“That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m getting rid of the stupid things,” he shouted at me.
He spoke with such vehemence that his spittle splashed onto my cheek. I recoiled, shocked by his uncalled-for tirade, and pushed myself hard against the car door in an attempt to avoid any more spit. I thought of the germs dripping down my face as I waited for his next volley of rage. I am very particular about hygiene and specially avoid contamination from body fluids. My bottle of anti-bacterial lotion was in the shelf by his knee and therefore out of my reach at this time. I would be all right as long as I didn’t lick my lips. I sat tight-lipped, wishing he would come good with his promise and just get out of the car.
But he sat there in the driver’s seat fuming with anger. His fat, white hands were working furiously with one another, twisting, pressing against his knees, squeezing together. They reminded me of the ‘stupid things’ he had threatened to rip so violently from my care. His fingers were squirming live things, crawling over each other blindly, pressing down on each other. I had to look away. I could feel my stomach begin to turn.
“You tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” he added.
This time his voice had dropped ominously, sliding, hissing across the car seat between us. I felt dirtied by the hate in his words. They had a bitter, poisonous smell. I reacted instinctively by brushing something off my skirt, not wanting to have his poison settle on me. Nevertheless I nodded furiously, unable to open my mouth but acknowledging that I understood. He apparently took my response as acquiescence to something he had said and smiled grimly. It was a moment of comparative relaxation and I allowed myself to settle back into the seat a little. The door handle had been pressing sharply into my hip. I needed relief from the pain.
Seeing me relax, however imperceptibly, seemed to antagonize him again. He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. He was sneering aggressively. I pushed back and again the door handle sent a jab of pain into my hip. I could feel his hot breath. He smelled like the drunk he was, reminding me of stale cigarettes and late nights in the pub. I was repulsed.
“I’m taking them,” he shouted at close range.
He leaned back and undid his seatbelt. Twisting in his seat, he reached over to the back seat and picked up the basket. I heard the faint, nervous mewing. He climbed out of the car. With one last look in, he communicated the full slug of his vicious intent.
The car door slammed shut.
Immediately I pulled the antiseptic from the shelf and scrubbed my face vigorously with a tissue. I leaned back in the seat and took some deep breaths. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that he had left the keys in the ignition. This was my opportunity to get away.
I scrambled across the seat, anxious to be gone before he realized. My whole body was trembling violently as I turned the key in the ignition. The car shuddered, lurched forward, and then stalled abruptly before I could jam my sluggish foot on the clutch. My chin bumped against the steering wheel causing my lip to split. The vile metallic taste of blood made me cough convulsively. I turned the key again but the car had flooded. Useless.
I slumped in my seat trying not to think of the sinister activities taking place outside. My tears were as much for myself, for my own uselessness, as they were for the kittens. I had only myself to blame for my life. I had been told often enough how stupid I was. I ripped a tissue out of the box and jabbed angrily at my eyes. I threw it to the floor and tore out another to blow my nose loudly.
I was wrenched from my misery by the explosive sound of shattering glass. A brick-sized rock had landed on the back seat amidst a scattering of glass shards from the rear window.
He was still out there in the darkness.
I spun round to lock the door beside me but was shocked to see him already there, his hairy face looming at the window. He pulled open the door.
“I’m gonna kill two birds with one stone,” he snarled. “Them and you.”
He grabbed my arm viciously, twisting it painfully. My body reacted immediately to his physical contact. I clamped my teeth into his fat fingers and lashed out at him with my free arm as I tumbled out of the car. He let go of me with a yelp, giving me the space to jump to my feet and catch him off guard with a blow to the legs. He crashed to the ground. I kicked at him but he grabbed my foot and pulled me down with him. I managed to knee him in the stomach as I fell, winding him temporarily. It was enough for me to twist out of his grasp and scramble to my feet. My breath was coming in ragged gasps as I edged away. And ran.
The single light illuminating the end of the jetty was sufficient for me to make out the basket on the bank. I could hear his shuffling footsteps on the gravel behind me. I bent down and grabbed the basket, sensing its comforting weight and the movement of life inside. Running again, sobbing, I scrambled up the bank and out on to the road, clutching my precious cargo.
Pausing at the top to catch my breath, I turned to see him below, immobile, stripped of his power.
"Damn you," I shot down at him, my chest heaving. "We're gonna be alright."
I knew I would never return home.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Web wonders
The once sharp edges of the high Saharan dunes melt into the yellowy sky. The wind swirls and cavorts around the camels, lashes at their hobbled legs and creates a spiralling whirlwind of sand and dust as it heads for the shelter. Harry pulls the colourful blankets over his head to ward off the ferocious needles of sand so only his nostrils engage with the onslaught.
The sand waves gradually stand still, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer, the camel train leader, peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with sunken cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth. Harry grins back, stares at the sand, virginal and clean, and notices the camels standing patiently, ready to leave. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, he moves down the line checking the camels’ backs for his canvas duffle bag
“Mussafer, Moooo Saaaaa fer” he yells.
“For God’s sake man, where is Fanny? Didn’t you hobble her to Jasper?”
“Yes Master. Yes, there’s Jasper.”
“Yes, but where is Fanny? Where are my clothes, where are my shoes?”
“Gone Master.”
“Gone! What do you mean gone?”
“She’s disappeared with the sand riders.”
“What?” he’d never heard of the sand riders.
“They are the Spirits in the storm. It’s no good, your clothes have disappeared forever.”
“Oh God” mumbles Harry. His legs turn to jelly and he collapses back into the sand.
“My shoes, not my shoes” he yells to no-one and everyone.
He pulls his Dishdashah around his body, hugging himself and protecting himself. His stomach catapults into his throat. He nearly chokes and his face feels hot and itchy. He tries to imagine no shoes.
“Bare feet! You’ve got to be kidding!” his mind vibrates.
“Mussafer, I can’t.”
“Can’t what Master?”
“Not have shoes. I’ve got to cover my feet.”
Mussafer’s two back gold teeth glisten in the sun as his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause. Mussafer’s eyes see through to Harry’s soul.
“Here master, have my sandals.”
“What about my ...?” and he stops short of mentioning his ugly left foot.
Harry takes a deep breath and reminds himself why he’s in the desert. All his life he had travelled to the ends of the earth to source exotic and unique pairs of shoes. The invitation to join a camel train to Timbuktu to find a pair of jewel-studded leather shoes had been too good an opportunity to miss.
******
The trio are almost to Timbuktu and Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting inside a Bedouin tent with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. The hut is obviously set up to share. Three grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls with striped blankets piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room.
“Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast.”
Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll and tears seep down his cheeks to sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face.
“It’s our custom Master. It warms the spirit, disperses evil thoughts and relaxes the mind.”
He moves towards the steaming bowls and cautiously guides his robes over his feet. He manoeuvres off the dirty old sandals, his socks long gone, feet now bare.
“Shit, oh no” Harry yells as the little low stool falls backwards and he lands flat on his back, with all, yes all exposed.
Mussafer hoots and cackles. Harry whimpers and whines like a lost puppy.
“Up you get Master, no harm done” and Mussafer helps him to his feet and pats him gently on the back.
“Weird” Harry thinks “he didn’t say anything about my foot.”
Harry relaxes, closes his eyes and day dreams about the Arab shoes.
******
The Royal Palace drips with gold. Lush red velvet drapes hang behind an ornate high-backed chair and potted palm trees line the pearl inlaid floor. King Maimon has his audience enthralled.
“You’re not a prince. You can’t go. Next please.”
“Wait, I must, please, I need those shoes. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay, I’m rich” replies Harry.
“No, the next part of the journey is only for princes.”
“Look, I have diamonds” and Harry opens a little blue velvet pouch and gently shakes the contents onto a low table. They twinkle in the candle light.
King Maimon hesitates, he stutters a quiet “No” but at the same time he peers greedily through the flickering light.
“And rubies.” Harry rushes on pretending not to hear. The red stars join the silver jewels in a kaleidoscope of bouncing light. He watches the King’s eyes widen and glow. The room has gone dead quiet. Harry can sense his own breath as it beats a drum in his temples.
“No, no, no. I will not be bribed” yells King Maimon.
“I can give you camels. I can buy you girls. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Go away, Harry. Just leave. There’s not a place for you in the camel train.”
Harry’s shoulders droop. If he was a dog, his tail would be down and his ears flat against his head. He would slouch into the shadows.
Then Mussafer pipes up. “Master, Master, show him your feet. Go on.”
“My feet!”
“Yes Master.”
“My feet, my feet, why my feet?”
“Master there’s something you don’t know about those shoes.”
“Oh”
“A long, long time ago there was an Arab prince who commissioned a special pair of shoes is made for him.”
“So”
“He had webbed feet. Or rather his left two little toes were webbed.”
“What. What did you say?” Harry feels his face soften and relax. “Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide his ugly feet?”
“No, no, no. The prince wanted shoes that would highlight the webbed toes, show them off to the world. So between each toe the leather was stitched and detailed with gems, then the two left ones which were bare, were studded with diamonds.”
“Harry you have a webbed foot. Go on, show the King your beautiful feet.”
The people from the King’s village and princes from all around the world bend in towards Harry like trees escaping the wind.
Like statues, no-one moves.
Images of the jewellery studded soft leather shoes and his ugly deformed foot jostle in his mind as it works out which is the most important.
“Come on Master” encourages Mussafer.
“I must have those shoes” he mutters as he slowly guides his Dishdashah away from his feet.
The crowd bend forward again. Harry can feel their breath on his face and soft silk robes brush against his legs.
“He’s a prince” yells the crowd. “Let’s party, let’s celebrate. Long live our new prince.”
“What do you mean?” says Harry. He can feel himself starting to roast.
King Maimon rises. The crowd quietens. Harry stops breathing.
“It is written that only princes have webbed feet. Prince Harry, welcome to my Kingdom. Now you can join us on the camel train to find the Prince’s shoes.”
“Wow” is about all Harry is capable of mustering.
All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How he’s spent his life being embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet. How he has run away from relationships. How he’s had such a thing about feet and shoes that it’s driven his career, shaped his travels, dictated his wardrobe and perverted his life.
He breathes. He can feel each breath getting longer and deeper. He can feel the muscles in his back relax and sigh in relief. He can feel his face getting younger, his mouth becomes soft and his lips slightly curve in a smile.
Life does a cartwheel.
“A prince, you’ve got to be kidding.” He bursts out laughing. He laughs at the prince thing. He laughs at his feet. He laughs because he’s in the middle of the desert. He laughs as he imagines wearing those shoes. He just laughs until his stomach has such an ache that tears start running down his face.
“Just imagine. I could arrive at Heathrow Airport with webbed feet and toes studded with diamonds.” He bends over almost double as the giggles come back. The Royal Palace erupts in a cacophony of laughter and shouting.
The sand waves gradually stand still, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer, the camel train leader, peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with sunken cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth. Harry grins back, stares at the sand, virginal and clean, and notices the camels standing patiently, ready to leave. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, he moves down the line checking the camels’ backs for his canvas duffle bag
“Mussafer, Moooo Saaaaa fer” he yells.
“For God’s sake man, where is Fanny? Didn’t you hobble her to Jasper?”
“Yes Master. Yes, there’s Jasper.”
“Yes, but where is Fanny? Where are my clothes, where are my shoes?”
“Gone Master.”
“Gone! What do you mean gone?”
“She’s disappeared with the sand riders.”
“What?” he’d never heard of the sand riders.
“They are the Spirits in the storm. It’s no good, your clothes have disappeared forever.”
“Oh God” mumbles Harry. His legs turn to jelly and he collapses back into the sand.
“My shoes, not my shoes” he yells to no-one and everyone.
He pulls his Dishdashah around his body, hugging himself and protecting himself. His stomach catapults into his throat. He nearly chokes and his face feels hot and itchy. He tries to imagine no shoes.
“Bare feet! You’ve got to be kidding!” his mind vibrates.
“Mussafer, I can’t.”
“Can’t what Master?”
“Not have shoes. I’ve got to cover my feet.”
Mussafer’s two back gold teeth glisten in the sun as his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause. Mussafer’s eyes see through to Harry’s soul.
“Here master, have my sandals.”
“What about my ...?” and he stops short of mentioning his ugly left foot.
Harry takes a deep breath and reminds himself why he’s in the desert. All his life he had travelled to the ends of the earth to source exotic and unique pairs of shoes. The invitation to join a camel train to Timbuktu to find a pair of jewel-studded leather shoes had been too good an opportunity to miss.
******
The trio are almost to Timbuktu and Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting inside a Bedouin tent with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. The hut is obviously set up to share. Three grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls with striped blankets piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room.
“Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast.”
Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll and tears seep down his cheeks to sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face.
“It’s our custom Master. It warms the spirit, disperses evil thoughts and relaxes the mind.”
He moves towards the steaming bowls and cautiously guides his robes over his feet. He manoeuvres off the dirty old sandals, his socks long gone, feet now bare.
