Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop by Amy Witting Read Free Book Online

but they had accepted her with all her peculiarities. And now she understood the importance of being expected, having somewhere to go every day. Daily bread. It meant a little more than food for the belly.
    She had slammed the door on that familiar world. She would be too embarrassed ever to go back.
    It was no use appealing to Mrs Foster. Mrs Foster had a loyalty to misery which Isobel admired, but she never counted Isobel among its victims.
    What about Mr Lynch? Could she crawl down and knock at his door and cry for help?
    The thought would have made her laugh if laughter didn’t hurt her head so much.
    She had almost had her own lover. It had come close.
    That was worse than a slammed door. A slammed door leaves live people behind it. She would write a poem one day, in Robbie’s honour, though he would not know of it: An elegy for lovelight.
    Oh, for God’s sake! You’ve got no food and there you lie, thinking about writing a poem. You have to get up, and wash and dress, and what’s more, there’s that bucket to empty.
    She hadn’t emptied the bucket for two days. It would be too heavy to carry. That would mean a very careful operation, transferring urine from bucket to po to lighten the load, emptying bucket, returning to transfer urine from po to bucket…
    She raised her head and hastily lowered it again to her pillow.
    Aspirin. She did have aspirin. Within reach, in her handbag by the bed.
    She groped, found the packet, swallowed two tablets dry, and waited.
    She had read about an old Marquise who had starved to death in a garret in the Palace of Versailles. Nobody knew she was there.
    Three old ladies locked in the lavatory…they were there from Monday to Saturday…The tune droned through her head.
    Fear got her to her feet. Not so bad. Never so bad once you got to your feet.
    She pulled on pants and sweater and tried to lift the bucket. It was, as she had expected, too heavy to lift. She assembled po, enamel mug and the cloth to cover her nose and mouth against the ammoniac stench, and set to work, moving with care. There was plenty of time. Even after that long lie-in and the retrospective, which had done little to cheer her, it was still only half past eight. Now the po was full and the bucket was manageable. She carried it down to the lavatory, used the lavatory and raised the seat to pour away the contents of the bucket, retching a little because she hadn’t of course worn the protective cloth. Then back to the room, urine from po to bucket—that was the tricky bit, take it easy, plenty of time. Second trip done. Rest a bit.
    Rinse bucket and po with water in mug from tap. We’re getting there.
    She decided she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Heat water on gas ring. Soap and washer job at the sink, do the worst spots, armpits, crotch and feet. Pants and sweater again. Shoes.
    She was ready to go.
    Just down three and a half flights of stairs, then a block and a half to the corner shop. Food, then back to hole up until she was better.
    She sat on the edge of the bed for a while, practising minimal existence. This was a technique she had been using to gather the strength to get out of bed: perfectly still, breathing slow and shallow, not thinking, she waited for the moment. It came, she stood up and went out. When she locked the door behind her, she felt that she was at the end of the ordeal, not at its beginning.
    The stairs were all right. She held the handrail and descended slowly to the hall.
    She paused there. Come on, it was only a block and a half.
    As soon as she got into the street, she knew that a block and a half was an impossible distance. There was the bus stop, just a few yards in the other direction. She could make that, working her way along the front of the buildings—without support, she reeled like a drunk—and sit on the seat practising minimal living until she had gathered sufficient reserves to make the journey.
    She sidled along to the bus-stop shelter and sat down.
    Strength