The conversation ended. She held the phone by her side and swayed, it was replaying again and again on a continuous loop like some shanty-town, fairground music and broken accordions. Her fingers were gently running her woollen, burgundy jumper over the elbow and back again, feeling each delicate thread and its frays. She switched off the landing light and lowered herself onto the top stair, looking down to the front door at the end of the hallway. The occasional car’s headlights would drive against the patterned glass window, streaming the light across the mustard walls before the hall returned to darkness. Her eyes followed the streams as they came, reached out to her left and grasped onto the spindle, twisting her fist slowly around the varnished wood. The other hand still held the phone tight; thinking and waiting.
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Before she went upstairs, she was clearing the living room table, binning the crumpled-up tissue and the litter of scattered crumbs from the empty packet of biscuits, but she saved the crossword. Everything else in the living room was left as it was, untidy sheets and marks on the wooden floor, they could always be cleaned and tidied later; usually after some nagging. “Don’t worry mother, I’ll do it later” she said, right now she had more important things on her mind.
The cold reality was slowly seeping in through the cracks in the walls, whisping around their faces and she suddenly noticed the stale smell of the living room. She quickly returned from the kitchen with a fresh, frosted gold bowl with new forest-oak potpourri in the hope that it’d mask the old air with new scents, on the off chance that they would have any visitors. On the mantelpiece was a cut-glass vase filled with a few remaining lilies from a beautiful bunch bought about a week ago. The stems were looking a little weak and lightly bending, the petals curling at the edges and browning, despite the fact that she’d fed and cleaned out the water every other day. She walked towards them and inspected them though careful not to touch, pausing, feeling an overwhelming will to nurture them. But the incessant reminder from her mother was nagging in her head “Now, don’t touch the stamen, if you get it on your hands and get it on your clothes, it won’t come out.”
“Yes, mother,” she thought and crossed her arms. The pollen drops had scattered, leaving an orange dusting on the dark-wood mantelpiece. Without thinking, she instinctively went to wipe it away with her index finger realising soon after that she’d now smudged the mantelpiece and also stained her finger. She panicked, she froze and inhaled slowly. As she exhaled she whispered to herself “act, natural”. She matter-of-factly turned round to smile at her mother to cover up the accident. Fortunately, mother hadn’t seen. Her smile faded, she rolled her eyes and let out a little sigh of relief. Returning her attention back to the lilies, she felt a feeling of hopelessness. The grand, swirled-patterned mirror above the mantelpiece became such an inconvenience. The wilted flowers were exposed from every angle, making them ugly, making the room ugly. There was no hope and no point in staying with them for any longer. She walked towards the door and dimmed the central lights rotating them slowly until they clicked off, shut the door behind her and quietly made her way upstairs, leaving everything as it was.
She was still twisting her hand around the spindle and staring down at the front door and hallway. The flowers filled her mind. She’d followed the guidelines and looked after them as well as she could, it’d be a shame to replace them so soon. Perhaps, if she were to dry them out, she could press them and keep them; maybe frame them. It would probably take a few goes to be able to master the craft, but surely there would be a way to preserve them. Even if it was just one lily, it’d be worth it. She reminded herself to buy some new flowers the next time she was out, and a book on flower pressing and all the kit she needed. And maybe, ask the shop assistant for their advice. The imaginary conversation between herself and the shop assistant soon descended into the earlier conversation on the phone, jerking around her mind like a cheap, fairground ride. She’d much rather have thought about the dead flowers. She held the phone close to her ear and pressed the ‘call’ button to block her thoughts with the low buzzing of the telephone line. She closed her eyes and listened carefully, immersing herself in the single tone.
It was unclear how much time had actually passed, but her eyes opened to four, sharp knocks at the front door. She let go of the spindle, left the phone on the top stair and made her way down, pushing her feet hard into the floor and her palms into the mustard walls. She reached the bottom and stammered towards the door, turned the key, took the latch off and opened it a little, two men in black suits and buttoned overcoats standing at the front porch.
“Good evening, is this the correct address?” The shorter man asked. The eyes of the taller man pierced grey in the night. She was crouched behind the door and nodded as her eyes drifted off to the large vehicle that they had parked at the end of the drive. The taller interrupted, “May we come in?” Her eyes darted back to the two men, she opened the door slightly and they edged inside without wiping their feet. The three of them stood awkwardly in the hallway, the two men looking at the girl and she, staring at the floor. “Shall we wait a moment?” The shorter man said. She shut herself in the living room and reached around for the dimmer switch, rotated it slowly until the bulbs begin to glow. The clock was faintly ticking. She approached her mother and wished her goodnight, her fingers reaching out to touch her face and left a faint orange mark on her cheek.