“Shit, oh no” Harry yells as the little low stool falls backwards and he lands flat on his back, with all, yes all exposed.
Mussafer hoots and cackles. Harry whimpers and whines like a lost puppy.
“Up you get Master, no harm done” and Mussafer helps him to his feet and pats him gently on the back.
“Weird” Harry thinks “he didn’t say anything about my foot.”
Harry relaxes, closes his eyes and day dreams about the Arab shoes.
******
The Royal Palace drips with gold. Lush red velvet drapes hang behind an ornate high-backed chair and potted palm trees line the pearl inlaid floor. King Maimon has his audience enthralled.
“You’re not a prince. You can’t go. Next please.”
“Wait, I must, please, I need those shoes. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay, I’m rich” replies Harry.
“No, the next part of the journey is only for princes.”
“Look, I have diamonds” and Harry opens a little blue velvet pouch and gently shakes the contents onto a low table. They twinkle in the candle light.
King Maimon hesitates, he stutters a quiet “No” but at the same time he peers greedily through the flickering light.
“And rubies.” Harry rushes on pretending not to hear. The red stars join the silver jewels in a kaleidoscope of bouncing light. He watches the King’s eyes widen and glow. The room has gone dead quiet. Harry can sense his own breath as it beats a drum in his temples.
“No, no, no. I will not be bribed” yells King Maimon.
“I can give you camels. I can buy you girls. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Go away, Harry. Just leave. There’s not a place for you in the camel train.”
Harry’s shoulders droop. If he was a dog, his tail would be down and his ears flat against his head. He would slouch into the shadows.
Then Mussafer pipes up. “Master, Master, show him your feet. Go on.”
“My feet!”
“Yes Master.”
“My feet, my feet, why my feet?”
“Master there’s something you don’t know about those shoes.”
“Oh”
“A long, long time ago there was an Arab prince who commissioned a special pair of shoes is made for him.”
“So”
“He had webbed feet. Or rather his left two little toes were webbed.”
“What. What did you say?” Harry feels his face soften and relax. “Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide his ugly feet?”
“No, no, no. The prince wanted shoes that would highlight the webbed toes, show them off to the world. So between each toe the leather was stitched and detailed with gems, then the two left ones which were bare, were studded with diamonds.”
“Harry you have a webbed foot. Go on, show the King your beautiful feet.”
The people from the King’s village and princes from all around the world bend in towards Harry like trees escaping the wind.
Like statues, no-one moves.
Images of the jewellery studded soft leather shoes and his ugly deformed foot jostle in his mind as it works out which is the most important.
“Come on Master” encourages Mussafer.
“I must have those shoes” he mutters as he slowly guides his Dishdashah away from his feet.
The crowd bend forward again. Harry can feel their breath on his face and soft silk robes brush against his legs.
“He’s a prince” yells the crowd. “Let’s party, let’s celebrate. Long live our new prince.”
“What do you mean?” says Harry. He can feel himself starting to roast.
King Maimon rises. The crowd quietens. Harry stops breathing.
“It is written that only princes have webbed feet. Prince Harry, welcome to my Kingdom. Now you can join us on the camel train to find the Prince’s shoes.”
“Wow” is about all Harry is capable of mustering.
All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How he’s spent his life being embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet. How he has run away from relationships. How he’s had such a thing about feet and shoes that it’s driven his career, shaped his travels, dictated his wardrobe and perverted his life.
He breathes. He can feel each breath getting longer and deeper. He can feel the muscles in his back relax and sigh in relief. He can feel his face getting younger, his mouth becomes soft and his lips slightly curve in a smile.
Life does a cartwheel.
“A prince, you’ve got to be kidding.” He bursts out laughing. He laughs at the prince thing. He laughs at his feet. He laughs because he’s in the middle of the desert. He laughs as he imagines wearing those shoes. He just laughs until his stomach has such an ache that tears start running down his face.
“Just imagine. I could arrive at Heathrow Airport with webbed feet and toes studded with diamonds.” He bends over almost double as the giggles come back. The Royal Palace erupts in a cacophony of laughter and shouting.
Sunday 22 November 2009
The Brick - next draft by Peta
The Brick 1479 words
“Hello, hello, are you there Mr Hawthorn? I can’t hear you!!”
Maisy’s voice cut through the peace and quiet like a knife’s edge. Despite the early hour, Jerry Carruthers had drifted off on the garden bench. His wife’s acid tones brought him back to the here and now. Straightening up, he gathered the morning edition of the Daily Tribune which had fallen across his lap. Through the back door of the house Jerry could see Maisy talking on the cordless phone. He could see her stubby fingers with red painted nails clutching the 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. Impatiently, she started to pace the long hallway. The relentless clicking of her shoes on the wooden floor echoed through the early morning silence. Her hair was wrapped tightly around velcro curlers and stuffed under an old hairnet. The well-worn floral house coat ballooned around her as she strutted purposefully back and forth. Although he loved her, he had to admit she looked a fright. She was also clearly very upset.
“Mr Hawthorn?? You promised you would have Mother here by 10. Where is she Mr Hawthorn?”
Moments later Jerry heard a deep crunch as Maisy slammed the phone down into its cradle. An all too common occurrence these days he reflected. She needed to lighten up but there was no telling her. Jerry heard the familiar stomp of heavy heels as she marched towards the open back door.
“Jerry, where the hell are you?”
The fly screen door crashed against its frame as Maisy stormed out of the house, hands on her more than ample hips. A cloud of cigarette smoke floated in her wake.
Jerry took cover behind his paper and prepared for the onslaught he instinctively felt was imminent.
“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.”
The tirade continued. “He told me his son is bringing her over. “Very reliable” he said. Reliable my arse. I knew you should have picked up her up. If only you would listen to me some times. But no. You know best. Why the hell do I bother! Tell me that, eh?”
“Calm down Dear.” Jerry said in what he hoped to be a 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 a minute and relax. Stop 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. One of these days it will just explode. He had a fleeting vision of Maisy spread-eagled in a garden bed, body bouncing as he administered CPR. I really should book in for a first aid course, he thought.
“Yes that’s right just ignore me as usual.” Maisy admonished mistaking his daydreaming for apathy.
Maisy turned on her heels and head back into the house. Jerry drew a deep breath and exhaled with a sigh. He carefully raised himself out of the rickety old bench and followed after her. The cool interior of the house was a welcome relief from the rising temperature outside.
“What can I do to help you out, love?”
