Number 148

a new short story for you. as ever let me know what you think.

Number 148

                                                            Gen Webster

The walk from the station up through the throng of busy shoppers took a good twenty minutes and she turned the corner to find trees and light traffic. The going was easier downhill and there it was on her left. It was no longer a family home for the well-to-do but given over to house the almost homeless. The garden, overgrown with weeds, and cursory attention paid to the grassy area leading up to the verandah.

What would she find behind the tall olive-green door of the tall Victorian house, set well back from the road, with brass numbers glowing against the paintwork.

Viva stepped onto the verandah that spring morning and despite the chill in the air, sweat poured from her armpits and trickled down to her palms that she vainly tried to dry on her jeans. A childhood ditty came to mind about “see the man over there with a stripe down his pants…” performed by the child without a hanky to wipe her nose. She thought it would help to calm her building anxiety of the need to find a place to belong.

The doorbell was right there, if she didn’t press it, she could go away without experiencing rejection or the humiliation of asking for help in the first place.

Water dripped from her fingers, and she wished that she had chosen something cooler to wear. Chance would be a fine thing.

Desperately now, she rubbed her hands viciously against her thighs which were now damp with sweat, her jeans sticking to her skin. She lifted her index finger to press the bell and withdrew it hastily before it rang.

Why don’t you just stay where you are for now, she berated herself. It’s not that bad except that I don’t feel at home there in the little room with not much daylight and no company. If only I could open the window and have fresh air instead of the drone of the air conditioner that gobbles the electricity. This place might be different; it has plenty of large windows and perhaps one could be mine. I wouldn’t mind the walk to work, and it is somewhere different from other places I’ve lived. Just press the bell… is it too early, I want to be on time but have a habit of turning up way too early and having to mark time before the meeting.

Her watch said it was five minutes to go. Wiping her palms again and resolving to press the bell, she once more lifted her finger and heard the muted tinkle from within. Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, too late to run away now. She faced the door as the footsteps came closer.

A chain rattled and a bolt withdrawn; deadlock unlatched and finally the massive door opened to reveal a set of stairs to upper levels and an incongruous chandelier hanging down into the double-height space. A face followed and Viva, despite sweaty palms and convoluted nerves, thought it only polite to offer her hand in greeting.