The Widow At Number Ten

There were many secrets to unpack in this old house

- JACK JORDAN

Amanda stood outside the house on Church Street with a take-away coffee in one hand, rubbing her eyes awake with the other. She had been a professional mover for over six months.

Her body ached in places she didn't know she could ache, and she perspired more than she ever knew she could.

She'd started the job in the deceitfully cool spring, before sweating the summer away lugging people's belongings back and forth from the truck. Now the leaves were falling, dead and crisp, before turning to mulch on the ground whenever it rained; a deadly obstacle course to master while carrying furniture. Although it had only been six months, Amanda knew she hated the job more than any other trade she had tried.

The accumulation of the early mornings, heavy lifting, and the clients' sexist comments - what's a little thing like you doing a big job like this? - was enough to make her dread each new day.

She would finish every day bone tired and slump on the sofa to catch up on the latest crime show everyone was buzzing about, only to fall asleep during the opening credits.

Then it was a new day, and with it a new client. An endless, tortuous time loop she found herself stuck in with no clear way out. The shifts seemed to grow longer, too, and the clients' patience became shorter. Amanda wondered which would be first to give: her back or her temper.

All she had to do was hold out another month or two. When she wasn't moving belongings or falling asleep prematurely on the sofa, she was applying for job after job in graphic design. She had spent so many years getting her masters in the competitive field; she just had to keep going until a door finally opened.

Her last interview had gone well, she thought. She just had to hope and pray they chose her for the role.