Maisy turned and looked at Jerry with distain. As her pumped up lips moved ready to speak, the shrill call of the door chimes echoed through the house.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Maisy yelled as she galloped to the front door. Jerry followed like an obedient puppy dog. The heavy oak door was no match for Maisy’s impatience as she threw it open.
“Who the hell are you?” Maisy demanded aggressively.
From behind Maisy, Jerry was surprised by the sight of their visitor. He was a big unit, a biker. His bare arms were heavily tattooed with ghastly colored depictions of women and wild looking animals. A leather jacket hung over one shoulder, a satchel on the other. Behind him Jerry noticed a very large motorbike parked on the front lawn, maybe a Harley, he wasn’t sure. Jerry clenched his teeth and bit his lip. The neatly manicured lawn, mowed to perfection, was Maisy’s pride and joy. The gateway to her castle, its care was her only physical pursuit. This was unlikely to go well, he thought.
“Mrs Carruthers is it?” Was the reply when it came.
Maisy pulled her shoulders back, as she stood akimbo in the doorway.
“Correct.” Maisy answered curtly. “And who might you be and what do you want?”
“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. She raised an eyebrow and stared at the outstretched article. It was 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’s son? Oh my god, so this is …..”
“Your mother’s remains.” Bob interjected nodding. Maisy’s jaw dropped. She let out a gasp and wobbled slightly.
Jerry moved forward to support Maisy. As he reached for her elbow, she lost her balance and fell inelegantly forward into Bob where he stood at the bottom of the steps. With the unexpected force of her weight, Bob reeled backwards. It was a frenzy of floral dress and leather jacket as arms flailed about, legs and torsos twisted uncomfortably. Jerry 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.”
“Not you, you idiot, him!”
Bob, who had been trying frantically to release himself from Maisy's vice-like grip, gave up and shrunk back into the grass. Further struggling was pointless.
Jerry assisted his uncooperative wife to her feet. Her hairnet and curlers were in disarray. Strands of her over dyed hair fell randomly loose. Free of Maisy’s not inconsiderable person, Bob hoisted himself back to his feet and retreated to his bike.
“You’re crazy.” He muttered as he gathered up his belongings strewn across the front garden. With one vicious kick his machine burst into life and Maisy burst into tears.
Jerry looked after Bob as he accelerated across the lawn grinding a deep groove through the buffalo grass, disappearing at high speed. Placing a loving arm around her shoulder, Jerry tried to comfort the blubbering Maisy.
“I was rather expecting something more ceremonious for mother. An elegant urn or something. Not a bloody box. Mother would roll in her grave – if she had one. What on earth will they think at the memorial service?” She sniveled.
“It’s the way they do it these days Dear. More secure, less accidents, which, as it turns out, is a good thing. Otherwise the goldfish would be nibbling on your mother’s ashes as we speak.”
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.
With Maisy verging on hysteria, Jerry waded into the pond and retrieved the box. The wrapping was a sopping mess but Jerry was thankful to discover the brick-like box was indeed watertight.
“Come on love.” Jerry said as he handed over the box. “We’d better get cracking. You mother’s memorial service starts in an hour and there’ll be no show without Punch!”
A short while later Maisy emerged from the house in all her finery, a determined look foxed firmly across her freshly made up face. Jerry was relieved to see the dark storm had lifted.
“You look lovely Darling.” he said with all the enthusiasm he could muster as he helped Maisy into the front seat of the idling automobile. Expertly Jerry maneuvered the car out of the narrow driveway and down the road.
Maisy grabbed his arm, nails biting into the flesh, “Stop!”
Jerry reacted immediately slamming on the brakes. The force hurled them forward, stretching the seatbelts to the limit. Jerry looked anxiously at his wife. Her face was contorted with fury.
“Where’s Mother?”
Without a word or hesitation, Jerry threw his arm across the back of the seat and reversed at high speed towards the house.
“Hello, hello, are you there Mr Hawthorn? I can’t hear you!!”
Maisy’s voice cut through the peace and quiet like a knife’s edge. Despite the early hour, Jerry Carruthers had drifted off on the garden bench. His wife’s acid tones brought him back to the here and now. Straightening up, he gathered the morning edition of the Daily Tribune which had fallen across his lap. Through the back door of the house Jerry could see Maisy talking on the cordless phone. He could see her stubby fingers with red painted nails clutching the 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. Impatiently, she started to pace the long hallway. The relentless clicking of her shoes on the wooden floor echoed through the early morning silence. Her hair was wrapped tightly around velcro curlers and stuffed under an old hairnet. The well-worn floral house coat ballooned around her as she strutted purposefully back and forth. Although he loved her, he had to admit she looked a fright. She was also clearly very upset.
“Mr Hawthorn?? You promised you would have Mother here by 10. Where is she Mr Hawthorn?”
Moments later Jerry heard a deep crunch as Maisy slammed the phone down into its cradle. An all too common occurrence these days he reflected. She needed to lighten up but there was no telling her. Jerry heard the familiar stomp of heavy heels as she marched towards the open back door.
“Jerry, where the hell are you?”
The fly screen door crashed against its frame as Maisy stormed out of the house, hands on her more than ample hips. A cloud of cigarette smoke floated in her wake.
Jerry took cover behind his paper and prepared for the onslaught he instinctively felt was imminent.
“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.”
The tirade continued. “He told me his son is bringing her over. “Very reliable” he said. Reliable my arse. I knew you should have picked up her up. If only you would listen to me some times. But no. You know best. Why the hell do I bother! Tell me that, eh?”
“Calm down Dear.” Jerry said in what he hoped to be a 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 a minute and relax. Stop 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. One of these days it will just explode. He had a fleeting vision of Maisy spread-eagled in a garden bed, body bouncing as he administered CPR. I really should book in for a first aid course, he thought.
“Yes that’s right just ignore me as usual.” Maisy admonished mistaking his daydreaming for apathy.
Maisy turned on her heels and head back into the house. Jerry drew a deep breath and exhaled with a sigh. He carefully raised himself out of the rickety old bench and followed after her. The cool interior of the house was a welcome relief from the rising temperature outside.
“What can I do to help you out, love?”
Maisy turned and looked at Jerry with distain. As her pumped up lips moved ready to speak, the shrill call of the door chimes echoed through the house.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Maisy yelled as she galloped to the front door. Jerry followed like an obedient puppy dog. The heavy oak door was no match for Maisy’s impatience as she threw it open.
“Who the hell are you?” Maisy demanded aggressively.
