The cat was out the back door like a shot, its tail up stiff as a bean pole. Clive could still feel the soft fur of its underbelly yielding where his toe had made contact. He shouldered the door shut, sat down and slipped his feet out of his shoes. Thank God it was Friday.
It was humid inside as well as out. Everything was damp to touch. A lazy bluebottle buzzed round his head as he lifted the catch on the kitchen window and leaned out. The lawn was bald in patches from the long summer as if it were holding its breath for the promised rain. The cat was watching him, wary, lying on the parched ground under the shed. He leaned out and made as if to throw something but it was too hot and there was no point anyway.
Avril must have heard him come in. She was shifting on the bed upstairs, her huge frame, making the springs creak, her lungs sighing and whistling at every breath. He loosened his tie. He was hungry but didn’t feel like eating. The fridge was half empty, a tub of margarine, a cold potato on a saucer, a few pieces of stale cheese, one lump already starting to mildew. Christ, she might have made an effort. All day he’d been watching the clock, sweating in the heat, his feet feeling fit to bust in his office shoes.
He leaned over the sink and splashed water up at his face. The dishcloth smelled of boiled cabbage and he retched, his empty stomach heaving and pressing against his ribs. He wanted to take off his shirt and stand bare-chested in the kitchen. His Dad used to do that: Dad would come home from work and wash at the stone sink in his singlet braces dangling over his trousers. Imagine her standing for that!
Once he’d thought they’d be like all the other couples, like the ones on the back of the cornflake packets, happy, smiling, having friends round for supper. He couldn’t remember the last time she was well. It was always something: chest infections in the winter then asthma and hay fever in the summer. And the cat, the bloody cat took after her.
A sleeveless summer dress newly ironed was hanging from the door jam. He filled a tumbler from the tap and stood sipping cold water. She’d put on weight and there would be those sandals, the ones she couldn’t walk in. And the perfume, couldn’t she see it was too heavy, too potent for this weather? It made his head spin and ache.
The stairs creaked as if the treads too were parched from the sun and he heard her coming down flat footed one at a time. She was carrying her make- up bag and wearing just a pink slip, too much flesh spilling over the top.
“Your clean things are on the bed,” she said. “Where’s Chloe? Where’s my little cat? Oh, you haven’t shut her out again?”
As if he would. The laugh came from his nostrils like a snort. His shirt damp under his armpits, he opened the door into the garden. The sweet smell of warm vegetation greeted him and the muggy air rolled indoors like an evil summer fog. Chloe waiting on the step outside ducked her head as she ran past him and into the hall and Avril sighing, sat down, her hands fluttering through the lipsticks and powder spread in front of her.
“What are you looking for,” he said. “This? Is it this you want? Here’s your dummy.” And he slid a blue plastic inhaler across the table towards her.
Neither moved, each listening to the other’s breathing.
“I’d better get ready,” he said.
Her voice chased him up the stairs. “Don’t be long and open that window.”
He grabbed at the bathroom door handle and slammed it hard, twisting the key in the lock, but before he could sit down, the medicine cabinet swung open and the contents came tumbling out. Old toothbrushes, out of date packets of pills and tablets, a small bottle of earwax oil, an eyedropper and half empty tubes of ointments. One by one they slipped through his open hands and landed on the floor. He was on his hands and knees when he heard her.
“What are you doing in there?” She was standing outside the bathroom door. He could smell her perfume. One day he’d tell her but not tonight.
He showered, putting talcum powder under his arms and dressed slowly, but his shirt still clung to his skin in the heat. He passed the back of his hand under his damp chin and stood looking at himself in the long wardrobe mirror. He’d lost weight and his trousers needed a belt, but it was too hot to go looking through the drawers now. He sat on the bed and checked his wallet then went downstairs. She was filing her nails at the kitchen table. He waved the door backwards and forwards to make a breeze.
“Don’t you think you should wear a jacket?” she said.
