Ailsa was waiting. She was always waiting. That’s what she did. Waiting for her husband, her children, even the dog. Today though, today was different. She wiped the draining board down for the last time. Folded his work clothes and put them to air. Stacked the discarded newspapers and magazines into their boxes for recycling. She peered at the floor and, for the last time. She reached for the mop and cleaned the dog’s messy paw prints.

Slavery had been abolished, but that fact had passed Ailsa’s family by. Her Dad had always said that “if there’s a job to be done Ailsa’s your girl”. With no thought to how that made Ailsa feel. Her Mum had made clear that there would be no help with the babies when they came. Babies that were now in their teens and growing like cuckoos in a sparrows nest. Of course she loved her children but no one had ever said that you had to like them. They’d be fine with Dad. She thought of him. The tall, dark haired silent man who literally swept her off her feet that night at the Club when Dad and his mates had started a fight with the visitors. Just because they’d lost a darts match. “Men!” she exclaimed out loud. Then giggled as she realised that there was no one to hear. Her husband. What a transformation. As soon as they were engaged it started. The belly slowly protruded over his trouser belt. His shaving became an alternate day activity. The TV started to become more important in his life. No more walks by the river, his hand clutching hers as they tripped silently, happy in one another’s company. He’d come in and given her £50. “That’s a lot of money, that is” he’d said. She knew it and looked perplexed. “Go and get your self a ring. Better make it legal” he’d muttered. She’d smoothed her hand over the burgeoning bump that was their first born and had smiled wryly at him. “Don’t you want to come?” He looked up from the TV pages and asked in the sarcastic way of his “Come with you. Can’t you find the town on your own now?” She’d not replied, but just as she had undone the latch on the front door he called “and bring back the change.

Rubies and diamonds. That’s what the engagement ring had been. Rubies and diamonds. She’d brought him change too. Not enough apparently. She showed him the ring “Nice if you like that sort of thing” he had grunted. He’d stolen it from her one night when he’d lost at cards to Dad. He gave it to Dad for “safekeeping”. Now it was just a memory, long ago poured like most of Dad’s money down the gutter of the men’s latrine at the Silver Plough. “Plastic Plough more like” she said out loud again. They never had got “married”. She used his name because it made life easier, but there were no marriage lines in their names.

She gazed hard at the old green leatherette chair that was her Lord and Master’s throne when he was at home. The seat was worn thin by the long hours that he spent there encouraging football teams on. Checking cricket scores. Watching tiny golf balls as they soared high into the blue in places called St Andrews, Kissimmee and The Belfry. She smiled as she carefully placed the TV remote control just where he liked to find it. The numbers and letters worn away with use. The only things worn by use in his world. His seat and the remote control. She looked at the grease mark that identified where his head fell to when eventually, overtaken by exhaustion from all that close monitoring of sporting matters far a field, he’d allow himself to slip away for a few hours before breaking for the stairs and bed. Where he would arrive in a cacophony of hooting and braying, wind breaking, illuminations and a final belch as he clambered in. His hand always went straight for her groin, but she knew that he would be asleep long before either of them were likely to feel any effect from that. She looked at the TV pages. There, underlined in red she saw that he had highlighted Miss World live from Johannesburg. She smiled, he didn’t even know where that was. But so long as the busts were big and the posteriors pert he wouldn’t care.

The back door was flung open violently and a youth stormed in. Frightening in his black leather jacket and oily jeans, biker boots a sea of chrome clasps. He looked at her expectantly. “Tea?” she enquired. “S’pose so” came the grunted response. He sat at the table legs splayed wide and started to pick at a large scab that had earlier been a spot just above his eye. “Don’t. You’ll infect it”. He looked at her as if she had emerged freshly from beneath his studded boot. “S’my face. If I wanna pick I will. OK?” She placed a mug of tea in front of him silently. His favourite mug. Emblazoned across it were the words “Born too Young”. She had never really understood what that meant. But she suffered it as it kept him quiet. The youth broke wind noisily and drained the tea from the mug. “Shan’t be home tonight. Goin’ to Dave’s”. She nodded knowingly and watched as he dragged himself to the biscuit tin, grabbed a couple of digestives and left, cramming them into his greasy mouth as he went.

Ailsa quietly cleaned up the debris of her youngest son’s brief and as usual uninformative visit and thought of his older brother, currently employed sweeping the streets as repayment for his somewhat antisocial practice of stealing other people’s cars. “You have to love them. But you don’t have to like them” she repeated.

She slowly climbed the stairs and paid a last visit to her bedroom. She softly touched the pink candlewick bedspread. “Goodbye bed” she whispered. She moved into each of the boys’ rooms. “By boys. Be good” and surprised herself with a doubting laugh. In the bathroom she saw her husband’s toothbrush, now alone; hers was packed. Softly squeezed the little yellow duck that had been her bath-time companion for so many years and then, on impulse, she took him with her. “I’m not leaving you to THEM” she said. Down the stairs and into the sterile dining room. Only used at Christmas. Cold and clean, it had no charm. The cheap pine dining table and matching chairs had cost them £8 a month for 12 months. She wouldn’t miss it. She hovered at the threshold to the lounge. She didn’t enter. This wasn’t really her domain. He lived in there. She simply cleaned it because she knew that he never would. She pulled the door to. She turned and saw her battered brown suitcase beside the front door. “I’m coming” she sang to it going back into the kitchen and placing the card that she had written for him on the table.

She knew what would happen, and it did. The door bell rang and she opened the front door. That part she was certain of. She had expected an oldish man to be standing there. In fact, her caller was about 30, female and smartly turned out in a chanel suit, she recognised the buttons, light grey in colour over a crisp cotton shirt. Expensive black court shoes, long legs encased in sheer tights, and a broad smile. Such shiny teeth. “Are you ready? The car’s waiting”. The girl looked at Ailsa’s suitcase and reached out her hand. “I’ll take this for you”. Ailsa closed the door behind her and locked it. Then, on an impulse she posted her key through the letter box. The girl looked at her and shrugged. “OK. First stop the awards centre. We’ve booked you into the Ritz for tonight and the George IV in Paris from tomorrow for the rest of the week. That was right wasn’t it?” Ailsa nodded affirmatively. “I’ve never handled a £30 million pound lottery winner before” the girl sighed. “I do so want everything to be right for you. Are you ready?” Ailsa took one look back at her old home and then, with a new found definition in her voice replied “I’m ready”!