From behind Maisy, Jerry was surprised by the sight of their visitor. He was a big unit, a biker. His bare arms were heavily tattooed with ghastly colored depictions of women and wild looking animals. A leather jacket hung over one shoulder, a satchel on the other. Behind him Jerry noticed a very large motorbike parked on the front lawn, maybe a Harley, he wasn’t sure. Jerry clenched his teeth and bit his lip. The neatly manicured lawn, mowed to perfection, was Maisy’s pride and joy. The gateway to her castle, its care was her only physical pursuit. This was unlikely to go well, he thought.
“Mrs Carruthers is it?” Was the reply when it came.
Maisy pulled her shoulders back, as she stood akimbo in the doorway.
“Correct.” Maisy answered curtly. “And who might you be and what do you want?”
“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. She raised an eyebrow and stared at the outstretched article. It was 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’s son? Oh my god, so this is …..”
“Your mother’s remains.” Bob interjected nodding. Maisy’s jaw dropped. She let out a gasp and wobbled slightly.
Jerry moved forward to support Maisy. As he reached for her elbow, she lost her balance and fell inelegantly forward into Bob where he stood at the bottom of the steps. With the unexpected force of her weight, Bob reeled backwards. It was a frenzy of floral dress and leather jacket as arms flailed about, legs and torsos twisted uncomfortably. Jerry 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.”
“Not you, you idiot, him!”
Bob, who had been trying frantically to release himself from Maisy's vice-like grip, gave up and shrunk back into the grass. Further struggling was pointless.
Jerry assisted his uncooperative wife to her feet. Her hairnet and curlers were in disarray. Strands of her over dyed hair fell randomly loose. Free of Maisy’s not inconsiderable person, Bob hoisted himself back to his feet and retreated to his bike.
“You’re crazy.” He muttered as he gathered up his belongings strewn across the front garden. With one vicious kick his machine burst into life and Maisy burst into tears.
Jerry looked after Bob as he accelerated across the lawn grinding a deep groove through the buffalo grass, disappearing at high speed. Placing a loving arm around her shoulder, Jerry tried to comfort the blubbering Maisy.
“I was rather expecting something more ceremonious for mother. An elegant urn or something. Not a bloody box. Mother would roll in her grave – if she had one. What on earth will they think at the memorial service?” She sniveled.
“It’s the way they do it these days Dear. More secure, less accidents, which, as it turns out, is a good thing. Otherwise the goldfish would be nibbling on your mother’s ashes as we speak.”
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.
With Maisy verging on hysteria, Jerry waded into the pond and retrieved the box. The wrapping was a sopping mess but Jerry was thankful to discover the brick-like box was indeed watertight.
“Come on love.” Jerry said as he handed over the box. “We’d better get cracking. You mother’s memorial service starts in an hour and there’ll be no show without Punch!”
A short while later Maisy emerged from the house in all her finery, a determined look foxed firmly across her freshly made up face. Jerry was relieved to see the dark storm had lifted.
“You look lovely Darling.” he said with all the enthusiasm he could muster as he helped Maisy into the front seat of the idling automobile. Expertly Jerry maneuvered the car out of the narrow driveway and down the road.
Maisy grabbed his arm, nails biting into the flesh, “Stop!”
Jerry reacted immediately slamming on the brakes. The force hurled them forward, stretching the seatbelts to the limit. Jerry looked anxiously at his wife. Her face was contorted with fury.
“Where’s Mother?”
Without a word or hesitation, Jerry threw his arm across the back of the seat and reversed at high speed towards the house.
Wednesday 18 November 2009
Sickness may be catching (final) -Kerry
“That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m getting rid of the stupid things,” he shouted at me. His words rang in my ears, competing with the tinnitus that usually has over-riding power in that area.
He spoke with such vehemence that his spittle splashed onto my cheek. I recoiled, shocked by his uncalled-for tirade, and pushed myself hard against the car door in an attempt to avoid any more spit. I thought of the germs dripping down my face as I waited for his next volley of rage. I am very particular about hygiene and specially avoid contamination from body fluids. My bottle of anti-bacterial lotion was in the shelf by his knee and therefore out of my reach at this time. I would be all right as long as I didn’t lick my lips. I sat tight-lipped, wishing he would come good with his promise and just get out of the car.
But he sat there in the driver’s seat fuming with anger. His fat, white hands were working furiously with one another, twisting, pressing against his knees, squeezing together. They reminded me of the ‘stupid things’ he had threatened to rip so violently from my care. Squirming live things, crawling over each other blindly, pressing down on each other. I had to look away. I could feel my stomach begin to turn.
“You tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” he added.
This time his voice had dropped ominously, sliding, hissing across the car seat between us. I felt dirtied by the hate in his words. They had a bitter, poisonous smell. I reacted instinctively by brushing something off my skirt, not wanting to have his poison settle on me. Nevertheless I nodded furiously, unable to open my mouth but acknowledging that I understood. He apparently took my response as acquiescence to something he had said and smiled grimly. It was a moment of comparative relaxation and I allowed myself to settle back into the seat a little. The door handle had been pressing sharply into my hip, aggravating my chronic bursitis. I needed relief from the pain.
Seeing me relax, however imperceptibly, seemed to aggravate him again. He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. He was sneering aggressively. I pushed back and again the door handle sent a jab of pain into my hip. I could feel his hot breath. He smelled like the drunk he was, reminding me of stale cigarettes and late-nights in the pub. I was repulsed.
“I’m taking them,” he shouted at close range.
He leaned back and undid his seatbelt. Twisting in his seat, he reached over to the back seat and picked up the basket. I heard the faint, nervous mewing. He climbed out of the car. With one last look in, he communicated the full slug of his vicious intent.
The car door slammed shut.
Immediately I pulled the antiseptic from the shelf and scrubbed my face vigorously with a tissue. My whole body was trembling violently as I turned the key in the ignition. The car shuddered, lurched forward, then stalled abruptly before I could jam my sluggish foot on the clutch. My chin bumped against the steering wheel causing my lip to split. The vile metallic taste of blood made me cough.
I slumped morosely in my seat trying not to think of the sinister activities taking place outside. My tears were as much for myself, for my own helplessness, as they were for the kittens. I had only myself to blame for my life. I had been told often enough how stupid I was. I ripped a tissue out of the box and jabbed angrily at my eyes. I threw it to the floor and tore out another to blow my nose loudly.
I was wrenched from my self-indulgence by the explosive sound of shattering glass. A brick-sized rock had landed on the back seat amidst a scattering of glass shards from the rear window.
He was still out there in the darkness.
