Three Visitors

Anne’s house is filled with things: pretty things, memories of things, things that don’t match other things. The lady from the council with neat blonde layers had said clearing some of it would be good for your wellbeing. Anne didn’t really know what she’d meant by that but gave her an extra biscuit for taking an interest.

Every item is placed with care and one whole room is toilet rolls, but that’s just economics. The walls are lungs full of keepsakes, bursting red, fuchsia, and emerald. If you tread quietly enough you can hear them sing. A landline stands out in a clearing along with the only empty chair.

Anne is moving silently now past the net curtains, circling the front door.

Tap tap tap.

It jolts her again. They’ve knocked twice now, but so gently the possibility of hiding still pulls at her heels.

Again, TAP TAP. Too many times to be the postman, a sigh flutters through her chest as she confronts the door.

1 - The Samaritan.

“Oh. Sorry, I er – good morning, sorry, I don’t know if you er, we spoke on the phone?” The young woman is flanked with bags including one that isn’t supposed to look like it has a laptop in it. She flusters for her lanyard but it’s not necessary. Anne doesn’t remember the phone call but she knows this woman; the frizzing ponytail, eyes dry from contact lenses and no breaks. She doesn’t look old enough to be tired. She is here to help.

Anne has had many professionals visit her home before. She hands a cup of tea to the woman, who is perched next to a stack of vintage wedding magazines and clutches it not knowing where to put it down.

“Thank you. Its been a couple of weeks since we last spoke, how have things been for you Anne?” She does remember now, Emma the ‘Wellbeing Coordinator’. They’d spoken a few times on the phone. She’d proclaimed her role was to give Anne more time to talk about what matters to you, and Anne was relieved to hear this would be limited to the usual six-sessions.

Anne ponders what exactly the end goal is, and thinks maybe Emma is also trying to work this out as she pulls out yet another questionnaire. Anne dutifully assigns a number to everything about herself.

Does she feel loved? Zero (out of five).

Eventually Emma stuffs the papers away, “I mentioned on the phone that I could help you to tidy up a little, where would you like to start?”

They stare at each other, as if looking at their surroundings would be too brash. Very carefully, Anne explains that this will not be happening today. She has learned, through previous failures, how to express herself without using any buzz words that would trigger a mental health referral – “I’m not hurting anyone am I?”

“No Anne, I know.” She looks even more tired. “But what about you? Might it be hurting you?”

Time to draw out the big guns, “These things are valuable. I look after them, look…” Anne selects a black notebook from the shelf brushing her fingers over it to show there is no dust. Emma’s reaction is unexpected.

“What do you use it for, do you write?”

“Oh, no!” Anne softens with amusement, “I’m not clever like that. These are my drawings.”

Three hours later Emma leaves and Anne wonders how many appointments that counted as. She meanders around the flat trying to find a better spot for the book, but doesn’t succeed. She is not really looking. She is replaying Emma’s words over and over in her head: “beautiful”; “talented”; “you must share these”.

She talked about an art group that meets every first Tuesday of the month at the village hall. She said they are like you and they sell their work to raise money for mental health charities. They help people.

Anne stares at the bookshelf. She did not think these people sounded like her at all.

2 – The Intruder.

Anne’s joints ache with waiting. She’d got up at 5am to prepare and it had been more work than she’d anticipated. Running out of time, she swept the last of the small trinkets into a wooden fruit bowl on the coffee table in hope it would look decorative. But then he was late. So she’s been loitering on the sofa for an hour.

RAP A TAT RAP TAT TAT!

Anne jumps from her seat and checks herself in the mirror, tucking a loose curl behind one ear to look more natural. She pulls it back into place again and lets the journalist in.

“Anne?! Nice to meet you, how are you love?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, “I’m from the Gazette, windy out there today hold onto your hat!” Anne teeters as he bowls his way into her home. She’s thrown by the fact she isn’t wearing a hat and half raises her hands to her head, laughing over-zealously.

“It’s a white coffee for me, two sugars. Lets have a look at these paintings of yours then. When you rung up you said they’re portraits? You know the competition is ‘The best of Paddlemere’ right? The market, kids playing on the green, touristy stuff you know?”

“Oh, I just… they’re sketches actually, of people that pass by.” It’s too late to back down now, so she just keeps going,

“Here let me show you. This lady here she always leaves me some eggs if she has extra, and this boy in his school inform he’s six now.” She flicks back through to the first page, “look this is his mum pushing him in the pram when he was a baby. She would go up and down the street all day, just to get him to sleep.”

Anne pauses but doesn’t dare look up, “They are the best thing about this village, to me anyway.”

“Huh.” The journalist raises an eyebrow, “these are pretty good you’ve got talent haven’t you.”

“What’s the deal with all this?” He gestures to the mountain of bric-a-brac she’d pushed into the corner and Anne feels the air start to escape from the moment. “You can make a lot of money, you know, from old stuff like this.” He picks through the fruit bowl and she wants to smack his hand away. “My brother knows all about it. Some coins… like this one, you see this 50p it’s the Olympics, people collect these.” Anne reaches one hand to rest on the bowl, but he isn’t aware of her anymore. He has his phone out and he’s talking to himself now,

“This thing is worth bloody thousands!”

The rest of the visit was strange. Anne got the distinct impression she was not as happy about this news as he wanted her to be, so as he was leaving she mentioned again how thankful she was.

She was happy of course. The next week she was still pondering what to do with the money. Maybe she would go away somewhere, she thought as she flicked past the package holiday adverts in the paper. She didn’t need to worry about bills anymore. But then she saw it,

‘ELDERLY HOARDER FINDS FORTUNE IN SQUALOR’

Scanning the tiny article, her heart rose up in her throat as she settled on a degraded black and white photograph. No other reader would notice the notebook unopened on her lap. All they will see is her foolish smile, trying to be someone.

3 – The Cat.

Anne doesn’t only sketch people; she has many of the cat that passes by her kitchen window every afternoon. Occasionally he will look at her or scurry after something in the grass, but he always resumes his route to the end of an overgrown path in her garden. It used to lead to a washing line, but now it just ends. He always takes his time there, stopping at this unofficial border to watch the fields and activities beyond the garden fence. After no particular amount of time, he turns and retraces his way home.

Anne drops her gaze from the window to the envelope in her hand. She slides the coin inside and seals it without contemplation, double checking the address:

FAO ‘Artists 4 Health’ group

Village Hall

10 St Mary’s Lane

Paddlemere

TQ8 1AW

She places the envelope next to the door, ready for when Jean drops by on her way to the post box. Then, just as carefully, Anne returns her sketchbook to its shelf. Tweaking the ornaments around it, she smiles.

Three out of five. Good enough.