"Yes, yes, I'll tell her," said Mrs Houghton. "I don't know what time Belinda will be home." She closed the door. She shuffled back to the sitting room, her fur-lined slippers felt sloppy on her feet, making shuffling easier than striding. Her towelling dressing gown was tied too tight around her waist. The television was set to the ABC. The peanuts in the bowl next to the one armchair were half eaten, broken shells litered the table top. She sat down making a noise as though she was exhausted. She grabbed a handful of peanuts.
"Muuuuuum," came the plaintiff call from beyond the room.
"Yes, honey?"
"Who was that?"
"Rachel."
"Rachel J?"
"Yes, honey."
"So where is she?"
"She's gone... honey."
"Why didn't she come in?"
"If you want her to visit, you know what you have to do, darling."
"Oh... mum!" came the angry voice.
"We've been through this, honey."
"I wanted to see Rachel."
"You know what you have to do."
"I can't, I just can't."
"Then you don't get to see Rachel."
"I'm not hungry."
"That is not the point."
"So, what is the point?" screamed Belinda. "What is the lousy point?"
Mrs Houghton took a big breath. She kind of sighed on the exhale. She said very quietly. "Belinda, we have been over this many times."
"Muuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmm."
Mrs Houghton picked up her cigarettes and headed out into the garden to smoke quietly, it was the only thing she knew to do when Belinda got like this. Her only vice, the only one left, she would say, in polite company, and then she would laugh.
Got like what, Belinda would snap back if Mrs Houghton ever approached the subject. "GOT LIKE WHAT!" she'd scream.
Got like what, repeated in Mrs Houghton's ears as her hands shakily opened the packet and took out a cigarette. Got like what? She lit a cigarette. Got like... her nerves began to subside as she felt the calming effects of the warm smoke in her lungs, as she felt the fresh air blow on her face. Suddenly, not so claustrophobic. Even if it were momentarily, it was worth snatching.
She will never be the same again, the doctors words sounded in Mrs Houghton’s ears. She's not coming back from this unscathed.
Secretly, Mrs Houghton wished Belinda had, well, um… something she'd never say out loud, something that made her admonish herself if ever she thought it. Something she would deny, if anyone was ever to repeated it, not that there was any chance of that.
How easy life could have... no, she won't let herself think such thoughts. Belinda was sick and she needed her help.
She paced the garden. The grass was green, soft under her feet. The garden was lovely. Oh the Tiger Lilies were blooming. The Dahlias are beautiful her pink.
She inhaled deeply. She held it until her lungs burned. She exhaled again. She coughed. She dragged on the orange filter again. Music started to play in her head. A waltz, from the country dances her boyfriend, who was to become her husband, took her to.
"Muuuuuuuuuuuum!" came the cry from inside the house.
The music stopped, like an old fashioned stylus skipping across a vinyl record. She took a few steps and slipped behind the large Camellia bush and out of sight of the house.
"Muuuuuuuuuuum!"
She didn't move behind the flower covered bush.
Belinda appeared at the door in her jogging clothes.
Mrs Houghton dropped her cigarette to the ground, squashed it with her pump, and stepped out from under the under growth. "Oh no darling, not that."
"I'm going for a run."
"You know what the doctor said."
Belinda waved her away.
"Darling, please don't." Mrs Houghton stepped through the garden towards the emaciated figure. "It's not a good idea."
All she could do, was watch her leave.
The house was quiet. She felt the stillness. How it used to be. She stopped and drank it in.
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