Mary From Hull
While your corridor sleeps off a collective hangover you spend Sunday in your room, trying out your new personality in front of the mirror, nonchalantly chewing imaginary gum until your jaw aches, twisting your lips into sneers, smirks and seen-it-all smiles.
In the afternoon, Mary From Hull (Religious Studies A, Latin B, Psychology D) knocks on your door. She has come from church, and hymn book mustiness clings to her cable-knit cardigan as she perches on the edge of your bed, her knees together and her hands clasped in her lap, as though she is still praying. You loll on the only armchair, your shoes shaken off onto the rug. When you say you’re not religious she touches the gold cross at her neck and smiles, saying nothing.
You return from filling the kettle to find she has placed your shoes side-by-side under your desk. Neither of you mentions it. Herbal tea is all you drink, you tell her. She takes a single sip then sets the mug at her feet while you gulp yours down, your face crinkling at the unexpected bitterness.
Silence settles like dust on the room. You wind your hair round your finger as she smooths her skirt, picking off bits of non-existent fluff. The digits on your alarm clock change and change and change.
Without warning she lurches forward, gripping your arm as firmly as she holds your gaze. It’s hard, she says, away from home, everything strange, knowing no-one. You stare back, seeing yourself reflected in her eyes, and for a second you are in danger of being sucked in.
You are sure she sees your soul.
Then the spell is shattered. She kicks over her mug, mops, apologises, folds your only tea towel neatly and leaves.
You spend half an hour rehearsing an amusing routine about how Mary From Hull tried and failed to convert you.
Later, you hear her on the phone in the hallway. She hates it here, she says. There was one girl who seemed as though she might be all right but… She sobs, once. You open your door just wide enough to see her in her dressing gown and pyjamas, twisting the cord round and round her fingers as she listens to a faraway voice.
After hanging up she sits on the floor for a while, her knees pulled up to her chest. You quietly close your door and wonder if you should have offered her another cup of tea, a normal one this time, with milk and sugar.
When you look again, five minutes later, she has gone.
You take your blue stuffed dog from its hiding place at the bottom of the wardrobe, where it lives with the photograph of your parents, the cardigan your gran knitted and your copies of A Bear Called Paddington and Ballet Shoes. Lying on the bed, you make its paw stroke you to sleep.
Author: Alison Wassell mainly writes flash and micro fiction. She has been published by Reflex Fiction, Retreat West, Bath Flash Fiction Award, NFFD, Litro, Ellipsis Zine and in other random places. In her other life she writes commercial fiction for The People’s Friend.
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