Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

     A potted fern almost obscures the kitchen window; her face is a pale shadow behind it. It is the kind of fern that can stand almost any amount of neglect: perhaps this one has had too much attention. The outer leaves are dry and shrivelled, it looks dusty.

     He gave it to her last Christmas, a whole collection of plants in an ornamental garden: this fern, an ivy, two begonias and a couple of creeping things she couldn’t identify. Very handsome. She had been pleased though she knew he had bought it because it was expensive and he couldn’t think what she might want or need. Late in the summer she had separated the plants out and repotted them. The begonias were over now, the ivy is climbing vigorously up its new stake but the fern is looking a bit under the weather. Her long crooked fingers probe at the roots, she peers, bending her head close, her hair falling grey and wild from its pins. She is wearing her wrong glasses. There could be aphid at the roots - he bought her a spray last time he was over, it should be under the sink. She lowers herself cautiously to her knees and pushes aside the bottle of bleach and the fly spray.

     At least two feet distance he had instructed, reading out the label: avoid inhaling the fumes. Do not puncture the can. Fiddle faddle she says robustly aiming the nozzle at the heart of the fern and pressing the button. She lifts the pot from its saucer and carries it outside. A nice drop of rain, she says thoughtfully. Do it a power of good.

     The clock wheezes, whirrs and chimes twice for the half-hour. It is seven o’clock. Sunday. Time to wind the clock. She drags a chair over.

     Don’t Mother, he says in her head, sharply reproachful. Leave it. It’s dangerous to go climbing up on things. Leave it, I’ll do it.

     ‘When will you do it’ she says.

     ‘When I come I’ll do it.’

     But he doesn’t come, she says. And I don’t expect it.

     She climbs up on the chair. I can manage, she says. I’ll be very careful. The key is kept inside the clock case. She unhooks the little brass catch and after several attempts inserts the key in the left-hand hole. The clock chimes again, eight times.

     You ought to get that clock fixed, he says sternly.

     I will, I will.

     I could take it in for you.

     It doesn’t do to move it, she says. It’s hung on the wall that long. There are pencil marks on the plaster where the clock should rest. Ben put them there years ago. Just line it up to them, he says, it’ll be alright.

     It keeps good time, she says, defending it. As long as it isn’t moved.

     It’s all over the place, he says.

     Good enough for me.

     She pokes the key into the right hand hole to wind up the movement.

     There, she says. That’s done. She holds the back of the chair to lower one leg to the ground. The chair tips; she staggers but keeps her balance. Silly old woman, she says. If I fell he’d say, silly old woman. My fault, I’d say, I’m sorry, Id say. But it was all right. All right this time. And I don’t have to tell him.

     He says. Looking after yourself Mother? Not doing anything stupid? And she says, Oh yes dear, I’m very careful, you know that. I look after myself.

     He doesn’t have to know about the risks she takes. Climbing on chairs. Whatever would he say? He’d say, Silly old woman.

     The rain falls on the potted fern. The slabs in the yard are slippery. She guides her crooked old feet into her big wellies. Don’t go out in the yard when it’s wet, she says sternly, you’ll fall. She takes her big stick from the stand by the back door and goes out into the yard. You see, she says. I remembered my stick!

     The plastic bucket is in the feed store by a row of dustbins, all empty now except for the one with the hen meal in. The hen meal is getting low; she leans over the side of the bin trying to scoop the last bit from the bottom. Her feet leave the ground, She struggles out of the dustbin. Found upside down in a dustbin, she says, that would never do. What would they say? She stumps towards the hen enclosure. You ought to get shot of those birds, he says. You should give them the chop. Chop chop, she says. throwing handfuls of meal from the bucket to the wet hens. Useless old birds. Fit for nothing. She rummages in the straw and finds two eggs. Well that’s not bad for your age, she says.

    Not worth the feed, he says. Better get rid of them.

     Old she says, too old. Chop chop, that’s the way.

