A Visitor

A Visitor

I ’M SITTING ON

the floor cushion, organizing the bookshelf. Yesterday we received fifty-two Mills and Boon books posthumously donated on behalf of a Mrs Hill. As I shelve them, I wonder if Mrs Hill was embarrassed about owning these books – perhaps her family members found them stashed under her bed after she died. Or perhaps they were on display in a nice cabinet in the dining room for all her family and friends to see as they supped their tomato soup from the sides of spoons, the blue spines barely containing the big-bosomed duchesses and handsome dukes within.

All done, I dust my hands together and begin to think about the multi-stage process of getting up from the floor.

As I’m halfway up, I put my hands on the windowsill and spot her outside. Beaking at a piece of loose paint. She raises her head. Eyes sharp and clever. Staring into mine. An almost imperceptible wink.

‘Hello,’ I whisper. ‘So, you’re a blackbird today, are you?’