Stranger Friends

This is a story I wrote for a creative-writing course, but never ended up submitting. The assignment had called for Flash Fiction of 1000 words (+/- 10%).

Stranger Friends

The first time Tim Violetta saw Rose, he had decided to mug her. He was three weeks shy of sixteen.

She was small, wrinkled. Her grey hair covered by a stylish hat, her handbag looked like a small bowling bag, but the colour matched her hat and purple granny shoes perfectly. He had noticed, because he planned to steal it. Having followed her for five blocks as they moved from the bustle of main street, towards the quieter residential streets, he saw her turn a corner into a one-way lane. Tim recognised his opportunity. Increasing his gait, he walked closer to the kerb as if to cross the road. He took his hands from his pockets, held his arm aloft and went to overtake her. He snatched the handbag roughly to jolt it from her grip.

And that’s where it all went wrong. The old lady didn’t let go of the bag.

He was so surprised, he didn’t make a run for it straightaway. When she grabbed the hood of his jumper, Tim looked at her, shocked, confused. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He weighed his options. Should he tackle her? Push her away? He imagined her falling backwards onto the cement, her elegance rumpled, shaken, possibly hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Tim turned to escape, hoping she’d lose her grip, let him go. She didn’t.

She held on tight as she scrutinised him. He felt her grey eyes cataloguing his appearance. Dirty hair, clothes stained and ripped, smelling of cigarette. Big eyes and nose in a face that had yet to catch up. Dried lips, chewed fingernails, a few swollen knuckles. He wondered at himself that he automatically straightened his posture while she studied him. Probably looking to give the coppers a description. Tim felt anvils drop in his stomach. He was screwed.

“Do you want this, young man?” Her voice was strong, belying his first impression of frailty. She held out the handbag in her other fist.

He looked at her face, startled. Was she crazy? He didn’t answer, just watched her.

“Do. You. Want. This.” She repeated.

He shrugged. This was a trick. Why not just let the damn thing go?

She nodded, more to herself than him.

“You can have it. I’m Rose by the way.” Then she walked away, handbag still in her clasp.

He stood there a few moments, bewildered. What the…? Crazy old bat! He was starting to turn away, anxious to leave, when she swivelled back.

“Aren’t you coming?” She asked briskly. “I’m only two doors down, then you can have it. Come on then, I need a cup of tea.”

Without any reason whatsoever, cursing himself for ten kinds of stupid the whole way, Tim followed her to the last townhouse on the block. She opened the door without looking back at him; as if there were never a question that he’d be behind her. He stood in the doorway, unsure what to do. She’s crazy, he thought. What kind of lady would invite a kid like me into her home? Turning, she pointed to his shoes and looked at the doormat without saying a word. What kind of an idiot took her up on it? Tim cleaned his soles before stepping inside.

At the end of that visit, where Rose fixed him coffee with biscuits, talking of her life and asking him questions he couldn’t answer with one word, she did indeed offer him her handbag as she walked him to the door. But he couldn’t take it then, as she must have known.

The next day, quite by accident, he ran into Rose after school. She was laden with shopping bags and greeted him like an old friend instead of a would-be thief. When she asked him pleasantly for help getting her shopping home, he consented, wanting to assuage his guilt.

And so it began.

Tim found himself visiting Rose some afternoons on his way home from school. She always talked to him as an equal, something no other adult had done. She considered his questions thoughtfully before giving him an answer. She wasn’t shocked that he smoked, only asked that he go outside, but would take her tea and accompany him when he did. Before long, Tim found himself sharing stories of his home life. The fighting, the cheating, dramatised reconciliations, renewed screams. Rose never judged, only listened, occasionally rubbing a hand along his shoulder as she worked around the kitchen.

It was Rose who encouraged Tim to pursue his goal of becoming a mechanic while his father pushed for a doctor. By the end of the year, Tim knew Rose’s kitchen better than his own. It was there that he ran with the acceptance letter from the technical college he had applied to. He wanted her to share in his success. He wanted to bask in her praise.

He arrived in time to see the ambulance outside her door. Two paramedics carried a sheet-covered gurney though the hallway, their footsteps soft on the tiles.

“What’s happening? Rose! What’s happened?!” Tim scrambled frantically around them, determined not to let them out the door. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“I’m sorry, mate. We need to get through.” He wasn’t sure which of the men had spoken, didn’t care. He was shattered by their calm. Surely they should be in a hurry? Surely this was an emergency? He stepped aside, a pressure building in his head, a numbness settling over his chest. Slowly, he followed them outside. A small crowd of neighbours had gathered by the ambulance. He heard murmurs, snippets. “Accident… cracked head... slipped… wet tiles...” He didn’t want to hear anymore.

Once the gurney had been loaded, the paramedics climbed into the front. There was no-one to ride in the back with her, he thought. No lights. No sound. Nothing to mark the death of such a remarkable lady.

Weeks later, Tim sat inside a lawyer’s office, his father beside him. While his dad and the lawyer discussed words like “will” and “trust”, Tim held a letter in his hands. In his lap lay a ladies’ handbag, shaped like a miniature bowling bag, deep purple.

They both meant the same thing.

Goodbye.