     She feels breathless on her way back up the field to the house. She stands still for a time, her hand pressed to her side, feeling her heart thump. No-one is watching. it’s alright to have a rest.

     You ought to go to the doctor, he says, that’s what we pay our taxes for.

     I will, she says.

     You won’t.

     Back in the kitchen she takes one egg out of the bucket, lowers it into a bowl. The second egg slips from her fingers and cracks against the side. The yolk slides out spreading over the dresser. Stupid thing, she says, her face twisting. Sam! she says and pushes the egg, shiny yellow and gelatinous over the edge of the dresser, Sam! A very small old grey whiskery dog shuffles out of its basket and sets off towards the back door.

     Here! she says. Egg.

     It looks up at her. Old fool, she says, it’s egg. There! She pushes the dog with one foot on its rump. It resents this with a feeble snarl until it smells egg. Clear it up, she says, clear it all up nicely now.

     The dog licks, leaving a clean red patch on the tiles. You ought to get rid of that dog, he says. Comes a time.

     He enjoys life, she says.

     Put it out of its misery. Can’t see, can’t hear, it can hardly walk.

     He hears me. Sam! You hear me don’t you?

     No use me talking to you, you don’t take a blind bit of notice. Stubborn. Please yourself.

     I might as well, she says.

     Purse! she says suddenly. Mrs Robson will be round for the pension book in the morning, better have it ready. She scrabbles in the kitchen drawer, She finds newspaper cuttings, jampot covers, folded paper bags, dried up pens, but no purse. Then she remembers. there was a noise in the night, one night last week it must have been and she had been frightened.

     You didn’t ought to be by yourself, he said, anyone could break in.

     There’s nothing to steal, she said bravely, they’re welcome to what they can find.

     There’s your pension, he said. What do you want to leave it there for? First place anyone would look,

     So she had taken the purse from the kitchen drawer and put it in the desk where Bens papers still lived. Then she had moved it to the bathroom cupboard. They wouldn’t look for it there would they?

     It takes her some time to get up the stairs and when she gets there the purse isn’t in the cupboard.

     You’ll be forgetting your own head next, she scolds.

     She’s getting very forgetful, he says. Puts things down and can’t remember where she’s put them, goes into the larder for one thing and comes out with another. Know what I found in the larder the other day? The telphone directory! I said, I bet you were looking for this Mum!

     I knew where I’d put it, she said, I remember perfectly well,

     But she can’t remember where she has put her purse.

     It’ll turn up, she says. Things turn up. No good worrying,

     But she wakes in the night worrying. Not fit, he says. You’re not fit.

     Shopping bag! she says suddenly out loud in the dark. She sticks her bent, discoloured toes over the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers. She shuffles to the landing. Half way down the stairs whe slips. Her legs are up the stairs, her head is on the floor, resting on the newspaper she spread to keep the hall lino dry, There is a pain in her back. She shifts to get herself into a more comfortable position, but there doesn’t seem to be a more comfortable position. She can feel blood on her face, it is dripping on to the newspaper.

     Oh he will be angry with me, she says, oh he will be cross with me! She weeps childishly with pain and shame.

     Mrs Robson calls after breakfast to collect the pension book. No one answers her ring. She peers through the glass panel, she calls musically through the letterbox, Coo-ee! Anyone at home?

     Sam barks and scratches at the door.

     I was worried about her, says Mrs Robson. So I broke the glass. I hope I did the right thing?

     Of course, he says. It was a mercy you came round.

     There she was! Halfway down the stairs head first. She must have been there for hours, And when I found her I said, Oh Mrs Erscolme. I said, What have you been up to? And do you know what she said? She said, I’m all right, I was just having a read of the paper!

     Mrs Robson laughs. I shouldn’t laugh, I know, poor old soul. blood all over, couldn’t move hand or foot, imagine! I’m just having a read of the paper! Well she’ll be all right now, she’ll be well looked after.