Piece by Piece

Today start writing with no thought about what form the material will take, Or, select material you already have and try it out in another form. Pick from short story, poem, essay, performance monologue, creative non-fiction, children's story.

Saturday 19th May 2007

Vera:
I can see the Home Help in her car outside the flat, chatting on her mobile phone. It's a little red car and it's dirty. Some hope of her keeping my front room clean if she can't even wash her own car, lazy trollop. They're all the same, these women, with names like Sandra and Carol. Badly cut hair, ill-fitting jeans, dish-pan hands. No idea how to clean a room properly. The council sends them one after the other. She won't clean the windows right, either. They can't go up ladders to dust the top of the curtains. Won't change the winter velvets for summer chintz. Won't do this, can't do that. How am I supposed to have pride in my home if they won't help me?
She's laughing now, throwing her head back and showing her teeth. A friend, then, or maybe she's flirting. Not her husband. I've seen him in the corner shop. He's a lout. All stained vest and tins of strong lager. He couldn't make her laugh like that. Someone else, she's blushing. I can see that even through the nets. Trollop.

Trish:
The phone rang as I pulled up outside the old lady's flat. I dread going in, the constant criticism, she follows me round looking out for mistakes, a bit missed, a smear of windolene. She once even put a tenner under the hearth rug. A test, you see. I handed it back and she was furious. I could have done with that tenner but my job's not worth it. Our Tony's out of work again, we're up against it. He was ringing to say he's seen a job in the paper, he'd rung for an interview and was going this afternoon. He read out a story about a man from some eastern European country who'd tried to rob a bank and queued in his balaclava, too stupid to push to the front. I laughed and laughed till I was pink in the face. Tony can tell a good story, he always cracks me up, he has done since we were fifteen and started going out after school. He works hard, he's been doing a bit of painting on the side for Mr Jones at number 30, just upstairs from here. A little bit of cash. Mr Jones is on his own now since Betty died. Tony feels sorry for him and sometimes takes him a few beers, sits and has a chat for some company. He's a good man, my Tony. Well, I'd better get in and see what Mrs Pearce wants doing today. She doesn't even know my name, or pretends she doesn't. You can't feel sorry for someone like her, she's bad to the core. Bitter. I keep going though, because all the other girls have been scared off. There's only me puts up with the old bat.

Vera:
Here she comes, that woman. I think I'll complain to the council again. She was sitting there a full five minutes before she decided to come in. That's five minutes she could have been washing my ornaments. She's bright and loud, that woman. Too cheerful. Too much chat. She could be getting on with something instead of chatting to me. I don't want her company, I want her to clean. She can warm up that pie I bought in Tesco before she goes, and put a few peas on with it. I'm going to drop some money in her bag - then she'll have to steal it. They won't send her back then. She smells of bleach, I can't stand it. I'm going to ask for someone new.

Trish:
I tried to cheer Mrs Pearce up. I chatted about the weather and Tony's sweet peas, I said I'd take her a bunch next week, make the place smell a bit better maybe. And I told about some of her neighbours, friends of my Mam's that she might know, just how they were getting on, you know. I know she must be lonely and she doesn't go far, but she doesn't want to know. Just wants to stay inside, twitching the nets, stroking that awful cat. The cat has fleas again. I brought some drops from the pet shop and squeezed them onto his skinny neck when Mrs Pearce was in the bathroom, checking I'd done the taps properly. Poor old lady, she has bites on her legs and they look sore. She thinks it's shingles. I daren't tell her it's fleas or she'll go mad. I might mention it to the supervisor, the health visitor should look at them.

Vera:
The house is too quiet now. The cat smells funny, and there's a greasy patch on his neck. Maybe some cleaning liquid fell onto him when that woman was here yesterday. I rang the council and complained. I told them she was late and is having an affair with someone. I told them her husband drinks. I told them she steals. I told them I don't want their help any more, I'd rather get by alone. She wouldn't even warm my pie, I'll do it myself later. It's been there three days now, it'll spoil if I don't get it eaten.
A health visitor came by, said I've got an ulcer on my leg, I can't see properly so how was I to know? She said the cat rubbing against it was making it worse. I should keep it covered up. She stole from me too. I tucked a five pound note into her coat pocket when she hung it on the back of the kitchen door. She didn't give it back. She left bandages and sticky white tape. I threw them out. I don't want her charity. Meddling so-and-so. Do-gooders, all of them. I'm not going to answer the door next time.

Trish:
There was only me, Tony and the health visitor at the crematorium. No family, no friends. So sad. She wouldn't have me back after the incident with the pie. She asked me to warm it up and I told her I wasn't allowed to heat food - rules and regulations get me down, they spoil everything. I offered to slice it onto a plate, it was chicken and ham, would have been nicer cold. I offered to rinse a bit of lettuce, slice a tomato and some cucumber, make a nice lunch. But no, she would do it herself. She glared at me and shouted at me to leave. She must have turned on the gas and forgotten to light it. Mr Jones upstairs smelt gas at ten o'clock and called the gas board, but it was too late. She had a weak heart, the doctor said, she had infections in the bites on her legs, she wasn't long for this world anyway. But I'm sad she's gone. She was an old battleaxe but she was just a sad, lonely woman. Outside in the bright sun, Mr Jones was waiting by the wall. He'd always admired Vera, he said, a feisty woman, a looker in her youth.

Vera:
That pie would have been lovely. I turned the knob for the gas, the spark button doesn't work any more. When I bent down with the match, I saw stars and just keeled over sideways. I lay there for a bit, the cat rubbing its furry back against my face. I felt sick, then tired, then dizzy... those sweet peas look lovely in that white jug. I can smell them down here.