I spun round to lock the door beside me but was shocked to see him already there; his hairy face looming at the window. He pulled open the door.
“I’m gonna kill two birds with one stone,” he snarled. “Them and you.”
He grabbed my arm viciously, twisting it painfully. My body reacted immediately to his actual physical contact. I clamped my teeth into his fat fingers and lashed out at him with my free arm as I tumbled out of the car. He let go of me with a yelp, giving me the space to jump to my feet and catch him off guard with a blow to the legs. He crashed to the ground. I kicked at him but he grabbed my foot and pulled me down with him. I managed to knee him in the stomach as I fell, winding him temporarily. It was enough for me to twist out of his grasp and scramble to my feet. My breath was coming in ragged gasps as I edged away. And ran.
The single light illuminating the end of the jetty was sufficient for me to make out the basket on the bank. I could hear his shuffling footsteps on the gravel behind me. I bent down and grabbed the basket, sensing its comforting weight and the movement of life inside.
I ran again, sobbing, up the bank and out on to the road, clutching my precious cargo.
I knew I would never return home.
He spoke with such vehemence that his spittle splashed onto my cheek. I recoiled, shocked by his uncalled-for tirade, and pushed myself hard against the car door in an attempt to avoid any more spit. I thought of the germs dripping down my face as I waited for his next volley of rage. I am very particular about hygiene and specially avoid contamination from body fluids. My bottle of anti-bacterial lotion was in the shelf by his knee and therefore out of my reach at this time. I would be all right as long as I didn’t lick my lips. I sat tight-lipped, wishing he would come good with his promise and just get out of the car.
But he sat there in the driver’s seat fuming with anger. His fat, white hands were working furiously with one another, twisting, pressing against his knees, squeezing together. They reminded me of the ‘stupid things’ he had threatened to rip so violently from my care. Squirming live things, crawling over each other blindly, pressing down on each other. I had to look away. I could feel my stomach begin to turn.
“You tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” he added.
This time his voice had dropped ominously, sliding, hissing across the car seat between us. I felt dirtied by the hate in his words. They had a bitter, poisonous smell. I reacted instinctively by brushing something off my skirt, not wanting to have his poison settle on me. Nevertheless I nodded furiously, unable to open my mouth but acknowledging that I understood. He apparently took my response as acquiescence to something he had said and smiled grimly. It was a moment of comparative relaxation and I allowed myself to settle back into the seat a little. The door handle had been pressing sharply into my hip, aggravating my chronic bursitis. I needed relief from the pain.
Seeing me relax, however imperceptibly, seemed to aggravate him again. He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. He was sneering aggressively. I pushed back and again the door handle sent a jab of pain into my hip. I could feel his hot breath. He smelled like the drunk he was, reminding me of stale cigarettes and late-nights in the pub. I was repulsed.
“I’m taking them,” he shouted at close range.
He leaned back and undid his seatbelt. Twisting in his seat, he reached over to the back seat and picked up the basket. I heard the faint, nervous mewing. He climbed out of the car. With one last look in, he communicated the full slug of his vicious intent.
The car door slammed shut.
Immediately I pulled the antiseptic from the shelf and scrubbed my face vigorously with a tissue. My whole body was trembling violently as I turned the key in the ignition. The car shuddered, lurched forward, then stalled abruptly before I could jam my sluggish foot on the clutch. My chin bumped against the steering wheel causing my lip to split. The vile metallic taste of blood made me cough.
I slumped morosely in my seat trying not to think of the sinister activities taking place outside. My tears were as much for myself, for my own helplessness, as they were for the kittens. I had only myself to blame for my life. I had been told often enough how stupid I was. I ripped a tissue out of the box and jabbed angrily at my eyes. I threw it to the floor and tore out another to blow my nose loudly.
I was wrenched from my self-indulgence by the explosive sound of shattering glass. A brick-sized rock had landed on the back seat amidst a scattering of glass shards from the rear window.
He was still out there in the darkness.
I spun round to lock the door beside me but was shocked to see him already there; his hairy face looming at the window. He pulled open the door.
“I’m gonna kill two birds with one stone,” he snarled. “Them and you.”
He grabbed my arm viciously, twisting it painfully. My body reacted immediately to his actual physical contact. I clamped my teeth into his fat fingers and lashed out at him with my free arm as I tumbled out of the car. He let go of me with a yelp, giving me the space to jump to my feet and catch him off guard with a blow to the legs. He crashed to the ground. I kicked at him but he grabbed my foot and pulled me down with him. I managed to knee him in the stomach as I fell, winding him temporarily. It was enough for me to twist out of his grasp and scramble to my feet. My breath was coming in ragged gasps as I edged away. And ran.
The single light illuminating the end of the jetty was sufficient for me to make out the basket on the bank. I could hear his shuffling footsteps on the gravel behind me. I bent down and grabbed the basket, sensing its comforting weight and the movement of life inside.
I ran again, sobbing, up the bank and out on to the road, clutching my precious cargo.
I knew I would never return home.
Tuesday 17 November 2009
The Brick version 2 - Peta
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.
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.
Sunday 15 November 2009
Web Wonders - Sue
The once sharp edges of the high Saharan dunes melt into the yellowy sky. The wind swirls and cavorts around the camels, lashes at their hobbled legs and creates a spiralling whirlwind of sand and dust as it heads for the woven carpet shelter. Harry pulls the colourful blankets over his head to ward off the ferocious needles of sand so only his nostrils engage with the onslaught.
The sand waves gradually stand still, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer, the camel train leader, peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with sunken cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth.
Harry starts as if woken from a dream. He stares at the sand, virginal and clean, sees the camels standing patiently and watches Mussafer as he dismantles their shelter. Then he remembers the email message that started this whole adventure.
“Attention, all Arab Princes. A jewel-studded pair of leather shoes has been discovered ten kilometres east of Timbuktu – a camel train leaves in 3 days”.
Harry has always had a fetish for shoes. He loves them, especially those that are exotic and outlandish. The invitation to Africa is therefore irresistible so, unbelievably, here he is in the middle of the Sahara desert and in the middle of a sand storm.
Harry’s first priority is to retrieve his boots which he’d slung over his camels back when the sand storm began. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, Harry moves down the line of camels checking for his canvas duffle. He wants to whisper into each of their hairy ears, tell them how brave they are, but the smell of overripe regurgitated grass overtakes his love of them.
“Mussafer, Moooo Saaaaa fer” he yells “For God’s sake man, where is Fanny? Didn’t you hobble her to Jasper?”
“Yes Master. Yes, there’s Jasper”.
