Part 41: A mysterious woman…

To all, Penelope was a mysterious woman.

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Dreary November came around. With it arrived chilling showers and gusty winds. Yellow leaves twisted and fell, pillowing in drifts and smelling dank. Bark peeled from trees, exposing gashes of bare wood, wet and sickly pale.

The lane behind Flintstone Terrace, where Penelope lived at number three, became greasy with fallen leaves and tufts of scruffy grass stems. The terrace’s brickwork was always damp now. When it didn’t rain, mists bound the world in a grip of soggy suffocation.

In the slate and dismal twilights, Penelope still wandered The Stables’ lanes and muddy paths. Her step was slack with the magnitude of her meditation and she shunned contact with Bert. Her wrinkled black overcoat hung like a sack, her collar turned up, an umbrella always in her hand, ready to fend off the rain. To all, Penelope was a mysterious woman.

As she strolled, she entertained notions of her affairs. She saw there was something beyond the rational existence of food and bed. A supernatural world lurked behind her musings that made materialism seem ridiculous. It called to her, promising knowledge of the secrets of life.

But her thoughts troubled her. She had sinned, and some day she must repent. The stolen money didn’t bother her; she could see she’d received it so she could lead this life of contemplation.

What bothered her was the ingratitude to Mr Styles, and Bert, and to the people who trusted her. She was the most miserable of sinners. Voices in her head spoke to her, some applauding her courage, some rebuking—.
 
To be continued… 
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The real world:
 
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Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
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