Terra Firma

Angel responded to the calling bell with a rattle of the latch, tilting it to the particular angle that would allow it to open. She stepped aside behind the security of the safety latch, her hand waving up to switch on the light on the verandah. I wondered who else was inside the house. The softly lit warmth of the interior walls were a welcome contrast to the dark slimy surfaces of the outside. Two elderly neighbours warmed the house from the sides and soon I would hear the enquiring voices on the intruder. They had seen better days of their lives when I used to spend hours on end, talking to her father about the philosophies of life and what not. Her mother could hardly recognise my appearance or even my voice. I was coming back after a long time.

Angel must have kept her mind occupied by the happier details of my returning after a long gap. She walked along the hall and into the kitchen, signalling me to follow her. She lifted the carry- bag, I had brought, onto the worktop and reached for the kettle. Standing in the centre of the room, in her loose house-coat, she listened to the sound of the splattering rain outside.

All the ghosts that had been running through the rooms were now slipping reluctantly back into the walls! While its inhabitants moved in and out, the house stayed still, preserving pockets of time in dusty corners. The blue-colored curtains falling down the bedroom walls, a water-colour sun and clouds hiding behind a fitted wardrobe, a dent in a table, a crack in a mirror, were all passing moments etched into the physical world, like voices pressed into vinyl.

Her son was now working in a foreign country and her husband away on a conducted pilgrim tour.

Through the window I could still see the rough shrubs of blood-red hibiscus outlining the uncared garden. The potted cacti had grown up beyond recognition. The fuzzy grey shapes of a rusting frame overflowed with a grandmother orchid. The compost heap at the far end was obviously unattended. A scruffy fence lent drunkenly one way then the other, while a brutally straight line of five-foot high bricked wall marked the other side of the territory. Anti-cat/dog measures (minefields, tripwires perhaps) lay waiting beyond.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Angel came back, smiling, with a cup and saucer in hand. She unlocked the door leading a cat that padded in, drawing figures of eight around her feet represented by muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor. The kettle worked itself towards a crescendo, beads of perspiration appeared on its sides and it shook violently unable to contain the bubbling pressure inside. The shrill noise finished as the stove was turned itself off by the same slender fingers.

Angel reached up to the top cupboards for the tea jar and bent down for those that contained the mugs. Here she paused, confused by the vast number of assorted cup, mugs and beakers that stared blankly back at her. Why did she have so many? Where had they come from? She sighed as she straightened pulling out a standard shaped mug with handle; colour - light blue; design - three letters emblazoned in gold, Y A M.

She took off her shoulder drape and laid it over the back of a kitchen chair and sat down. She let her feet slip out of her slippers and raised them onto the fitted bench across the other side of the table. Above the bench were shelves supporting decorative plates in wire stands, a London Tower mug, Burj Al Arab mug (more mugs!), and a collection of photographs showing her at various concerts at different parts of the world stood framed in the crockery cabinet. To me, she still looked the image of a perfectly sculpted woman. She is still beautiful, even after all these years!