“Yes, but where is Fanny? Where are my shoes?”
“Gone Master”.
“Gone! What do you mean gone?”
“Disappeared with the sand riders”.
“Oh God” mumbles Harry. His legs turn to jelly and he collapses back into the sand.
“My shoes, not my shoes” he yells to no-one and everyone.
He pulls his Dishdashah around his body, hugging himself and protecting himself. His stomach catapults into his throat, he nearly chokes and his face feels hot and itchy. He tries to imagine no shoes.
“Bare feet! You’ve got to be kidding!” his brain vibrates.
“Mussafer, I can’t”.
“Can’t what Master?”
“Not have shoes. I’ve got to cover my feet”.
Mussafer’s two back gold teeth glisten in the sun as his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause. Mussafer’s eyes see through to Harry’s soul.
“Here master, have my sandals”.
“What about my ...?” and he stops short of mentioning the ugly red scar that runs between his two little toes and his ankle.
Images flash disjointedly through his mind. He’s five years old and his sister says he has funny feet. He’s in hospital and alone. He moves to Chelsea and opens a shoe shop. Shit, he’s just lost his favourite beige suede boots.
******
The trio are almost to Timbuktu and Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting inside a Bedouin tent with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. The hut is obviously set up to share. Three grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls with colourful striped blankets piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room.
“Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast”.
Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll and tears seep down his cheeks to sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face. Even Clara, his ex girlfriend, has never seen his feet.
He cautiously guides his robes over his feet and manoeuvres off the dirty old sandals. His socks long gone, his feet now bare.
“It’s our custom Master. It warms the spirit, disperses evil thoughts and relaxes the mind”.
“Shit, oh no” Harry yells as the little low stool falls backwards and he lands flat on his back, with all, yes all exposed.
Mussafer hoots and cackles. Harry whimpers and whines like a lost puppy.
“Up you get Master, no harm done” and Mussafer helps him to his feet and pats him gently on the back.
“There, there” he says.
Harry sighs, closes his eyes and relaxes.
More images cascades through Harry’s mind. His Mum is washing his feet in the bath. The Arab shoes are full of gems. He and Clara are holding hands.
******
The Royal Palace drips with gold. Lush red velvet drapes hang behind an ornate high-backed chair and potted palm trees line the pearl inlaid floor. King Maimon has his audience enthralled.
“You’re not an Arab Prince. You can’t go. Next please”.
“Wait, I must, please, I need those shoes. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay, I’m rich” replies Harry.
“No, the next part of the journey is only for princes”.
“Look, I have diamonds” and Harry opens a little blue velvet pouch and gently shakes the contents onto a low table. They twinkle in the candle light.
Maimon hesitates, he stutters a quiet “No” but at the same time he peers greedily through the flickering light.
“And rubies”. Harry rushes on pretending he didn’t hear. The red stars join the silver jewels in a kaleidoscope of bouncing light. He watches Maimon. His eyes are huge and Harry can see the jewels reflected in dark pools of grey. The room has gone dead quiet. Harry can sense his own breath as it beats a drum in his temples.
“No, no, no. I will not be bribed” yells Maimon.
“I can get you camels. I can get you a fair English rose, a beautiful white girl to add to your harem. Just imagine your legs entwined in a tangle of pearly white flesh”.
“Go away, Harry” says Maimon. “Just leave. There’s not a place for you in the camel train”.
Harry’s shoulders droop. If he was a dog, his tail would be down and his ears flat against his head. He would slouch into the shadows.
Then Mussafer pipes up. “Master, Master, show him your feet. Go on”.
“My feet!”
“Yes Master”.
“My feet, my feet, why my feet?”
“Master there’s something you don’t know about those shoes”.
“Oh”.
“A long, long time ago there was an Arab prince who commissioned a special pair of shoes be made for him”.
“So”.
“He had webbed feet. Or rather his left two little toes were webbed”.
“What. What did you say?” He feels his face soften and relax. “Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide his ugly feet?”
“No, no, no. The prince wanted shoes that would highlight the webbed toes, show them off to the world. So between each toe the leather was stitched and detailed with gems, then the two left ones which were bare, were studded with diamonds”.
“Harry your feet? Were they webbed?”
“Well”.
“Weeeeeell” the crowd bend towards him.
“Well, yes. I had them separated when I was six”. His voice sounds tiny.
No-one moves. Maimon just stares.
“Show them Master, they are really beautiful”.
Harry shakes his head in disbelief.
Images of the jewellery studded soft leather shoes and his poor scarred feet jostle in his mind as it works out which is the most important.
“Come on Master”.
Mussafer cocks his head to one side and looks at Harry weirdly.
Harry gulps, he feels like his hair is standing on its ends. He’s twitchy.
“I must have those shoes” he mutters as he slowly guides his Dishdashah away from the ugly red scar.
“Hey” yells Mussafer.
“Look Mo, look Maimon, look at Harry’s left foot. It’s a sign”.
“A sign?” says Harry “What do you mean?” he can feel himself starting to roast.
“Master, you are a prince. Only princes have webbed feet. It is written”.
“Wow.” is about all Harry is capable of mustering.
All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How he’s spent his life being embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet, to run away from his relationships, to compromise his sex life by never exposing his feet. How he’s had such a thing about feet and shoes that it’s driven his career, shaped his travels, dictated his wardrobe and perverted his life.
He breathes. He can feel each breath getting longer and deeper. He can feel the muscles in his back relax and sigh in relief. He can feel his face getting younger, his mouth becomes soft and his lips slightly curve in a smile.
Life does a cartwheel.
“A prince, you’ve got to be kidding”. He bursts out laughing. He laughs at the prince thing. He laughs at his feet. He laughs because he’s in the middle of the desert. He laughs as he imagines wearing those shoes. He just laughs until his stomach has such an ache that tears start running down his face.
“Just imagine. I am going to turn up at Heathrow Airport with webbed feet and toes studded with diamonds.” He bends over almost double as the giggles come back.
The sand waves gradually stand still, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer, the camel train leader, peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with sunken cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth.
Harry starts as if woken from a dream. He stares at the sand, virginal and clean, sees the camels standing patiently and watches Mussafer as he dismantles their shelter. Then he remembers the email message that started this whole adventure.
“Attention, all Arab Princes. A jewel-studded pair of leather shoes has been discovered ten kilometres east of Timbuktu – a camel train leaves in 3 days”.
Harry has always had a fetish for shoes. He loves them, especially those that are exotic and outlandish. The invitation to Africa is therefore irresistible so, unbelievably, here he is in the middle of the Sahara desert and in the middle of a sand storm.
