Whispers Through a Megaphone by Rachel Elliott Read Free Book Online

brave.
    Her arms, branches in the wind.
    She is dancing, swaying around the room in her black T-shirt and faded jeans, because today is a good day, closer to the end than the beginning. She is soon to emerge from the house like a missing person who no one has missed. The sun is shining. It is August and three years have passed. She has done her time and look at her dance and who cares if this is weird? Compared to the weird she has known, this dance in the middle of the living room is a demonstration of normality, sanity, logic. Frances had not allowed music. She had not allowed dancing. Well look at this, mother. Look at this. I am dancing to a song called ‘Rhiannon’ and there’s nothing you can do to make it stop.
    It’s good that Frances is dead. When Miriam thinks this while waving her arms, wiggling her hips, she does so with a twitchy mix of compassion and relief. Frances would never have coped with how the world has changed. For a start, she hated the very notion of the Internet. People living, breathing, speaking out in the world and inside all manner of objects? It was too crazy to be true. An online community, a small worldthat never falls silent and never disappears, where every move you make can be seen by anyone?
    Miriam stops dancing. She is being watched. It’s Boo the herbalist, walking past her window, looking in. She expects him to shout peekaboo! but he doesn’t, because Boo is a sensible man. A man with a habit of walking past Miriam’s front window as he makes his way from door to door, delivering home-printed leaflets about natural medicine. As usual, Boo is wearing his red tracksuit. His moustache is a flourish of curl on a tentative face.
    Realizing that she has spotted him, he waves and sprints off, vowing to use the proper footpath next time so as not to disturb the intriguing lady who lives next door.
     
    Miriam is tired now. She has been awake since five o’clock this morning. She doesn’t seem to need as much sleep as she used to. So far today she has made a lemon drizzle cake, cleaned the kitchen with a new range of eco products, emptied her mother’s wardrobe, watched four episodes of The Bridge and danced around the living room, clapping her hands and kicking her legs. It is unusual for Miriam to be gleeful like this, because her default personality setting is melancholy infused with kindness, which sounds like a room spray for introverts. What might that smell of? Not grapefruit and ginger—too zingy, too energetic. Not patchouli or bergamot—too musky, too sweet. Not wild mint—too much like sticking your face straight into a pot of herbs.
    She sprays the hallway with vanilla, goes into the kitchen and makes herself a cheese and pickle sandwich. Then it’s time to return to the bin bags.
    Over the past two days, Miriam has been throwing things away. The patio in the back garden is now hidden beneath a pile of black bags. The bags are spilling onto the grass and therockery. Soon they will be in the pond with the goldfish and koi carp. The past is taking over and the fish can see it coming; they are deep down, hidden beneath the weeds.
    Miriam picks up the phone. “Fenella, I have a question.”
    Fenella mumbles something. Her mouth is full of Wotsits.
    “Are you eating crisps again?”
    “I might be.”
    “I need to know how to get one of those metal boxes outside my house.”
    “Metal boxes?”
    “For rubbish.”
    “Do you mean a skip?”
    “That’s it, a skip. How do you get one of those?”
    “You call a company and order one. They’ll drop it off and collect it for you. Just one problem, though.”
    “What?”
    “You’ll have to leave your house to put stuff in the skip.”
    “Can I hire a man?”
    “One can always hire a man.” Fenella bites a cheese puff in half and giggles. It is not an attractive sound. She accidentally snorts, which has been happening more and more lately. The snort silences her. What if it finds its way into every laugh from now until