Flash Fiction - My neighbour who broke down in her own garden

MY NEIGHBOUR WHO BROKE DOWN IN HER OWN GARDEN

I went out at half one, the letter between my lips, and I was off, thinking, ‘posture’. Though young, I stoop.

She was not there then.

I would have seen her, having gone out through the back. Hereabouts people say, ‘front doors are for coffins.’

I was back, through the front, by half four. Worst case she was there four hours.

(I wasted an hour on; taking boots off; on-the-spur tidying; coffee; carefully drying my hands; pausing to hold the letter and think to go out and actually post it).

            I roll up outside now. Or the door-way, if it rains. Rules. You smoke less.

            I leaned, lit up, looked up, saw her through the smoke. She was draped over her washing line, amongst the clothes, arms hooked over. It held her but bowed with the weight. Eyes down, distant. She was swaying, not naturally, making the movement herself.

I knew some pieces. Job gone through ill health. (Something physical – nothing like this). On benefits, though they push it with her. Mid-50s, Hungarian, a dissident’s widow. She gardens, sings beautifully. The son died from kidney failure back when.

            I admit that my first thought was, ‘I am going to have to put this cigarette out.

            “Mrs Kuprin?” I called but she didn’t answer and so I went up to the fence and stood immediately opposite to her. I called her again and this time I added, ‘What is wrong Mrs Kuprin?’

James Bullion