The Brick
It was 9.45am. Despite the time, it was already hot and humid. It was going to be a scorcher. In a corner of the garden under the shade of a chestnut tree, Jerry Carruthers sat on the old park bench. Despite his height of 6’ 6’ his solid stature folded comfortably into the rickety seat. The morning edition of the Daily Tribune stretched out before him, as did Lofty, his old Labrador.
“Pew, Lofty old mate that’s a bit ripe” Jerry said. “Must have been that left over stew you gobbled up for breakkie.”
“Hello, hello, are you there Mr Hawthorn? I can’t hear you!!”
The sound of his wife’s voice cut through the peace and quiet like a knife edge. Through the back door of the house Jerry could see Maisy pacing the long hallway. Her shoes clicked relentlessly as she crossed the wooden floor. Stubby fingers with red painted nails clutched the cordless phone in one hand and a lipstick tainted Marlboro in other. She held the handset close to her ruby red lips which contorted with each strangled word. Her hair wrapped tightly around velcro curlers was stuffed under an old hairnet. The well-worn floral house coat ballooned around her as she sashayed up and down impatiently. Although he loved her he had to admit she looked a fright.
Jerry uncrossed his legs and stretched them out. He supposed it was time to think about packing.
“Mr Hawthorn?? You promised you would have Mother here by 10. You know we have to be in the city mid afternoon and it’s a long drive. Where is she Mr Hawthorn?”
Moments later Jerry heard Maisy slam the phone down. She marched towards the open back door muttering to herself. Jerry took cover behind the newspaper.
“Jerry, where the hell are you??” Maisy’s sharp acid tones erupted as she emerged from the house, crashing the external flyscreen against its frame. Maisy stormed down the rear stairs, hands on hips, cigarette smoke and ash floating in her wake.
“Over here love, with Lofty.” The dog cowered against Jerry’s leg as she approached.
“What do you think you’re doing, eh? 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. He told me his son is bringing her over. “Very reliable” he said. 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 soothing 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 all worked up.”
“Worked up?? Worked up?? I’ll give you worked up if she’s not here in the next 5 minutes.”
Beads of perspiration clung to the not so fine hair crowning Maisy’s upper lip. Her face had turned beetroot red. Her poor heart must be pumping overtime, Jerry thought.
“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. Jerry drew a deep breath and exhaled with a sigh.
“Come on boy. We’d better jump to it.” Jerry said as he hoisted himself out of the bench and headed towards the house.
Minutes later the door chimes echoed through the house. As Jerry entered the coolness of the interior, Maisy galloped to the front door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.”
Maisy stopped abruptly at the hall mirror to check her reflection. Having composed herself she peered through the small eye hole. Signaling to Jerry to join her, Maisy opened the door just wide enough for her pumped up lips to protrude.
“Who the hell are you?” She demanded aggressively.
“Mrs Carruthers is it?” The reply came in an educated intonation.
From behind Maisy at the door, Jerry was surprised to see a biker heavily tattooed with ghastly coloured depictions of women and wild looking animals. A biker’s jacket hung over one shoulder. Behind him a very large motorbike was parked on the front lawn. Jerry could sense the temperature rising. She must be about to explode, he thought. Her neatly manicured lawn, mowed to perfection, desecrated by this young layabout!
Maisy pulled herself up more straightly as she replied in a regal tone “Yes, I am. Who might you be and state your business?”
“I’m Bob. I’ve come to deliver the brick”. Bob opened a satchel and pulled out a large rectangular object which he extended towards Mrs Carruthers.
“The brick?” Maisy said as she looked in puzzlement, one eyebrow raised 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? Oh my god, so this is …..” Maisy’s jaw dropped.
“Your mother remains.” Bob interjected nodding. Maisy let out a gasp.
Jerry moved forward intending to offer support as Maisy flushed, 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. It was all Jerry could do to contain himself as he rushed down the steps and tried to 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 shrunk back into the grass having realized further struggling was fruitless.
Jerry assisted his uncooperative wife to her feet. Her hairnet and curlers were in disarray. Free of the not inconsiderable weight, Bob hoisted himself back to his feet and retreated to his bike.
“Your crazy.” He muttered. His machine burst into life under the pressure of the automatic start button. Maisy spontaneously burst into tears.
Jerry looked after Bob as he accelerated across the lawn grinding a deep groove through the buffalo grass and disappeared at high speed. With a loving arm around her shoulder, Jerry tried to comfort the blubbering Maisy.
“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. What on earth will they think at the memorial service?” 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. Maisy looked up at him, her faced contorted with confusion. She followed Jerry’s gaze to where the brick had settled at the bottom of the shallow fish pond, a casualty of the tussle with Bob.
Jerry waded into the pond and handed the sopping but secure brick to Maisy. “Come on love. Bring your mother inside and let’s get cracking. There’ll be no show without Punch!”
