Paul: Looks like some kids have messed up the book box again. Any ideas who?
Michelle: @Trish Jones – your boys?
Trish: dnt look at me michelle, theyve been at home all day
Jan has sent an image
Jan: 45 clean jam jars free to a good home
***
When I moved in with John, my father gave me a bird feeder.
“Because you have a garden now,” he explained proudly.
I remember this when I find the feeder wrapped up in a bag-for-life.
We live in a small terrace cottage within a hamlet that really has no business even existing. The week before I moved, my friend Carol showed me a regional online news article.
“Look,” she said, holding up her laptop. “In 2018 it was voted one of the top ten best places to live in the UK!”
Bar the odd slurry pit, there is nothing outside of it but shades of grey for miles. You have to squint to tell if the small black masses strung up on the fences are moles or baggies of dog shit. Carol visited me a month or so later, and we hiked over to a local pub. I felt embarrassed because she spoke too loudly, her accent ringing out in a way that felt sharp and obnoxious. She laughed at the spelling mistakes on the laminated menu and I longed to go home.
***
Richard: I will be putting plant pots outside my house to stop that blue Citreon parking in my space. I would advise any of you going out to do the same.
Malcolm reacted with “thumbs up”
Malcolm: good idea @ Richard Scott !!
***
We don’t have too many guests these days, at least not from the city. Those who initially came under the premise of “getting away from it all” quickly lost patience with the lack of Uber drivers and vegan takeaway food. Despite this, I try to keep the spare room tidy.
One morning I sort the cupboard, carefully arranging all the bed linen, towels for best and gear John uses for fell running and road biking. The cycle shorts are the worst – arrogant Lycra shorts that remind me a bit of that awful underwear women wear to weddings, but with crotch padding that gives off a discomforting virility and makes the shorts impossible to fold neatly. It takes me several frustrated attempts before I manage to pack them in. The next day I find them splayed across the carpet after John has pulled out a t-shirt from the very back of the shelf, forcing the shorts to burst from the space that contained them. I kick the skirting board hard and then bend down to start picking them up. My phone vibrates, and it’s my friend Rob telling me that the world’s population has reached 8 billion people. I choose not to reply.
***
“Is that a bird feeder?”
“Yes, I’m hoping it’ll attract some sparrows!”
“It’ll attract rats too, and plenty of them. I wouldn’t if I were you.”
***
I used to smoke. It’s a habit that appeals to neurotic people. Sometimes I miss it. I miss smoking in beer gardens or perched on the arm of the sofa in my old flat, blowing the smoke out of a wedged open window. I don’t miss smoking here because I always hated going out onto the patio to do it, in full view of anyone letting the cat out or fetching something from the shed. I stopped the day Malcolm from next door had seen me smoking in my pajamas and pulled John aside to tell him I’d been seen in “a state of undress”.
“It honestly doesn’t bother me, but you never know what folk will think.”
We had an old bucket that I’d always flick the ends into. It became disgusting – full of rainwater turned nearly black with tar. Sometimes I would look at the bucket and think about how quickly it’d kill you if you drank the water. That day I imagined emptying it all out over Malcolm’s allotment, whilst he was busy heating beans up for his tea.
***
Mandy: Everyone – there will be a Jacob’s join on the rec on 17th July. 1pm. All welcome. Please bring your own fold out chairs.
Chris has reacted with “thumbs up”
Sarah has reacted with “thumbs up”
Michelle: Hi Mandy!! Great idea! Are dogs allowed?
Mandy: No.
***
I read an Instagram post about how to properly understand the effects of your menstrual cycle over the entire month, rather than just the week where you are bleeding, and which seeds you should eat to help you cope with your emotions. It’s really only two different kinds of seeds, but it still sounds like too much hassle. I decide that I will just continue to be angry. I dismiss the post with a thumb-flick and open a new internet tab to search for fish pie recipes. Before I can bring myself to get up and check if we have any frozen peas and mustard, the front door opens. It’s Alison from 32.
