The Brick - Peta

The Brick

It was 9.45am. Maisy Carruthers paced the long hallway. Stubby fingers with talon like red nails clutched the cordless phone in one hand and a lipstick tainted Benson and Hedges in other. Over dyed hair sat high on Maisy’s head wrapped tightly around velcro curlers stuffed under an old hairnet. Her trade mark floral house coat ballooned around her as she sashayed up and down impatiently.

“Hello, hello, are you there Mr Hawthorn? I can’t hear you!!” Maisy screamed into the handset. The only response was the crackling of a bad connection. Silence followed.

“Mr Hawthorn?? Where is my mother?? You promised you would have her here by 10am. You are well aware we have to get to Trabillo to catch a flight at 5 to Monton. Where is she Mr Hawthorn?”

“Yes I can hear you, Mrs Carruthers, but it’s a very bad line. Please calm down. I was trying to say your mother is on her way as we speak. She’s with my son. He’s very trustworthy. I am sure they will be there very soon. He’s very reliable.”

“He had better be!” Maisy slammed the phone down and marched towards the open back door muttering about incompetence.

Despite the time, it was already hot and humid. It was going to be a scorcher and the seven hour drive to Trabillo would be unbearable. The old Landrover’s air con had given up the ghost months before and despite the mercury often peaking above 100 degrees in Saratoga, it remained unrepaired. Jerry had not yet gotten around to it. Just another bugbear on Maisy’s very long list.

Jerry Carruthers sat on the old park bench under the shade of the chestnut tree in the far corner of the garden. He was reading the morning edition of the Daily Tribune. Lofty, his old faithfully labrador sat close by his side, slobbering over his brown polished boots and letting off occasionally as a result of an enthusiastic breakfast of left over stew. Despite his height of 6’ 6’ Jerry’s solid stature folded comfortably into the seat. He was a tall and handsome man, a reality lost on Maisy after 32 years of marriage, 4 children and a failed business for which Jerry was solely to blame. In her eyes at any rate.

“Jerry, where the hell are you??” Maisy’s sharp acid tones pierced the peace and quiet as she emerged from the house, crashing the external flyscreen against its frame. The serenity of the moment lost.

“Jerreeeeeeeee?”

Lofty cowered under the bench despite an empathetic pat from his master.

“Yes dear, over here with Lofty.”

Maisy stormed down the rear stairs, hands on hips, cigarette smoke and ash floating in her wake.

“What do you think you’re doing. There’s no time for sitting around, reading the paper and drinking cups of tea. Mum will be here soon and we’ll have to leave straight away. We’re already behind schedule. That bloody Mr Hawthorn. Mum should have been here ages ago. I knew you should have picked up her up. If only you would listen to me some times. But no. Why the hell do I bother!”

“Calm down dear.” Jerry said in a deep gentle voice. “No point getting your knickers in a knot. I am sure she’ll arrive soon and we’ve plenty of time. Why don’t you sit down for 5 minutes and relax. No point getting worked up over things you cannot control.”

“Worked up?? Worked up?? I’ll give you worked up if she’s not here in the next 5 minutes.”

Maisy’s face had turned beetroot red as her blood pressure soared. Beads of perspiration clung to the not so fine hair crowning her upper lip.

“Have you even packed? ……….Don’t even bother answering I can see by that pathetic look on your face that it would be too much to expect that you could do something for yourself for a change.”

Maisy turned on her heels and marched back to the house. The interior coolness a welcome relief. Minutes later the door chimes echoed through the house. Maisy galloped to the front door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.”

Maisy stopped abruptly at the hall mirror checking her reflection. Composing herself she peered through the small eye hole. On the other side of the heavy oak door, stood a long haired lout. He was heavily tattoo with ghastly coloured depictions of women and wild looking animals. A biker’s jacket hung over one shoulder. Behind him she could see a very large motorbike parked on her front lawn. Her temperature rose still further. Her head was about to explode as she contemplated the damage he’d no doubt done to her neatly manicured lawn, mowed to perfection. How dare this young layabout take such liberties!

