Protecting Angela

Elsie would not approve of Angela. Truth be told, there was a great deal that Elsie didn’t approve of, god rest her. I reckon Angela would have met with a particular look though. I picture her; lips pursed, eyes widening and a slight shake of the head as Angela sweeps past, skirt swishing around her bare legs.

Angela never felt the force of Elsie’s disapproval, of course, as Elsie will have been gone two years this October and Angela only moved into the street six months ago. Six months of blue eye shadow, red lipstick and creamy white cleavage passing up and down the street several times a day. Six months of my old heart quickening at the clipclop of high heels on pavement. Then she turns into the street and from the bedroom window I watch as she sashays – the perfect word for how she moves, that – along, gives a casual glance left and right for cars and crosses to the house opposite. My can’t-be-trusted-eyes drop to her swaying bottom before Elsie’s exasperated voice in my head reprimands me. Angela swings her front door shut behind her and I’m left reeling from guilt and giddy teenage-like excitement.

Once the door’s shut the shouting begins. Loud and angry from him and desperate and defensive from her. Then other noises – bangs and crashes and crying.

Out for my early morning constitutional last week – I don’t seem to need much sleep these days – her sat on her front step, shivering in the damp morning air, a lit cigarette between her shivering fingers. She looks up at me and smiles, teeth chattering and tear-streaks through her make-up. She touches her hand to her eye, swollen purple and red.

“Walked into a cupboard door,” she says, with a half-laugh, before I can speak. “I’m so clumsy.”

“He’s no good for you. Leave him. Move in with me. I’ll look after you, my dear.” I don’t say any of this.

“Best be more careful around them doors,” I tell her instead, more gruffly than I mean to.

She nods, gives a quick smile, and then looks down at the ground. My hand moves as if to touch her hair and reassure her - it’s all going to be fine. But when she looks up, both hands are firmly on my walking stick. She looks at me – it feels like a long time – we both say nothing. She stubs out her cigarette on the step and stares off down the street. She doesn’t look up as I move slowly away.

I fantasise of confronting him, of pinning him against the wall with my walking stick and telling him never to hurt her again or he’ll be sorry. I try to imagine him cowering and apologising and begging me not to hurt him but reality is too strong and even in my dream, he laughs as he rips the stick out of my hands and throws it away and in the end it’s me that’s sorry.