She was hunched over, sitting with her legs apart, the slip folded back above her knees, the shoulder straps biting into her fleshy back. A trickle of pity swept over him and his hands moved as if to touch her newly washed hair, smooth it at the back, but instead he walked across to the window and stood looking out. The sky had darkened and he reached for the light switch.
“Do you think it will rain?” he said.
Her shoulders moved up and down. “Doesn’t it always/”
“If you say so.”
Lightning suddenly lit up the kitchen and there was a rumble of thunder. His stomach echoed the thunder, growling and gurgling. He was almost past hunger. She looked up, her eyes narrowing. “We don’t have to go,” she said. “I’ve got some….”
“For God’s sake.”
He turned his back on her and ran water into the sink. He lifted a tumbler to the light examining it before buffing it with a tea towel. He blew air from his lips almost a raspberry but not quite. “Of course we’re going.”
She raised her eyebrows and closed the lids. They were both quiet, then ……
“Well,” he said.
“Well what?”
He sat heavily on a kitchen chair. “Where are my shoes?”
“Where you left them.” She gestured towards his feet.
One finger smoothing lipstick across her lower lip, she bent forward to stroke the cat as it settled its length across her feet. A few spots of rain appeared on the patio outside. Avril stood up and pulled her dress over her head. “Do me up dear,” she said, turning her back on him.
He looked at his watch. The dress was tight across her hips and he tugged at the zip, stretching the silky fabric as much as he dared. “You’ve put on weight,” he said.
She swung round to face him. Her fists clenched, she pummelled into his chest.
He caught her wrists and held them high. “Come on. Come on.”
Tears made channels in her make- up.
He pulled her towards him, feeling the weight of her as she leant against him. He stroked her damp forehead and she folded her arms round him. He patted her and stroked her hair lifting it from the nape of her neck.
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s too hot.”
“We won’t go there,” he said. “We’ll just go to the pub. The pub by the river.”
He was sweating. It was in her nostrils, such a familiar sweat as her cheek rubbed against his shirt.
“Happy anniversary,” she said.
“You too,” he said, lifting her chin. “Happy anniversary.”
.
It was humid inside as well as out. Everything was damp to touch. A lazy bluebottle buzzed round his head as he lifted the catch on the kitchen window and leaned out. The lawn was bald in patches from the long summer as if it were holding its breath for the promised rain. The cat was watching him, wary, lying on the parched ground under the shed. He leaned out and made as if to throw something but it was too hot and there was no point anyway.
Avril must have heard him come in. She was shifting on the bed upstairs, her huge frame, making the springs creak, her lungs sighing and whistling at every breath. He loosened his tie. He was hungry but didn’t feel like eating. The fridge was half empty, a tub of margarine, a cold potato on a saucer, a few pieces of stale cheese, one lump already starting to mildew. Christ, she might have made an effort. All day he’d been watching the clock, sweating in the heat, his feet feeling fit to bust in his office shoes.
He leaned over the sink and splashed water up at his face. The dishcloth smelled of boiled cabbage and he retched, his empty stomach heaving and pressing against his ribs. He wanted to take off his shirt and stand bare-chested in the kitchen. His Dad used to do that: Dad would come home from work and wash at the stone sink in his singlet braces dangling over his trousers. Imagine her standing for that!
Once he’d thought they’d be like all the other couples, like the ones on the back of the cornflake packets, happy, smiling, having friends round for supper. He couldn’t remember the last time she was well. It was always something: chest infections in the winter then asthma and hay fever in the summer. And the cat, the bloody cat took after her.
A sleeveless summer dress newly ironed was hanging from the door jam. He filled a tumbler from the tap and stood sipping cold water. She’d put on weight and there would be those sandals, the ones she couldn’t walk in. And the perfume, couldn’t she see it was too heavy, too potent for this weather? It made his head spin and ache.
The stairs creaked as if the treads too were parched from the sun and he heard her coming down flat footed one at a time. She was carrying her make- up bag and wearing just a pink slip, too much flesh spilling over the top.