Ensuring the chain was securely latched, Maisy opened the door just wide enough for her pumped up lips to protrude.

“Who the hell are you? And what do you want here?” She demanded aggressively.

The hooligan was clearly taken aback by Maisy’s outrage.

“Mrs Carruthers is it?” he said with a surprisingly educated intonation and a wicked smile.

Pulling herself up more straightly she replied “Yes, I am. Who might you be and state your business?” Maisy made her way through the door towards the man.

“I’m Bob. I’ve come to deliver the brick” Bob opened a satchel, pulled out a large rectangular object which he extended towards Mrs Carruthers.

“The brick?” Maisy said as she looked in puzzlement at the outstretched article wrapped in what appeared to be butcher’s paper.

“I’m sorry. Who are you again and what is this?”

“Bob. Bob Hawthorn, Mr Hawthorn’s son.”

“Mr Hawthorn? So this is …..”

“Your mother remains.” Bob interjected nodding.

Maisy came over flushed and lightheaded, lost her balance and fell most inelegantly forward into Bob knocking them both onto the lawn. It was a frenzy of floral dress and leather jacket as arms flailed about, legs and torsos twisting. Having heard the commotion, Jerry emerged through the front door, rushed down the steps and tried to help separate the two squirming bodies.

“Get your hands off of me you big oaf.” Maisy yelled hysterically.

“I was just trying to help darling.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, you idiot, I was talking to him.”

Bob, who had tried equally frantically to release himself from Maisy's vice-like grip, gave up and relaxed back into the cool grass. Struggling was clearly fruitless.

Jerry managed to assist his uncooperative wife to her feet. Her hairnet and curlers in disarray. Free of the not inconsiderable weight of Mrs Carruthers, Bob hoisted himself back to his feet and retreated to his bike.

“Your crazy.” He muttered as his machine burst into life under the pressure of the automatic start button.

Maisy spontaneously burst into tears as Jerry retrieved the brick from the fish pond where it had fallen in the tussle.

“I was rather expecting something more ceremonious for mother. An urn or something. Not a bloody brick. Mother would roll in her grave – if she had one.” She snivelled.

“It’s the way they do it these days dear. Less accidents. Which as it turns out is a good thing. Otherwise the goldfish would be nibbling on your mother at this very moment.” Jerry smirked and stifled a giggle. Lucky for Jerry, Maisy was preoccupied watching Bob as he mounted his bike, accelerated across the lawn grinding a deep groove through the buffalo grass as he sped off. Maisy threw her hands in the air with disgust.

Spinning back towards the house, Maisy grabbed the brick from Jerry.

“Come one Jerry, we can’t stand around all day. Pack up the car and lets be off. If we miss the flight we won’t make mum’s memorial service and there’s no show without Punch!”

Entering the house, Maisy carefully placed the brick on the hall table. While Maisy quickly changed into her travelling ensemble, a purple leisure suit of mock velvet teamed with patent leather pumps, Jerry was ushered off to the bedroom to fetch the luggage. It was in Maisy’s nature to overdo everything and she had yet to learn the art of packing lightly. Jerry loaded up the car with Maisy’s two matching leopard skin suitcases and toiletry bag rather excessive for a long weekend. There was barely room for his one duffle bag.

It was 10.30, half an hour behind schedule, before the old Landrover ambled out the drive of 43 Oak Street. Jerry settled in for the long trip and adjusted the radio to his favourite easy listening channel. Maisy grabbed his arm, nails sinking into the flesh, “Stop! Where’s mum?”

Jerry slammed on the brakes, hurling them both forward, seatbelts stretched to the limit. The suitcases rolled in the back of the wagon. Jerry looked briefly at Maisy, her face contorted with fury. Without hesitation or a word to Maisy, Jerry threw his arm across the back of the seat and reversed at high speed towards the house.