OLD WOMEN OF THE WEST IN THIS AGE OF CERTAINTY
- Jun 6
- 1 min read
By Carol Elva Greenwell
Sibyll is still lying. Still in bed. She has not gone
to the kitchen, made tea, logged on, sent and read
emails, for a fortnight. She has not rung any
of her daughters. Fiona has added both of her
sisters’ numbers to Sibyll’s speed-dial. Not her own.
Catherine is lying at the bottom of the stairs, left
leg at a daft angle, the guilty feline draped across
her silent breast. The others haunt their empty bowls
and ‘go’ elsewhere, than amongst the litter mounds
that have accumulated since they were left alone.
Alice is lying in the lovely garden she and Louise
chose for its seclusion. No one can see us, Lou
would coax, as she stroked Alice’s modest body
to climax, despite Alice’s protests. When Lou
died, her children told Alice to ‘keep in touch’.
Rose is lying in the hospital morgue, undemanding
as ever. She never listed either of her sons as her
next-of-kin, although they were. She had no wish
to be a nuisance between those rare and precious
visits. They’ll be cross with her now, no doubt.
Each one of these women is lying. They’re really sitting
around Friday’s bridge table. They have invented their death
narratives, and placed wagers on who will wait longest before
someone notices they have not been in touch and contacts them.
Odds are on Rose ‘winning’. Quite a tidy sum is at stake.