Jerry went to quickly pack and fetch Maisy’s luggage while she changed into her travelling ensemble. Packing light was a concept Maisy had not managed to grasp. Jerry struggled to the car with Maisy’s two matching leopard skin suitcases and toiletry bag. Despite the generous boot there was barely room for his one duffle bag.
“Lovely Darling Lovely.” Jerry said enthusiastically trying to lighten the mood as Maisy thumped down the steps in her purple mock velvet leisure suit with patent leather pumps.
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, her talons biting into the flesh, “Stop!”
Jerry slammed on the brakes, hurling them both forward, seatbelts stretched to the limit. Lofty crashed into the back of the front seat and the suitcases rolled in the boot. Maisy’s, her face contorted with fury.
“Where’s mum?”
Without a word or a moment’s hesitation, Jerry threw his arm across the back of the seat and reversed at high speed towards the house.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
I really love the story. It's clever and you'd certainly never know until the end that the brick is Mum. It's a very compelling read. The ending is good.
Re the beginning. It's a bit lame and descriptive. Rather than being in the middle of action. How about starting it with Maisy's voice and the sound of her voice cutting through the peace and quiet like a knife edge (good phrase) and I can hear that steely voice. Then have Jerry being interrupted (maybe he was nodding off) and then the rest of the 1st para.
On POV there are some bits that still are from Maisy's POV, eg The whole para about Maisy in the hall is not right from Jerry's POV unless he is in the garden, but right by the doorway where he can see into the hall. Maybe on the verandah.
Can Jerry see her pumped up lips?? as she opens the front door.
I think you need to clarify that Maisy is on the phone re the call to Mr Hawthorn. I assumed at first glance that Maisy was talking to Jerry when she was on the phone.
I'm not sure about the bit ripe phrase with Lofty. Not sure if it's relevant to the story.
There's a couple of spelling mistakes and your instead of you're. Just re-read again.
It really is a fascinating story, so creative, where on earth did you get the idea. Your character portrays are fantastic - Maisy is such a character. As well as Jerry and Bob. Well done.
Peta I found the plot of this short story to be priceless. I’m reading along wondering about Mum being brought over by Mr. Hawthorn’s son and trying to figure out what’s happening. Then this biker arrives and it gets even more curious. Who is this person and what does he have to do with the story? And suddenly it turns out that he’s delivered Mum and that Mum is dead and that Mum is the brick who is in the title of the story and it all becomes clear and very funny. Now you introduce some concepts into this story that I must admit are beyond my experiences and I take it on faith that our loved ones are now turned into bricks out of their ashes. And you add a wonderful and black bit of comedy in having a biker do the delivering. So where’s the hearse? Etc. But never mind. What you do with it is wonderfully surreal and something a bit out of Monty Python.
So I would go back now and build up everything else around frantic, shrill Maisy from Jerry’s POV. Too much of your prose doesn’t go along with the rest of the story. I’m with Sue about the opening. Too much detail and too irrelevant to the story. Who care’s that it’s hot, or that it’s 9:45, or that Jerry is 6 foot 6 or that he has a dog that farts. All we want to see from Jerry’s POV is Maisy scurrying about frantically. Start building the suspense and the tension with words appropriate to that. I think the story should begin with Jerry coming out of his newspaper to the sound of her voice. And expand on that.
Also the story needs continuity. Maisy is gruff and aggressive. She would certainly gallop down the hallway to the door but she would never stop in her agitated state of mind to look in the mirror or timidly peep through the eye hole to see who it is. She would throw the door open and then roar “Who the hell are you?”. And I wouldn’t have the biker’s reply come in an educated intonation. He’s a biker, not a Harvard graduate. In a much longer short story this could be fun, but there’s no time for that. Have him be your stereo-type biker.
And the scene then with Bob, Maisy and Jerry is so good, so shocking. The rest of the story forward and backward from this must match the tone and spirit. But again with the continuity, I wouldn’t have “pressure of the automatic start button” in the text. Just have him kick his Harley into life and spin out of there.
At that point the story should wind down quickly. Nice touch at the end as Jerry realizes he forgot Mum. But lose the paragraph about the luggage and the packing and the leopard skin suitcases. Not germane to the story. In fact why not have it simply be that Jerry and Maisy are simply driving to the wake and service at the local community hall. Maisy is too cheap to spring for a real funeral so they are doing a “do-it-yourself” one. The packing for some unexplained drive is too confusing.
It’s got the sound of a winner with a bit more work.
Heather says:
Hi Peta,
What an imaginative story!
I like your title, which I understood first as referring to Jerry the Brick and then loved having it double as Mum the Brick.
Just because of the title, I was hoping that Maisy might push Jerry across a line somewhere, whereupon he breaks free and the title becomes ironic as well.
Your four characters (I’m including the dog) are all really fun and delightfully drawn.
I really missed something with the packing up, which might just be being a bit thick. I’m not clear at all about where they are going or why Mum is going along. It’s driving me nuts because I know it’s important but haven’t got the point!
There are quite a few punctuation errors – I’d be happy to edit your final version if you’d like.
The story is lots of fun – go for it!
Post a Comment