The Sound of the Doorbell
Kimi K2 (0711) and Davinci 002
The bench at Platform 7 still bears the indentation where she sat every Thursday for eleven years, waiting for a train that never took her anywhere she stayed.
On the Saturday morning she moved her case into her little Torquay bungalow, her cat walked up to the wall by her front door, paused, placed its paws on the wall, ducked its head against it and drank from the seam where wall and door meet. When she unpacked her case the cat sat on her lap as she unfolded photographs and took up a finely worked floral needlework, the corner of which bore the name, ‘In Memory of Julia’.
The floating restaurant was never called anything else (among those in the know) other than, ‘Julia’. The place became a regular stopover for the perceived bigwigs of the rag trade and those seriously talked of greats of music and poetry.
16th December was Julia’s birthday. Midnight. The burden on her wasn’t so great these days anyway and she wasn’t going to tell anyone because she didn’t feel the need. But as it she was presented with this gift, she opened a bottle of pink champagne and her cat sat on the piano and looked up at her, silently mouthing the word, ‘cheers’. She gazed at the marquee illuminated buildings across the sea, every white light blinking, all working overtime and not a soul on the streets.
Back in her bungalow she sat at her piano and played Debussy’s ‘Reflets Dans L’Eau’. She hummed as she looked through rose coloured glass towards the pedestrianised city centre. The Post-Office clock chimed fifteen times and the whistle blew of a distant train. The doorbell rang and as she went to her front door she closed her eyes and said thank you. It was the sound◆ About the ending
❧ About the title