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A FEW LOCAL LADIES stopped by with a basket of goodies from businesses in town. Don’t ask me their names—I’ve forgotten already. Four of them. Older ladies. Funny how I say “older ladies” when, in truth, they’re probably around my age.
Everyone just seems older, out here. Must be the harsh winters: harsh winters and parched, sand-blown summers. They age a person, if you stick around long enough.
The seasons have certainly taken a toll on my Welcome Wagon.
I invited them in for tea. Not enough seating in the living room for all five of us. Three on the old chesterfield, one on the wingback. I had to drag a wooden chair in from the kitchen so I could sit, too. I don’t have a coffee table, so we had to hold our teacups. Amazingly, I had five of those. I found them in the attic. They’d belonged to my grandmother, believe it or not. Got stashed away years ago.
Stashed away, long forgotten.
I’ll need to get my hands on some furniture, somehow. Would be nice to sleep on a mattress that doesn’t feel like it’s full of straw.
In time, the bathroom could do with some updating. New windows for sure.
If only I had just one room in this whole big house that didn’t feel cold all the time.
Virginia Woolf advocated for a room of one’s own. Every room here is mine, but ask me if I’m happy. Go ahead. Ask.
No, you don’t have to. You already know the answer.
I don’t regret leaving my husband. I don’t want to give you that impression. I only wish I had a room upstairs with even half the comfy-cosiness of my tenant’s basement apartment.
There’s so much I’ll need to sort out.
One step at a time.
Speaking of my tenant, the Welcome Wagon fed me some interesting gossip. Apparently she goes by Ness (Vanessa was the name on the tenancy agreement I inherited from the previous homeowner) and she’s “in thick” with the girl from the chocolate shop, whatever that means. I gather they were hinting that the two are lovers, which they seemed to think I’d find startling.
They were barking up the wrong tree, if they were trying to get a reaction out of me. I’m the last person who’s going to be shocked by lesbians.
So the Welcome Wagon ladies tried another bit of tittle-tattle on for size: they hinted that the lass who lives downstairs “isn’t quite what she seems,” that she’s “all and more.” Every colloquialism you can think of to suggest the girl is trans.
Just come right out and say it. Stop pussyfooting around the topic.
But I said nothing. I simply listened as they talked. In fact, I felt separate from the conversation, even though their chatter was largely aimed at me.
They didn’t ask me too many questions, which is a shame, because I’d have told them anything. Anything at all. I’ve been feeling so alone these past couple days.
Perhaps it’s best I didn’t get into it with the Welcome Wagon. Sometimes it’s better to wait until you come across someone who’ll understand.
After the ladies left, I washed their teacups, then sorted through the basket they’d brought me. A better host would have opened it up and offered treats all around, but I’m feeling selfish, these days. I want things just for me.
No, that’s not strictly true, because, when I knocked on the door to the basement apartment, I brought the whole basket with me.
The girl downstairs, Ness, was coming out just as I arrived. Weather’s been nippy ever since I arrived on the island, but she was ready for it: bulky woollen scarf wrapped round and round her neck, thick fleece headband to cover her ears. I don’t imagine she could fit a hat over that untamed flare of curls. Her hair was dark and her skin light, but she looked less like a vampire than... I don’t know what.
Her face reminded me of a goose. Not a Canada Goose, but the barnyard variety with the white feathers and the yellow beak. Seems an ungenerous thing to say. She really is quite pretty. Not an ugly duckling at all. No, not in the least.
In her arms, she held a stack of papers. She hugged them close to her chest when she saw me. She didn’t want me seeing what she had there, obviously.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re going out.” I introduced myself anyway. “I’m Bridie. I just bought this house. I live here now.”
“I guess that makes you my landlord,” Ness responded. She didn’t grace me with a smile, though I’m not sure I’d have expected her to, had I known she thought of me in those terms.
“Landlord,” I said, mulling over the word.
“I already paid my rent for the month,” she said. “Don’t try to hit me up for a double scoop. I’m not falling for that bullshit. I’m no rube. You can’t take advantage of me.”
She had a way of making me feel very small, though I’m sure I had nearly 30 years (and potentially as many pounds) on her.
“I’m not taking advantage of anyone,” I assured her. “I got this basket from the Welcome Wagon. I thought we could share. Seems strange that we’re only just meeting. We could sit, have a cup of tea, get to know each other.”
Ness regarded me suspiciously, which, I’ll freely admit, I deserved. When I was her age, I’d certainly have regarded any older person bearing gifts with suspicion.
Her tone was somewhat softer when she said, “I’m going out now. Bye.”
As she walked across the dead brown grass, toward the hard grey road, I called to her, “Aren’t you going to lock your door?”
She turned around, walking backwards as she said, “Why? This is a small town. Who’s gonna break in while I’m gone?”
I could name one person who’d be sorely tempted: the landlord with the draughty bathroom and the rattling windows.