Old World (The Green and Pleasant Land) by Oliver Kennedy

gloom. They are of our daughters generation, they are not weather beaten, but rather are beaten by the weather. Molly will be here soon, perhaps we will teach her better.
    I hum to myself as I send the dust scattering to the four corners of the palace. I adjust pictures, I ensure that chairs are sitting in their three decade old carpet grooves. I clean the glass to such invisible perfection that we shall likely have flocks of birds apparently offing themselves by flying into them.
    Then I stop. I switch off the radio, I kill the violins and the cellos and the trumpets. They had been superseded by frantic voices, by the naysayers and the doomseers. Fine then. I will clean in silence.
    But the absence of music reveals other sounds. The helicopters, the endless drone of the watchers in the sky. Up to no good, peering down, gazing into the castles of lesser men and greater women. They have not stopped for days.
    I approach the living room window. The thick red velvet curtains have been drawn for a week, Harold's insistence. Every now and then he puts his foot down, and I let him, even façades need maintaining after all. I raise a hand hesitantly and take hold of a fold of the thick dark fabric, a part of me longs to pull them back. To fill the room with sunlight and to fill my eyes with the truth of what is happening outside.
    My hand drops. My ears know the truth already, and the sun does not shine today. I take in a deep breath of British determination, I fill my lungs with it and hold it for as long as I can. Things rumble up and down the street which cannot be cars. No car squeaks and thuds in that manner, only a vehicle with heavy metallic tracks can emit such a noise.
    I have heard the sounds of so much breaking glass that there cannot be single window left untarnished in the neighbourhood. I have heard so many screams that the whole town must be hoarse. Every now and then gunfire bursts out, sometimes far away, sometimes from the bottom of the garden. On occasion the thunder rumbles, and it talks louder than all the rest.
    Still I clean. Still I do dishes, and laundry, I iron and while I am steaming I watch the clock, I imagine Molly and Harold's footsteps up the driveway, but in my imaginings they were home long ago. But I cannot show weakness, I cannot show fear even to my own reflections, for if they see it they will know it to be true and will refuse to hide me any longer.
    Then I hear a car outside. I hear an accompanying crash. I shudder at the thought of the casualties among the gnomes. The hesitant hand is brushed aside, the curtains fly back along the railings. Old Mrs Andrews across the street seems to be missing a foot. She is crying as she pulls herself through misery and down the street. The Potters battle desperately to keep the enemy from the door.
    I see men in uniform running, in the wrong direction, I believe. Empty vehicles, burning houses, dead bodies, spent cartridges and broken gnomes.
    The street is full of strangers, members of some strange parade, they shuffle and shamble with a twisting gait, they move as if uncomfortable in their skin, which is a pallid and maggoty affair across the board.
    They see me, they move to greet me. Harold has fallen from the car, a wounded man he staggers too, but from injury as opposed to affliction. I walk quickly to the front door, I do not run, one must take ones time come the end of days, lest the sun sets too quickly on our demise.
    When I open the door Harold has gone, replaced by something that looks like Harold. “Where is Molly?” I ask it. No answer comes the reply. Harold has gone grey and his eyes have begun to bleed. My attempts to slam the door are futile. Now I do run, the time for prim and proper has been and gone.
    I return to the living room and consider drawing the curtains, for quite a crowd of red eyed spectators has gathered at the watching window. They tap upon the clean, clean glass. The glass does not have my resolve, it weakens in many