“Your clean things are on the bed,” she said. “Where’s Chloe? Where’s my little cat? Oh, you haven’t shut her out again?”
As if he would. The laugh came from his nostrils like a snort. His shirt damp under his armpits, he opened the door into the garden. The sweet smell of warm vegetation greeted him and the muggy air rolled indoors like an evil summer fog. Chloe waiting on the step outside ducked her head as she ran past him and into the hall and Avril sighing, sat down, her hands fluttering through the lipsticks and powder spread in front of her.
“What are you looking for,” he said. “This? Is it this you want? Here’s your dummy.” And he slid a blue plastic inhaler across the table towards her.
Neither moved, each listening to the other’s breathing.
“I’d better get ready,” he said.
Her voice chased him up the stairs. “Don’t be long and open that window.”
He grabbed at the bathroom door handle and slammed it hard, twisting the key in the lock, but before he could sit down, the medicine cabinet swung open and the contents came tumbling out. Old toothbrushes, out of date packets of pills and tablets, a small bottle of earwax oil, an eyedropper and half empty tubes of ointments. One by one they slipped through his open hands and landed on the floor. He was on his hands and knees when he heard her.
“What are you doing in there?” She was standing outside the bathroom door. He could smell her perfume. One day he’d tell her but not tonight.
He showered, putting talcum powder under his arms and dressed slowly, but his shirt still clung to his skin in the heat. He passed the back of his hand under his damp chin and stood looking at himself in the long wardrobe mirror. He’d lost weight and his trousers needed a belt, but it was too hot to go looking through the drawers now. He sat on the bed and checked his wallet then went downstairs. She was filing her nails at the kitchen table. He waved the door backwards and forwards to make a breeze.
“Don’t you think you should wear a jacket?” she said.
She was hunched over, sitting with her legs apart, the slip folded back above her knees, the shoulder straps biting into her fleshy back. A trickle of pity swept over him and his hands moved as if to touch her newly washed hair, smooth it at the back, but instead he walked across to the window and stood looking out. The sky had darkened and he reached for the light switch.
“Do you think it will rain?” he said.
Her shoulders moved up and down. “Doesn’t it always/”
“If you say so.”
Lightning suddenly lit up the kitchen and there was a rumble of thunder. His stomach echoed the thunder, growling and gurgling. He was almost past hunger. She looked up, her eyes narrowing. “We don’t have to go,” she said. “I’ve got some….”
“For God’s sake.”
He turned his back on her and ran water into the sink. He lifted a tumbler to the light examining it before buffing it with a tea towel. He blew air from his lips almost a raspberry but not quite. “Of course we’re going.”
She raised her eyebrows and closed the lids. They were both quiet, then ……
“Well,” he said.
“Well what?”
He sat heavily on a kitchen chair. “Where are my shoes?”
“Where you left them.” She gestured towards his feet.
One finger smoothing lipstick across her lower lip, she bent forward to stroke the cat as it settled its length across her feet. A few spots of rain appeared on the patio outside. Avril stood up and pulled her dress over her head. “Do me up dear,” she said, turning her back on him.
He looked at his watch. The dress was tight across her hips and he tugged at the zip, stretching the silky fabric as much as he dared. “You’ve put on weight,” he said.
She swung round to face him. Her fists clenched, she pummelled into his chest.
He caught her wrists and held them high. “Come on. Come on.”
Tears made channels in her make- up.
He pulled her towards him, feeling the weight of her as she leant against him. He stroked her damp forehead and she folded her arms round him. He patted her and stroked her hair lifting it from the nape of her neck.
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s too hot.”
“We won’t go there,” he said. “We’ll just go to the pub. The pub by the river.”
He was sweating. It was in her nostrils, such a familiar sweat as her cheek rubbed against his shirt.
“Happy anniversary,” she said.
“You too,” he said, lifting her chin. “Happy anniversary.”
.