefully with another bag of groceries or provisions in hand.

When her husband, Arthur, was alive it hadn’t been a problem. Clegg had even brought the rest of the family around to visit as well. Oh, it’d been lovely seeing little Jessie and Adam, her only grandchildren. But since Clegg had told her he’d got busier and busier at work he’d been coming to see her less and less. And she hadn’t seen the children or his wife, Val, in – what? Crikey, yes, at least ten years or more. Such a shame, such a real shame, Gloria thought sadly.

Once, though, Tilsbury had tried to cuff Clegg, after listening to Gloria moan for years about the way her son treated her. Tilsbury told Clegg he was a useless bastard for the way he allowed his mother to live in this dump of a place, rarely visiting. But Clegg was a bulky gruff of a man and had thumped Tilsbury instead. ‘Phaww. That stung a bit, it did, my love,’ he’d whimpered to Gloria, who’d merely shaken her head. So Tilsbury kept out of the way when Clegg visited now.

Gloria

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