I am blasted out of sleep by an alarm
and scramble downstairs
in only a T-shirt and knickers.
Nee-awwwwwwwww,
nee-awwwwwwwww.
The kitchen is a fog of toasty smoke.
Marla is in her nightie, teetering on a stool,
frantically flapping a tea towel at a fire alarm
on the ceiling.
I grab a newspaper,
wave it around
until the noise stops,
then grab Marla by the wrist, help her
hobble down from the stool.
Who in blazes are you? she asks.
Why aren’t you wearing a skirt?
I hesitate.
I got here yesterday.
I’m leaving in a minute.
Sorry.
She stares at my feet,
the purple nail varnish worn away
at the tips of my toenails
from too-tight shoes.
Did you burn the toast? It wasn’t me.
She sounds suspicious.
I don’t even like toast. I like rolls with butter.
The fridge door is open.
On one shelf
a small stack
of paperback books:
Jane Austen,
Emily Brontë,
Jilly Cooper.
I could eat the twelve apostles though, she says.
Did you pick up sausages?
I’d kill for some mash.
It is six fifteen in the morning.
My eyes are sandy,
my stomach is sore.
Before I get out of here I could do with some food,
because I can’t stay –
she’s clearly out of her mind.
I’ll make sausage sandwiches, I say.
You see what’s on the TV.
She heads for the metal breadbin.
I can butter something. I’m not useless.
She bites her thumbnail
and scans the kitchen.
Who are you anyway?
Do Mary and Donal know you’re here?
Is Peggy on her way or not?
I’m here from the council, I tell her,
clutching her elbow and
leading her to the sitting room.
The council? Don’t give me that.
The council didn’t send you here wearing no clothes.
Do you think I’m batty?
Is Peggy OK?
She squares up to me.
Her breath is full of sleep.
I go back into the kitchen to prepare the sausages.
She follows and stands watching,
watching me make breakfast
in my underwear.