MONO ISSUE 2 - Flipbook - Page 32
KITTY
by Sheila Kinsella
ON A RAINY SUNDAY afternoon in October, I watch tiny drops of rain congregating on
the windowpane. A squally wind blusters through the trees, swaying and bending their
branches. The dampness of this Victorian house plays havoc with my lungs. My single
bar electric heater glows tangerine.
A faded black and white wedding photograph stands on the sideboard; Ernesto looks
dapper in his suit, and there I am at his side, a beautiful bride. On the wall above hangs a
blown-up photo of me, mid-motion, swinging on a fly bar in the big top. The television
sits on a low beechwood stand in the bay window; the quizmaster prattles on in the
background, a backdrop to my thoughts. Dusty dark green velvet curtains hang on either
side of the window. I don’t draw them these days; after all, who's going to be looking at
me watching TV? Two sage green armchairs and a matching sofa set on casters are
arranged around a coffee table creaking with magazines. I switch the chairs around
often and lost track long ago, of which one Ernesto died in.
They’re coming at ten to view the house.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I pat foundation and blusher on my
face and pencil my eyebrows in with a slightly shaky hand. My skin is deep and as
wrinkled as leather, and my violet cardigan makes a nod to my - trendy these days blue-rinsed hair. I settle down in an armchair with a cup of tea and some knitting. At five
to ten, the doorbell rings.
‘Hello Kitty,’ Nina, the estate agent shouts through the letterbox; she thinks I’m deaf.
‘What’s that you say?’ I reply, playing up to her assumptions.
‘H-E-L-L-O, it’s the estate agent!’
I smile and open the door.
‘Hello. Come in,’ I hold the door open.
‘Thank you, Kitty,’ Nina says.
A young man and woman step inside behind Nina. I glare at him with his downturned
lips; he neither speaks nor wipes his feet. The woman smiles and asks if she should
remove her shoes.
'It's alright,’ I tell her, but she takes them off anyway.
‘Is it ok if…’ Nina says.
I nod in agreement and return to sitting in front of the electric heater. Nina’s sales
patter goes over my head; I've heard the blah blah all before - upstanding Victorian
property, period features – yawn, yawn. The man asks about dry rot and windows; Nina
tells him that sash windows were the perfect Victorian invention to allow ventilation and
illumination in good measure. If I had a penny for how many times I’ve heard that one…
It’s not his wife, of that I’m certain. Still, he adopts a condescending tone towards her.
The woman seldom speaks and nods from time to time, and I feel her observing me.
27
