The Bloke at Number 27
By Catherine Edmunds
Lovely postcard with a couple of horses—Clydesdales—only 35p. I’d love to buy it, give it to Joanie for old times’ sake, but I can’t. Can’t. Joanie’s married to that daft beggar at number 27. They leave chrysanthemums in a bucket outside the front door for anyone to help themselves. He grows them on his allotment. I hope he dies while gardening, bending over for peas. Joanie’s sister reckons he’s more likely to die from a rolling pin over his bonce when he comes in with his muddy boots once too often.
I love these old horses. There was one up at Bucklaw Farm and me and Joannie would go up the lane and say hello, give it some grass and its eye would shine, picked out by the early light. Joanie’s eyes would shine too and I knew I was going to marry her, but I never did.
I’m trying to remember how her hair used to be. Red it was, like those giant poppies, or marmalade. I’m not good with words, but I know my colours. When did Joanie stop having red hair? About the time that bloke married her; about the time she stopped skipping.
I’ll send the card. I’ll write a message, a tiny horse in the corner. She liked the way I drew horses. They can be the message. She can make of it what she will; it’ll say that dying isn’t necessarily bad. It’s like opening a difficult jar. You might need some help.
That bloke at number 27—he doesn’t treat you right, Joanie.
Catherine Edmunds is a writer, artist and folk/rock fiddle player. Her published works include two poetry collections, four novels and a Holocaust memoir. She has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize, shortlisted in the Bridport four times, and has works in journals including Aesthetica, Crannóg and Ambit.
