Mrs Bun

Beryl has called. She says she spoke to me already today. Did she? I don't remember. She reminded me of...something's happening today. I can't remember what she said. Oh well, I'm sure I'll find out later.

My back's hurting today. And I'm worried about the noises. What am I going to do if the house falls in?

Shall I make myself some tea? Yes, I will. Oh, what's that? The doorbell? Who could that be? I'm not expecting anyone, am I?

Now, there's something I need to do before I open the door - what is it? I can see my shape in the window as I reach for the latch: I'm round like one of those fossils, an ammonite, all curled in on myself. And there's something of the bird about me in my frailty, my light bones. I barely recognise myself anymore, I'm so little.

Beryl stuck a note on the door on a bright yellow square to remind me what I need to do before opening the door. It says:

MUM (in capitals)

DON'T OPEN THE DOOR

Pull the curtain back on the side window and look to see who it is before letting them in. Don't open it unless you know them!

I pull the curtain back on the side window and peer out. There's a young woman and she's smiling at me. Who's this? I'm sure I don't know. She looks nice enough. Very young. Smiley.

She's got a badge. What does it say? Age Concern. Did Beryl say something to me about that this morning? It seems to ring a bell.

I'm not sure what this woman wants. I can't leave her there. I look at her a bit longer, raising my eyebrows, a little smirk on my face, nothing too inviting but she's not going anywhere.

She looks a bit uncertain, like I'm letting her down, leaving her there.

I'd better open the door.

"Hello, Mrs Bun! How are you?"

Well, she seems to know me. I look at her. She's looking expectant. She's still holding up her badge.

"It's Rachel. From Age Concern? I was here last week?"

Was she? She don't look familiar to me but then I am very forgetful nowadays. I am old, in my eighties now and a widow. Beryl's my only daughter and she's very good but she lives somewhere else now, I can't remember where, although she's a good girl. She phones a lot, bless her. It's a village, where Beryl lives. She comes to see me in the car.

I look closely at this woman, girl really and I can see that she wants to come in, although she's a little unsure if she's welcome, I think. I hope she's not a talker. I can't hear people's conversation very well now and I don't have many visitors. I suppose she'll be a distraction from that man next door drilling into my cellar. I've told Beryl about it but I can tell she doesn't believe me.

"Come in," I say and turn to shuffle in, pulling my cardy 'round my shoulders. It's chilly out there.

I sit down in my chair and I gesture for her to sit. I suppose I ought to offer her something to drink. I think I've eaten all the biscuits. They're easy, you see, and I can suck them down to mush or dunk in my tea and they don't hurt my gums. I like their sweetness too and I don't have to worry about my figure nowadays, like I used to.

I'm close to the fire. Beryl worries about me and the fire but I can't not use it. I get ever so cold.

I can't move about much and Beryl does my shopping. She's a good girl. There's others too, help. Belong to Beryl. Young 'uns. One of them, their name begins with R. Did her name begin with R? What did she say it was?

"How have you been, Mrs Bun?"

She has an earnest expression like she really wants to know. I don't have anything to tell her though. I tell her about the man next door and his drilling.

She nods and leans in like she's all interested so I tell her about how he wants to use the space under my house. She's looking at me intently and I tell her about how worried I am but also, how dare he? I don't know what I can do to stop him!

"Yes, that's a worry," she says. She understands, I can see. She knows I'm right.

I can hear the drilling now, while I'm talking to her. I'll ask her if she can hear it too. If she can't, she must have worse hearing than mine.

She cocks her head to one side and her face shows that she is concentrating, listening intently, but I can tell that she's not hearing it like I am. I wonder if I'm like one of those dogs and his tools are like those special whistles they use to bring 'em back, on a different frequency. He must have tuned them so only I can hear them, to disguise what he's doing.

"He might just be putting pictures up or shelves," she says.

I don't like it. I don't like it at all! What if the house falls in? I ask her this and she reassures me that she doesn't think that that would happen but she doesn't look like she'd know a lot about building to me.

I'm starting to get annoyed now. That man next door needs to be stopped.

"How's your back, Mrs Bun?"

My back gives me a lot of pain. I tell her about how I'm in pain. Maybe it's on my face. I tell her about my curved spine, about how I was run over by a cart when I was younger and how I'm lucky to be able to walk! I tell her about a steel rod I've got. You can see it at the top of my back. She is sitting as attentively as before and nodding. I like to tell the story of my back. I'm a walking wonder! She doesn't seem too surprised by this. Beryl says that I repeat myself but it's nice when young people come to visit and I don't see many folks.

I wonder if I'll see this young girl again? What did she say her name was? Perhaps Beryl will know. I'll ask her when she calls.

"I've got to go now, Mrs Bun."

I look at the clock. She's only been here five minutes but the clock says it's been over an hour. I'll have to get Beryl to check the clock. I don't look at it that often. Days are long. I don't need to worry about time. I'm not going anywhere.

"I can only stay an hour this week, Mrs Bun. But I'll see you next week, same time. I'll tell Age Concern I've been and they'll let Beryl know."

Has she been before then? She must have. She wouldn't say that otherwise. And she knows Beryl. Beryl must have sent her.

She's by the door now.

"I'll mention the drilling too, Mrs Bun. Try not to worry yourself."

I will worry. She knows about the man next door and the drilling. I tell her, he's trying to get into my cellar. He might not stop at mine! He might dig a tunnel under all our houses and then we'll all be lost! It's not nice not feeling safe in your own home!

She smiles at me, towering over little old me, and says, "He might just be putting pictures up or shelves," as I open the door with its chain and turn the catch with my crooked old fingers and she steps out, letting the cold in.

He's not but I don't answer her. They all think I'm mad. But he's up to something.

"I'll be off then. Close the door, keep the warm in. And take care."

She's right. I should keep the warm in because I get ever so cold. I say "Bye, duck" and close the door. All I can hear is drilling.

I wonder who she was?