Mary-Mary – who was quite contrary – woke up planning to check her garden and how it was growing but found herself staring at her feet instead. During the night a tattoo of delicate ivy had entwined itself around one of her her ankles. The left.
She hadn’t asked for a tattoo and she had no memory of visiting, or being visited by a tattooist. She checked the calendar - Christmas was still some weeks away, no angel had come down during the night and it wasn’t her birthday, so the ink appeared to be an immaculate conception. Since the ivy was both delicate and artistically imagined she decided she liked It and chose to wear sandals with no socks even though the temperature outside was well below zero. Then, having dressed the rest of her elsewhere in complementary greens, she went about her day.
The postwoman was the first person to notice and the first one to pass comment.
“I see you have a tattoo,” she remarked, suppressing a giggle which caused her to choke and handing Mary-Mary a small envelope.
“Did it hurt?”
“I didn’t feel a thing,” Mary-Mary replied.
“It looks sweet,” the postwoman said, winking before walking away.
Mary-Mary watched her, admiring the way she walked and wondered whether the wink meant anything. At the end of the street the woman turned and waved. Mary-Mary, slightly embarrassed to be caught watching, waved back and hurried inside. Closing the door behind her she leant against it, unconsciously making it more difficult for a forced entry to occur, and considered the package in her hands. Turning it over she saw here address and her name, most of it at least. Mary-M.Most of the people she knew used the full form, usually adding at least a part of the children’s nursery rhyme. Her mother - despite naming her - preferred her pet-name peanut. This had encouraged her brother, who had simply chosen M,to experiment for a week with M and M.
“Where’s your sister?”
“M and M’s out.”
“No, there’s a packet in the cupboard. But I want the blue ones.”
Everyone except him, got tired of the joke pretty quickly and one day Mary-Mary stamped on his foot.
“Mary-Mary, my name’s Mary. So good they named me twice. Cut out the M, drop the M&M and call me Mary. Or I’ll stamp on your other foot.”
He thought about addressing here as Eyelle Stampuont’otherfoot, but seeing the menace in her eyes he thought better of it.
“Mary-Mary, you know I love you don’t you?”
She did.
“I’ll call you Mary-Mary from now on. Sometimes I’ll even drop the from-now-on.”
Then he had stepped back to make sure he was at least two feet away, so it was clear to her now that this package could not be from him. Like the tattoo it would remain a mystery until she opened it. She opened it.
It contained a folded piece of paper on which was written:
With silver bells and cockle shells.
Nothing else.
No signature, no stamped addressed envelope and no return address.
She folded it back into the envelope, stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her jacket hanging on the back of the door, and walked along the corridor to the kitchen.
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