Byron Close. A nice enough place to spend one’s life. Byron Close, off Jane Austin Avenue, off Shakespeare Road. A nothing special modern estate, good mix of housing, good mix of people. The locals are friendly but keep to themselves most of the time apart from during jubilee street parties. Some trees left despite the scorched earth practices of the builders.
In number seventeen, one of the small lace-curtained two bedroom-bungalows, the good widow Mrs Alice Jameson dusted off her china before settling down to her eleven o’clock cup of tea and her self-rationed single chocolate biscuit.
“Have to watch the carbs,” she said to Tibby, “Need to keep fit. Never know when the call will come.”
Good old Tibby. Twelve years old now. She hadn’t really known what name to give her when she wandered in as a neighborhood stray, so her minder suggested Tibby. “It’s a good English name. Very English and easy to remember.”
Outside a gardener mowed her handkerchief of a lawn. She didn’t recognize him. They come and go, she thought. She waved, he waved back.
Later in the day she would clean her revolver. You never know when the call will come.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction 200 word challenge. Find ’em here.