Chapter 2

Chapter 2 by Tom

The 32 bus pulls over at the corner of Alexandra Road. I step down onto the damp, familiar paving stones which shimmer in the pale early evening light. I usually hate the rain, but tonight I don’t even think to take out the half-broken Jaeger umbrella nana bought me a few Christmases ago. I spent all afternoon doing everything I could to get rid of the nauseous feeling triggered by the incident with Mr Heath – I relabelled the china with the new hospice branded price stickers Mrs Rodgers ordered in, dusted the ornaments several times and even chatted to some of the elderly customers. But now as I approach my house, disarmed by tiredness, I feel the thoughts that I tried to push away during the afternoon begin to resurface.

'How’s your day been, dear?’ nana says, smiling as she hobbles out into the hallway with her apron on.

'Oh, nothing special' I say in a monotone, dropping my Dior handbag on the tiled floor in the hallway and nudging it under the stairs with my foot, as I begin to peel off my sodden jacket. 

'Something will come your way soon'. I look up and she nods her head and smiles at me.                                                                                                                                                                   

'I hope so' I say as I begin to climb the stairs.

I collapse onto my bed with a loud sigh, turning over onto my back to stare at the white ceiling. It becomes a kind of a projection canvas which my thoughts flicker upon.

I see Nev and I walking along Alexandra Road under the cherry blossom trees on a warm late April day. I see my college self. I am walking up the steps to the stage to collect a joint award with my friend Josie for the category of Dress Designer of the Year at the college fashion awards ceremony. I hear our names announced and the cheers from the crowd. I hear Francis Jacobs tells me 'You know you’ve got so much potential. You should be looking to get yourself into one of the graduate training programs with Valentino or McQueen'. I remember the confidence that night gave me. Then I remember nana’s voice on the phone at the start of my final semester: 'Can you come home dear, as we need to talk to you about something?' She didn’t sound like herself.

I swing my legs around onto the floor and raise my body into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I reach over to the dressing table and pick up a photograph. The photograph is of a woman in her late forties. She is sitting in a French cafe. She is smiling and her thick, brown hair shines in the sunlight. This is how I like to remember her, not as the gaunt woman in the pink headscarf.  'If only I still had you here to talk to, mum' I say, as tears fill my eyes.