Enjoy this short story by City Lit creative writing student Helen McNally, originally published in our Between the Lines 2021 anthology.
Between the Lines showcases the work of writers across the entire range of our provision, from introductory courses such as Ways into creative writing, right up to advanced courses in poetry, fiction, playwriting, screenwriting and life writing.
Glass
The Smiths called them the Joneses. The Joneses lived in the flat directly opposite the Smiths in a building just as modern as their own, but while the Smiths’ building was a clean wall of glass swooping from the marbled lobby, the Joneses’ building was planted vertically, with the occasional faux-rustic touch of exposed pine. The two flats were only a Victorian alley-width apart, and from the ground it was like looking up a narrow gorge, one side sliced from shining rock while the other was creviced, spurting vegetation.
At first, the Smiths, inspired by the sparse exterior of their building, kept their decor coolly minimalist. The floors were bare, the kitchen chrome, the bed linen white. In fact, nearly everything was white; it meant you never had to worry about things matching. The Smiths enjoyed this purified world, but then Mr Smith noticed that Mrs Jones had bought an artisan throw. Handmade, by the look of it, woven from lambswool. The Joneses’ decor was almost as bare as the Smith’s, but with this one touch, their living room looked inviting.
Mrs Smith said they couldn’t go about getting the same throw as the Joneses - it would be copying - but she went to an exclusive interiors fair and came back with screen printed cushions and a vivid painting. Their room now had the homeliness of the Joneses’, but with its own vibrancy, a true show of taste. It was a shame, thought Mrs Smith, that the people who would benefit most from viewing this arrangement were the Joneses, but on the whole the Smiths were very happy indeed.
Until the Joneses bought a large plant, practically an indoor tree. Seems a bit excessive, thought Mrs Smith, seeing as their whole building is basically a plant. It’s typical of them to take things too far. They could never be satisfied with a simple, well-decorated flat like ours. Nevertheless, she saw the pleasure the Joneses had tending the tree. A lot of fuss though, thought Mrs Smith. It’s not like you get anything back from a tree. It’s not like it’s a pet.
A few weeks later, the Smiths were proud owners of a parrot. It was intelligent and just a little unusual. Moreover, it matched the colours of the painting. It had personality, so there was always someone around to talk to when they got home. It brings us closer together, thought Mrs Smith. Anyone watching can see we’re a happy family.
As usual, thought Mrs Smith, the Joneses just had to go one further. They announced Mrs Jones’ pregnancy at an afternoon party and kissed ostentatiously as they fastened an ultrasound scan to the fridge. The flat began to fill with the paraphernalia required for a baby - prams, toys, a crib, a breast pump - the Joneses making a show of delight at each new gewgaw. Mr Smith saw how the Joneses looked at each other and thought how nice it must be to nurture such hope as a couple. When he told Mrs Smith he wanted a baby, she dismissed this at first - after all, their life together was, to her mind, complete now they had the parrot - but when she sensed a creeping unhappiness in her husband, she relented.
A few months later, the Smiths watched as a heavily pregnant Mrs Jones began to pack up the contents of the kitchen. Mr Jones came home with large boxes and soon their things were shut away and bundled off by removal men, the tree shedding branches as it was forced through the door.
The Smiths went to an estate agent’s viewing of the Joneses’ flat. It’s smaller than ours, Mrs Smith noted with some satisfaction. It does have a wonderfully polished pine floor though, and of course, she thought with a smile as she moved towards the largest window, rather a lovely view of a very stylish apartment. But as she looked out, her pleasure faded. There stood her own building, but it was merely a silvered sheet of mirrored glass. As Mr Smith came to stand beside her, he squeezed her arm with force and she knew he shared her shock. Within her, her baby kicked.
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