Portraits of hatred 3

“I 'ate em”
she said.

I felt sorry for her
as she sat
in the corner of the sofa
frail, vulnerable and drawn
an old nightie hanging off her

It seemed that she’d hated everyone
over the years
including the neighbours
who were now her lifeline

“There’s too many of 'em.

They come over 'ere
and take everything.

Take. Take. Take.
But they won’t take a job”

The cigarette
in the corner of her mouth
bounced as she spoke

But the ash never fell
until it was meant to

“None of 'em ‘ll 'ave work.
But they want our pensions.

And that bloody 'ospital’s full of 'em”

I wasn’t sure
whether she meant
the waiting room
or the consulting room

It didn’t seem to matter

The cigarette had
become a limb
in the sixty years
she had smoked
It moved as a reflex
and glowed in her unconscious

I asked her
how the nurses were treating her

“Oh, they’re bloody marvellous.
So 'appy-go-lucky and gentle.

But where’s all the English ones?”

She was a good Catholic
In filial commitment at least
Educated by the Church
though she rarely entered one now

“Look at that nosey bugger over there”

A man was parking his car in the street

“Always minding other people’s business.

Bugger off!

Where’s your bloody wife then?
Heh, heh.

She buggered off and left him.

I don’t blame her.
He never struck a bat”

I said I thought it might have been the priest
She was always grateful for his visits
but couldn’t understand why the Last Rites
were now Sacrament of the Sick

“Only problem with 'em is they stink.

I don’t like 'em touching me.
They’re mucky.
Never wash.

Aaaaah!”

She almost spat with contempt
but the ash held

As I rose to leave
I felt pity

What had all those
years of hating given her?