draped in fuchsia pink silk reclined on her antique chaise longue with a glass of scotch in her hand, thinking about suffragettes and missing brothers and the glory of the English upper-classes.
As Kerstin climbs the stairs, she feels the tension ease from her shoulders. She is always polite to Clarissa but she wishes she didnât have to deal with the constant threat of disturbance. Yet she pities the old lady; after all, there must be some reason why she grasps hold of people the way she does and off-loads her stories in an incessant stream of consciousness. She talks rapidly, without drawing breath, like she has just been rescued from solitary confinement and must tell her rescuer everything, all at once.
One evening, after a particularly trying day at work, Kerstin had returned home and started to scrub the flat from top to bottom, furiously trying to atone with bottles of bleach and wire wool for whatever mistake she had made that day. She scrubbed so hard, the skin on her hands started to crack and blisters formed on the tips of her fingers, but she didnât care, she had to keep going or everything would fall apart. She was kneeling in the middle of the floor, squirting Flash Multi-Surface Cleaner onto the tiles when there was a knock at the door and there stood Clarissa armed with a bottle of Tanqueray Gin and a thick, white book.
âSome photos of Mummy and her friends in the WSPU, thought you might like to see,â she trilled.
Kerstin had almost pushed the old lady out of the door, telling her she was very sorry but now wasnât a good time. Clarissa had looked at her quizzically, possibly noting Kerstinâs red face and breathlessness; then she had smiled. âOh, youâve got a gentleman caller,â she shrieked, clapping her hands together. âWell done, darling. Oh, I do miss all that. Iâm afraid my days of making love and dancing naked are over. All I have left are my memories.â She had tapped her forehead and winked at Kerstin as she turned to go. âTatty bye, dear,â she had trilled as she walked away. âAnd donât forget to take precautions, there are so many nasty diseases nowadays.â
The phantom boyfriend had provided Kerstin with a good few months of excuses as to why she needed privacy. As she passed Clarissa in the hallway each morning, the old lady would smile knowingly at her and ask after her âgentleman friendâ. âYou shall have to come and have tea with me one Sunday afternoon,â she would say. But Kerstin always found an excuse: the boyfriend was away on a business trip; he worked weekends; he had been hospitalised with acute appendicitis. It certainly stopped Clarissa from making any more night time visits to the second floor, though sometimes Kerstin would hear faint footsteps on the landing outside the flat.
Then, six months ago Clarissa had fallen in the street on her way to the post office and broken her ankle. Now reliant on a walking stick, the stairs are strictly out of bounds though she still manages to wedge herself into the desperately narrowlift to go down to the communal laundry room in the basement. Kerstin wonders if Clarissa should be living on her own; surely she needs extra care now, a nursing home with plenty of people to tell her stories to. But no, Clarissa told her, she would leave Old Church Street in a box and not a moment before, so she remains in her flat ruling the ground floor like some elderly gate-keeper, resplendent in her silk headscarf and jewelled Moroccan Slippers.
Kerstin crosses the first-floor landing, past Flat 2, now empty after being bought a year ago by a Russian businessman for his socialite daughter who decided it was too small. Clarissa is furious that it hasnât been put up for sale yet but Kerstin likes the fact that the first floor is unoccupied â it makes her feel safe.
At last, she reaches the second floor. She is tired and hungry but she must get
As Kerstin climbs the stairs, she feels the tension ease from her shoulders. She is always polite to Clarissa but she wishes she didnât have to deal with the constant threat of disturbance. Yet she pities the old lady; after all, there must be some reason why she grasps hold of people the way she does and off-loads her stories in an incessant stream of consciousness. She talks rapidly, without drawing breath, like she has just been rescued from solitary confinement and must tell her rescuer everything, all at once.
One evening, after a particularly trying day at work, Kerstin had returned home and started to scrub the flat from top to bottom, furiously trying to atone with bottles of bleach and wire wool for whatever mistake she had made that day. She scrubbed so hard, the skin on her hands started to crack and blisters formed on the tips of her fingers, but she didnât care, she had to keep going or everything would fall apart. She was kneeling in the middle of the floor, squirting Flash Multi-Surface Cleaner onto the tiles when there was a knock at the door and there stood Clarissa armed with a bottle of Tanqueray Gin and a thick, white book.
âSome photos of Mummy and her friends in the WSPU, thought you might like to see,â she trilled.
Kerstin had almost pushed the old lady out of the door, telling her she was very sorry but now wasnât a good time. Clarissa had looked at her quizzically, possibly noting Kerstinâs red face and breathlessness; then she had smiled. âOh, youâve got a gentleman caller,â she shrieked, clapping her hands together. âWell done, darling. Oh, I do miss all that. Iâm afraid my days of making love and dancing naked are over. All I have left are my memories.â She had tapped her forehead and winked at Kerstin as she turned to go. âTatty bye, dear,â she had trilled as she walked away. âAnd donât forget to take precautions, there are so many nasty diseases nowadays.â
The phantom boyfriend had provided Kerstin with a good few months of excuses as to why she needed privacy. As she passed Clarissa in the hallway each morning, the old lady would smile knowingly at her and ask after her âgentleman friendâ. âYou shall have to come and have tea with me one Sunday afternoon,â she would say. But Kerstin always found an excuse: the boyfriend was away on a business trip; he worked weekends; he had been hospitalised with acute appendicitis. It certainly stopped Clarissa from making any more night time visits to the second floor, though sometimes Kerstin would hear faint footsteps on the landing outside the flat.
Then, six months ago Clarissa had fallen in the street on her way to the post office and broken her ankle. Now reliant on a walking stick, the stairs are strictly out of bounds though she still manages to wedge herself into the desperately narrowlift to go down to the communal laundry room in the basement. Kerstin wonders if Clarissa should be living on her own; surely she needs extra care now, a nursing home with plenty of people to tell her stories to. But no, Clarissa told her, she would leave Old Church Street in a box and not a moment before, so she remains in her flat ruling the ground floor like some elderly gate-keeper, resplendent in her silk headscarf and jewelled Moroccan Slippers.
Kerstin crosses the first-floor landing, past Flat 2, now empty after being bought a year ago by a Russian businessman for his socialite daughter who decided it was too small. Clarissa is furious that it hasnât been put up for sale yet but Kerstin likes the fact that the first floor is unoccupied â it makes her feel safe.
At last, she reaches the second floor. She is tired and hungry but she must get
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