Harry’s first priority is to retrieve his boots which he’d slung over his camels back when the sand storm began. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, Harry moves down the line of camels checking for his canvas duffle. He wants to whisper into each of their hairy ears, tell them how brave they are, but the smell of overripe regurgitated grass overtakes his love of them.
“Mussafer, Moooo Saaaaa fer” he yells “For God’s sake man, where is Fanny? Didn’t you hobble her to Jasper?”
“Yes Master. Yes, there’s Jasper”.
“Yes, but where is Fanny? Where are my shoes?”
“Gone Master”.
“Gone! What do you mean gone?”
“Disappeared with the sand riders”.
“Oh God” mumbles Harry. His legs turn to jelly and he collapses back into the sand.
“My shoes, not my shoes” he yells to no-one and everyone.
He pulls his Dishdashah around his body, hugging himself and protecting himself. His stomach catapults into his throat, he nearly chokes and his face feels hot and itchy. He tries to imagine no shoes.
“Bare feet! You’ve got to be kidding!” his brain vibrates.
“Mussafer, I can’t”.
“Can’t what Master?”
“Not have shoes. I’ve got to cover my feet”.
Mussafer’s two back gold teeth glisten in the sun as his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause. Mussafer’s eyes see through to Harry’s soul.
“Here master, have my sandals”.
“What about my ...?” and he stops short of mentioning the ugly red scar that runs between his two little toes and his ankle.
Images flash disjointedly through his mind. He’s five years old and his sister says he has funny feet. He’s in hospital and alone. He moves to Chelsea and opens a shoe shop. Shit, he’s just lost his favourite beige suede boots.
******
The trio are almost to Timbuktu and Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting inside a Bedouin tent with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. The hut is obviously set up to share. Three grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls with colourful striped blankets piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room.
“Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast”.
Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll and tears seep down his cheeks to sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face. Even Clara, his ex girlfriend, has never seen his feet.
He cautiously guides his robes over his feet and manoeuvres off the dirty old sandals. His socks long gone, his feet now bare.
“It’s our custom Master. It warms the spirit, disperses evil thoughts and relaxes the mind”.
“Shit, oh no” Harry yells as the little low stool falls backwards and he lands flat on his back, with all, yes all exposed.
Mussafer hoots and cackles. Harry whimpers and whines like a lost puppy.
“Up you get Master, no harm done” and Mussafer helps him to his feet and pats him gently on the back.
“There, there” he says.
Harry sighs, closes his eyes and relaxes.
More images cascades through Harry’s mind. His Mum is washing his feet in the bath. The Arab shoes are full of gems. He and Clara are holding hands.
******
The Royal Palace drips with gold. Lush red velvet drapes hang behind an ornate high-backed chair and potted palm trees line the pearl inlaid floor. King Maimon has his audience enthralled.
“You’re not an Arab Prince. You can’t go. Next please”.
“Wait, I must, please, I need those shoes. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay, I’m rich” replies Harry.
“No, the next part of the journey is only for princes”.
“Look, I have diamonds” and Harry opens a little blue velvet pouch and gently shakes the contents onto a low table. They twinkle in the candle light.
Maimon hesitates, he stutters a quiet “No” but at the same time he peers greedily through the flickering light.
“And rubies”. Harry rushes on pretending he didn’t hear. The red stars join the silver jewels in a kaleidoscope of bouncing light. He watches Maimon. His eyes are huge and Harry can see the jewels reflected in dark pools of grey. The room has gone dead quiet. Harry can sense his own breath as it beats a drum in his temples.
“No, no, no. I will not be bribed” yells Maimon.
“I can get you camels. I can get you a fair English rose, a beautiful white girl to add to your harem. Just imagine your legs entwined in a tangle of pearly white flesh”.
“Go away, Harry” says Maimon. “Just leave. There’s not a place for you in the camel train”.
Harry’s shoulders droop. If he was a dog, his tail would be down and his ears flat against his head. He would slouch into the shadows.
Then Mussafer pipes up. “Master, Master, show him your feet. Go on”.
“My feet!”
“Yes Master”.
“My feet, my feet, why my feet?”
“Master there’s something you don’t know about those shoes”.
“Oh”.
“A long, long time ago there was an Arab prince who commissioned a special pair of shoes be made for him”.
“So”.
“He had webbed feet. Or rather his left two little toes were webbed”.
“What. What did you say?” He feels his face soften and relax. “Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide his ugly feet?”
“No, no, no. The prince wanted shoes that would highlight the webbed toes, show them off to the world. So between each toe the leather was stitched and detailed with gems, then the two left ones which were bare, were studded with diamonds”.
“Harry your feet? Were they webbed?”
“Well”.
“Weeeeeell” the crowd bend towards him.
“Well, yes. I had them separated when I was six”. His voice sounds tiny.
No-one moves. Maimon just stares.
“Show them Master, they are really beautiful”.
Harry shakes his head in disbelief.
Images of the jewellery studded soft leather shoes and his poor scarred feet jostle in his mind as it works out which is the most important.
“Come on Master”.
Mussafer cocks his head to one side and looks at Harry weirdly.
Harry gulps, he feels like his hair is standing on its ends. He’s twitchy.
“I must have those shoes” he mutters as he slowly guides his Dishdashah away from the ugly red scar.
“Hey” yells Mussafer.
“Look Mo, look Maimon, look at Harry’s left foot. It’s a sign”.
“A sign?” says Harry “What do you mean?” he can feel himself starting to roast.
“Master, you are a prince. Only princes have webbed feet. It is written”.
“Wow.” is about all Harry is capable of mustering.
All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How he’s spent his life being embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet, to run away from his relationships, to compromise his sex life by never exposing his feet. How he’s had such a thing about feet and shoes that it’s driven his career, shaped his travels, dictated his wardrobe and perverted his life.
He breathes. He can feel each breath getting longer and deeper. He can feel the muscles in his back relax and sigh in relief. He can feel his face getting younger, his mouth becomes soft and his lips slightly curve in a smile.
Life does a cartwheel.
“A prince, you’ve got to be kidding”. He bursts out laughing. He laughs at the prince thing. He laughs at his feet. He laughs because he’s in the middle of the desert. He laughs as he imagines wearing those shoes. He just laughs until his stomach has such an ache that tears start running down his face.
“Just imagine. I am going to turn up at Heathrow Airport with webbed feet and toes studded with diamonds.” He bends over almost double as the giggles come back.
Sunday 1 November 2009
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.
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.
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