She would not answer them,
today. Her eyes were downcast, intent on her darting fingers, lips mouthing,
“Knit two, purl one.” Why should she?
Click, click! Click, click!
Noisier now, faster. Defiance manifest. This would be one of her deaf days. She
had it down to a fine art, a mastery born of much practice. First, she studied
concentration on the task in hand, be it the daily newspaper, the knitting, the
glass of warm milk; followed up by a gradual elevation of her head revealing
vague in unresponsive expression in the eyes; the finishing touch a deliberate
turning aside, to reach for her stick as if making ready to rise and leave the
room, or to engage in conversation the person in the adjacent chair.
“Mrs. P?”
The ball of wool rolled down
the sloping lap. For an instant it teetered on the bony knees, before tumbling
to the floor and working its quiet way over the polished vinyl. It formed a
thin red line across the room, from Elsie’s chair to that of the woman
opposite. Elsie proceeded with her knitting, head down, betraying no
acknowledgment of the wool’s escape: phase one of her plan. “Mrs. P?” Al little
sharper, a little louder, a little less composed.
“Mrs. P, can you hear me?”
Whether it was the tone of the
voice, or the distraction of the unraveling wool, that attracted the attention,
Elsie was unable to determine, but she sensed herself being brought into focus
by twenty-two pairs of peering eyes. Her timing perfect, she lifted her gaze to
encompass the ring of faces ranged round the room, and the bulky form, clad in
white, that confronted her.
''Mrs.
P? Have your bowels moved, this morning, love?''
Had
her bowels moved, indeed! The affrontery of the wench!
This
impertinent female, not half Elsie's own age. The indelicacy of it all! No
breeding, that's what. And within
earshot of so many.
What
was the world coming to?
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