A short story for film noir

Starring Joan Crawford

The light flickered in the background as the neon sign invaded the large window of her otherwise dark and dingy room. She had resided in this rundown boarding house for a year now yet still It felt as if she were not really there at all. The room felt as if it belonged to of another world. It felt unfamiliar. Try as she might she could not settle herself to an easy acceptance of her new surroundings. In truth why should she? It was not her fault that she had ended up here. Not her fault she had been deserted by her husband of twenty years. Not her fault she was old.

The neon light glowed. ‘Sizzle with your Sausages’, it read. The accompanying a picture of a well heeled hostess in slinky red gown serving a herd of cows. With hot branding iron in one hand, and plate full of sausages sandwiched between two buns dripping in chilly sauce in the other, she waited as the cows queued in front of her diner.  These country folk certainly knew how to coin a phrase she thought. She had wanted so much to return to the place she had last called home. The place where he sat eating his usual breakfast, preparing himself for his usual day at the office and where he spent his usual night in front of the tele. It was the ‘Someone Else’, who now shared the usual stuff with him that had kept her away. As far away as was possible. Girraween was the farthest she could get at the time and, coming from the cafe belt of the inner west suburbs of Sydney, it certainly seemed like country to her. 

The boarding house was supposed to be a temporary dwelling while she looked for a house but it had become her cell of solitaire. A place to hide away from the world. A place to lick her wounds. A place to cry without being seen. A place to curl up and die.

Just as she was about to drink her hot chocolate and pull down the faded blind before tucking herself into bed she heard a commotion on the stairs. It was a bunch of tenants from down the hall returning after a night out at the club. All women in a similar situation as herself. They had banded together.

Bonded you might say. She wanted to cry into her hot chocolate. She wanted to scream but it was all too funny so she laughed instead. Fry

 “The Mad Cows Of Girraween,” she mumbled to herself.

The commotion down the hall would be her only entertainment that night. She put her ear to the door and listened.

“Are you crazy woman?” one of them shrieked, “He wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at me!” 

“He was looking at the tall guy in the corner. The one in the wig. He was gay! Get it?” 

“I don’t care what you say he’s up for grabs an I’m going back.” 

She could hear a scuffle. It sounded as if the woman had been pushed against the door.

“Oh no you don’t! C’mon luv you’ve had too much. Open the door and let’s have a cuppa in your room.”

“Well c’mon get out your keys.”

“I don’t need keys. I trust you’se all. I never lock it. Just push.”

The door was locked.

“Oops we’ll have to get the manager.” reasoned a third voice.

“Nah, It’s too late. C’mon we’ll go to my, …. Hey , … Wait a minute , … What about her down the end? The one who never talks to anyone. The new one. Let’s get her to speak to the manager.”

She could hear them coming closer and closer. Suddenly they were at the door. Her door.

She threw the hot chocolate down the sink in the corner and turned on the stove,  moved over to her wardrobe and, quickly changed into the only dress she had. A slinky red dress. She moved back to the stove with her dress swishing as she walked with new poise and confidence. She reached over to the drawer beneath the bench and took out a large fork which she patiently pressed down on the hot element, testing it’s temperature, with her finger. She licked her burnt finger, closed the blind and, waited behind the door in the dark and dingy room. Now it felt familiar.

By Renee Dallow