Vacant Possession

She doesn’t expect me, Muriel thought. But she ought to expect me.

Muriel fished in her coat pocket, and brought out a piece of newspaper. She unwrapped it as she crossed the road, took out Mrs Wilmot’s teeth, and tossed them over the hedge into the Sidneys’ front garden.

Just as she was rounding the corner, the front door of number 2 opened again. Colin Sidney came out and loped down the path towards his car; a big fair man, balding, lean and fit. She watched him jump into his car and shoot away from the kerb. He did not even notice her. She raised a hand after him; like someone giving a signal to a hangman.

Mrs Wilmot was being retired. She had been at the factory for thirty years; today was her last day.

‘Course,’ she said, in her usual dead little whisper, ‘I’ll not get my pension, I’m not sixty. Course, I’ll get my benefit. Course, I’ll have to put in for it. Course, I don’t really know.’ She picked up a corner of her overall and wiped her left eye.

‘It’s a bloody shame,’ Edna said. ‘Ripping’s all she’s got. Here, love, we’ll give you a send-off.’

‘Course, they gave me a Teasmaid,’ Poor Mrs Wilmot said. She wiped her other eye and sniffed.

‘Bugger the Teasmaid, we’ve got a lovely presentation to give you. We’ll give it you down the pub, it’s Friday night, isn’t it?’

‘Course, the pot was broken,’ Mrs Wilmot whimpered. ‘Course, I didn’t complain.’

‘I wish you’d told me,’ Edna said, ‘I’d have complained all right. I don’t know, this place is going down the drain, you can’t leave anything about, people’s teeth being nicked out of their own handbags, they want bloody hanging. You could do with a new set, you should have asked for one, you should get compensation.’

‘No point really,’ Mrs Wilmot said dejectedly, ‘I have to get my cards. I have to go to the office. I don’t like.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t like?’

‘Going to the office. I don’t like.’

‘I’ll get your stuff for you,’ Muriel offered.

‘Oh, would you?’ A tiny hope shone out of Poor Mrs Wilmot. ‘Muriel, ask them for my wages as well, lovey.’ The next moment her situation overwhelmed her again; she looked away and sniffed, and soon the tears were coursing down her cheeks.

‘Off again,’ Edna said. ‘Come on, duck, pull yourself together.’

‘Course, you can understand it,’ Poor Mrs Wilmot said. ‘Course they don’t like me coughing on the tobacco. I appreciate that. Course I do.’

They arrived at the Swan of Avon just after opening time. Edna organised the moving of tables, commandeered extra chairs, and herded them into the Snug. ‘Let’s have a kitty, girls,’ she called. The girls fumbled in their bags and tossed five-pound notes into the centre of the table. ‘No, not you, love,’ Edna said to Poor Mrs Wilmot. ‘This is your day, duck. Come on now, wipe your eyes. That’s it, give us a smile. Have a go on the Space Invaders.’ She bustled her way to the bar, shouting through an open doorway to some male cronies from the Hogshead who were ordering up their first weekend pints in the public bar.