Monday, 23 July 2012

Mayfly

The letterbox rattled shut. The postman’s shadow disappearing from the glass of the old front door. He’d reached the gate and was across the busy road before the owner of the house was out of her chair. It took a moment for the lady to gather breath, as it did not come so readily in her twilight years. Minutes had ticked away on the antique clock by the door. The tiny wooden cuckoo long silent, but ever watchful over the rack of coats and the spotless black and white floor in the hall.

With a soft groan and a crack of the knee, the post was collected. Bill. Insurance junk. Stairlift. Insurance junk. Charity. This week’s offers at the minimart down the road. Then an unknown. A well padded envelope. The postmark was from Jersey. Helen’s hands shook slightly and she lowered herself to the stair by the door.

With bent fingers she pulled at the wrapping, but it did not break. “Blasted paper,” she cursed and reached for her letter opener on the hall table. Sliding the sharpened point in, she sawed through the rough paper and opened the bubble packed parcel. She shook it. Nothing came out. Squinting, Helen forced open the envelope’s gummy lips and groped within. Her feeble fingers touched card and... yes! A small bottle. Hurriedly, she tipped the items into her lap; a wide smile lighting her features. The bottle was a tiny plastic length: a bit like one of those perfume samples you’d get in Boots. She plucked it from her lap and with failing eyes, studied the logo. Mayfly.