“Hiya! Only me! I’ve just driven back from town and thought I’d call in for a coffee.”
Fuck.
She drops her car keys down onto the kitchen island and looks about expectantly. I scramble to attention like her lady-in-waiting, desperately hoping we have coffee. We do, but only instant. I rinse out a couple of mugs. The plughole is clogged with scraps of food that are now damp and difficult to identify. I consider scraping them out and serving them with the coffee.
I apologise for the instant and I’m graciously excused. We discuss a few topics. Who is applying for planning permission. Who is out of the catchment area. Someone’s husband who is known for doing coke in the toilets of The Turkey. Alison shows me Facebook photos of a particularly lavish birthday party at the village hall, including several shots of women stood in front of an expensive balloon arch.
“You know, I know a fabulous cleaner if you want her details, I know how busy you are. I’ll send you her number. She’s cheap but she’s really good.”
“Honestly it’s fine –” She has opened her phone and is already scrolling.
“There, sent.” My phone vibrates in my back pocket.
I sit at the table dumbly watching Alison continue to scroll, her face illuminated in blue light. She sends a few messages. The tap-tap sound of her acrylic nails on her phone screen does something to me. It sort of makes me jealous.
“Can I use your loo before I go?”
“Of course!” She’s going. Good.
After I’m certain she’s back in her own house I tip her cold coffee into the sink (it pools into a brown puddle, blocked by lumps of sodden mystery food) and run up the stairs and into the bathroom to check that it’s clean. It is. I step out onto the landing and see the bedroom door is ajar – the bed is unmade and there are knickers on the floor. Fuck.
***
Andy: Which numpty has been letting off fireworks??!?!
Paul has reacted with “angry face”
Linda has reacted with “shocked face”
Rachel: is it something to do with Ramadan?
***
To show willingness, I once went for a curry with a group of women known collectively as “the girls” (a composition of John’s female relatives and one or two family friends who introduce themselves as aunties). I was shown pictures of several different pairs of court shoes and asked my opinion. After the two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc that we brought with us were finished, comments directed at the waiters began to sound both flirtatious and slightly racist. Some of the aunties took photos together using a filter that gave them dog ears and long pink tongues.
“Did you enjoy seeing the girls?” John asked when I got home.
Auntie Liz had driven us back, which I was told was fine because she drove slowly and had a pint of Sprite before she set off, and also everyone around here does it, even doctors.
“No one ordered rice,” I replied.
“Did you get rice?”
“No, because no one else did.”
“Why do you always make decisions based on other people?”
***
I decide to go for a walk after listening to a podcast about an ex-con that turned his life around by completing 20,000 steps a day. I try not to think about Alison, but I can’t help it. As I clamber over kissing gates, my mind wanders between her, and memories of nights out, and the persistent thought that Malcolm calls me “sweetheart” because he can’t remember my name and it’s too late to ask.
I am stopped by a lump in the middle of the track. It is a dead lamb, with shreds of plastic in its burst-open belly. A cardboard sign next to it shouts out in painted red letters:
“EATING YOUR RUBBISH HAS KILLED ME”
I start to cry and then I just can’t stop.
***
Jan: if anyone needs wood filler let me know
Seren has left the chat
***
I sit in the garden, watching sparrows flit to and from the feeder. I wonder, just for a moment, what they are thinking. Why they move around each other in the way they do. It is not my place to know. Without being privy to their world, I’m free to enjoy the beauty of their movements, as precise as clockwork. Without understanding if there are more or less of them visiting the feeder than there should be, I remain untroubled.
The sun feels warm. The world has never felt so silent.
Learn more about Megan on our Contributors’ Page.
Megan’s book, Atlas of Amazing Migrations, is published by Pavilion Children’s Books and is available here.
(Photo: John/flickr.com/ CC BY-SA 2.0)
- House Sparrows by Megan Lee - April 4, 2024