‘In the oval flower-bed the snail, whose shell had been stained red, blue and yellow for the space of two minutes or so, now appeared to be moving very slightly in its shell, and next began to labour over the crumbs of loose earth which broke away and rolled down as it passed over them.’ (‘Kew Gardens’, Virginia Woolf)

Nothing to go on, and Mr. Jarvis mentioned nowhere, not even on her shopping list. Why would he be? The chemist was the most ordinary of places: somewhere to buy Epsom salts and soap; cough tincture and lavender sachets to line her drawers; aspirin for her throbbing muscles, her aching head, her tired heart. ‘Good Morning, Mr. Jarvis!’ The same old reel, around and around it went. A few faint outlines, the bridge of a nose, a face turned sideways towards a dark recess. Mr. Jarvis? Are you there? Nothing to go on. Poor Edith, it was all rubbed out.

Poor Edith. Is that what she has come to? Poor pitiful Edith who does not have a rich story of loss like Dorothy, or even Henry with his war, which is a big thing and never ends and still we can recall, even those of us who were not there — because we learnt it at school. Poor Edith who does not have the charm of Mr. Jarvis and his shop; or the mystery of the man in the garden fixing up the pond, the symbol of his rake. Her life is running thin, but perhaps it was thin to begin with, some lives just are . . . dwindling …. a ball of wool running to it end; or that snail I picked up this morning from the floor. I put it outside and I think of Edith; I think of someone looking for a home. Edith is my character, I invented her, but the truth is I did not. I carried her over, I borrowed her from somewhere else; put her down upon the ground from my window ledge. Because no one fully invents anything new. None of us is a true original. Some bright spark had ideas before me and her writing is full of flashes, glimpses and glances, a fleeting image or two before she moves on. . .. Edith, are you there?

How our minds dart and wander, and I wonder, how much attention do we really pay to any living thing? It is hard to truly know another life and perhaps it hurts to know. Our heart aches and so we turn away. You know the feeling, it is a kind of rheumatism, and there is not much to go on unless you rub and rub your hands together until they confess. But who wants that? Does anyone really want a downpour of feeling? We are too concerned with our own life to notice Edith.

And yet, I am sure there are Ediths everywhere. That snail crossing your window ledge, your front door. Mine is wide open and so she came in -- I see she’s left a trail -- I must clean up. Where is my cloth? Over the sink hanging across the tap; she is a skin drying out. Today it is pink, tomorrow it will be blue — hot and cold —- life lies among fluctuating details. Light hitting the sink, the shape and touch of things, and my cloth, soft and furry, is a little ball of caterpillar in my hand. I roll and unroll it wondering when it will come out, when will she emerge? I am sure she is there, though she frays, poor thing. I reach down and wipe off the silvery traces. Soon, all evidence of her will be gone and I wonder what sort of life she had and whether she can see me — my hand, my pink cloth upon the floor dabbing and dabbing, rubbing her out. After all, it was a very small affair, a snail crossing the floor. I might have crushed her, but I didn’t. I carried her over and set her down elsewhere.