Bags and Black Mould

Shelley knew to keep quiet; years of conditioning will do that to a person. There was little to take- there never was, when you rarely even feel like a guest at a new address you learn not to burden the space with stuff.

“Shelley, are you packing?” the question didn’t need to be asked but her Mother was in full panic mode. Time was always of the essence when they were moving. 

“Yes, nearly finished, Mum” but as the last syllables left her lips, she immediately regretted them. Thoughtless, thoughtless Shelley. Shaking her head, she knew she had made an error. Words were like bombs in these high-stake situations and she knew better than to drop them when her mother was already so close to losing the last of her sanity.

“Nearly finished, Shelley for Christ sake, I asked you two hours ago, how can you only nearly be finished?” She could hear the sigh telepathically as even her teenage hearing couldn’t pick that up from downstairs. Nonetheless she could visualise her mother’s lips purse as the air escaped. She could visualise her prematurely wrinkled face screw up in fear and misplaced anger. Misplaced as she knew that Shelley was not the reason, they were in such a rush, knew that Shelley’s behaviour hadn’t ruined a perfectly good home.

Shelley knew better than to retort or add a

match to a situation drenched in gasoline. She hadn’t always been so reserved, in fact at points, she had been downright cavalier. But, shouting, bitching wailing, only extended the inevitable and in most cases, led to her misplacing or forgetting the very few possessions she had attempted to collect. For years she had struggled to contain her temper, to bottle the emotions that bubbled from their childish to hormonal ways, but any behaviour can be learned if it is practiced enough.

The hands on the clock were acting in a way contrary to the laws of physics. One minute Shelley felt that time was dragging and the next time she looked half an hour had passed. It was currently in the former of the two. She sat amongst the three lowly bags she had packed, the ruins of another failed address, another failed attempt, another failed series of promises. Glancing at the slowly moving hand on the clock she realised that it was past any semblance of dinner time. Darkness had shrouded them and this time not just because the electricity had not been paid. Lets be honest a bar bill often necessitates being paid over lighting when the landlord is 6 foot 4 and built like a semi pro wrestler but her mother had always liked to keep the lights off when they were doing their midnight flit.

Shelley could hear her mother bordering on the frenetic downstairs. Cupboards were being shut with increased loudness, her movements back on forth from the rooms becoming more chaotic as she bundled up the last three months of a home. Three months of stability that was always teetering on an edge of the consequences of a shoddy gambler. It was always going to end like this, history had never failed to repeat itself, but they were all falling into the chasm once again.

“Shelley, come down here your father will be home any minute- he won’t want to wait around” of course he wouldn’t – he never does. When you’re running from your present and your past you tend to want to do it at pace.

“Coming” Shelley uncrossed her legs, thankfully before the pins and needles had fully set in. Looking around, for what would be the last time, she realised she had liked this place. It was much better than most of the places before, when black mould would creep up the walls, permeating everything it touched with its ever increasing growth. The ceiling had also been intact which, again, was a nice surprise. You cannot take clean and dry sheets for granted.

Picking up the bags she moved down the stairs. Down to the turmoil that surrounded her mother. The disaster that her mother had tolerated and been a participant in. I’m sure she felt that she was doing her best, keeping her family together, but could you keep something together that was so fractured industrial glue couldn’t even fuse the cracks?

Downstairs bags were strewn near the front door ready for the fleeing exit. There would be no goodbyes from neighbours just skid marks on the road being the last memory that they had resided here. In fact, I’m sure the neighbours didn’t even know their names.

When you move as often as her family did, it was always best to not give a forwarding address. It makes those unpaid bills that bit harder to be repaid.

“Shelley, thank god, your dad is on his way, help me move this picture” of course there was a picture to be moved. Her father’s fury could always penetrate plaster board. Thankfully they had become resourceful in fixing and mending in short time frames. If she ever got to finish her education, she could always look at career in interior design.

As the picture was finally adjusted her father walked in. His permanent odour of stout and Marlboros trailed in behind him, like a ghost of his afternoon. Shelley was quiet once again as she helped her mother move their pitiful belongings to the car. Her father, as inept as usual, stood on his phone shifting from foot-to-foot anxiety billowing from his pores in the same way the cigarette smoke billowed from his mouth. 

Not for the first time Shelley felt the hate rise tasting its hot bile flavour at the back of her throat. She knew this wouldn’t be the last time they would flee in the night, but she knew these days were numbered. She wouldn’t be a teenager forever and even if her mother wouldn’t leave, she knew she could, and would. 

As she got into the backseat of the car it was only this thought that stopped her from screaming.