Short Story

 Short Story February 2021

It was an expedition. Spring was on the way and they needed to decorate the house and do something about the garden. There was also their looks. After a long time in lock-down they were looking distinctly maggoty in complexion and allowed themselves go. It was, he said, somewhat similar to those decapitated heads in the jars on Devil’s Island. She winced. He did have very dated and unpleasant similes. He was on furlough. Even the word was alien to him. What his friend said to him, well actually zoomed him, “We are on death row.” The axe would fall, and he knew at forty-seven, with a wife and two teenagers and two dogs that he needed a contingency plan. “I do the Euro lottery.” His friend said smugly. “Not as if you could really enjoy it, because you can’t even go six miles up the road without a legitimate excuse.” It was beginning to grate. What was his Plan B? He knew what Plan C was. It was suicide. He had thought about it. But, then he had to double check his life insurance policy. It was an expedition to a supermarket. He hated the thought that one of those fuckers could be carrying the latest Covid19 variant! In an ideal world he would dress in a hazmat suit with an oxygen tank on his back. They needed paint. There was not much to choose from. There had been an almighty row. She wanted washing up liquid yellow, while he was on for Amazon tree frog green. In the end Ambrosia, their fifteen year old daughter, who was more of an adult than they were, and fully employed as their personal marriage counsellor, said why not go for a neutral blue? She was very good at getting her point across. They drove to the supermarket, all masked up ready. As soon as he went through the door he headed for the hand sanitizer station. Applying so much that it was like having a shower. There was nothing as refreshing and humanizing as a shower. It was almost as good as sex. Massaging all parts of his body, all those intimate parts, particularly his penis, the novelty of which he still could not get over, what was this creature doing there? But at the station it was all rush rush. He felt the supermarket trolley behind him. These metal wolves. Blast it. He had too much gel. He would have to wipe it on his jeans hoping that his wife did spot him. But, it was fine, because she straight off to the home decorating section. He noticed that the DVD section no longer existed. He always loved looking at the covers. It was a form of literature. First stop was the apple turnovers. This necessitated getting a plastic glove and use of callipers. He hated it. If he was a surgeon the baby’s skull would be crushed, or the poor kid would have a lopsided face. No, when you handled pastry, it required skills which the kak handed lack. What was plan B? She had the paint. That was they needed. Why did he insist on getting pastries? What about their diet? Why did she always use the plural pronoun? They were having a baby. They were having this and that. Look at him. She had to spend a great of time looking at him. It was getting too much. She had given up a career in graphic design and working in a fashion company, to have their first baby. Why couldn’t he have had their babies? If she had stayed with Timmy Darthorne-Foscombe, she would have had a studio, stables, and a nanny for the kids. She would be swimming in the Maldives instead of huddled together on the settee with a husband who had now entered the realm of slobdom. Sometimes, she thought of running away, because after all, Timmy still had the hots for her, and although he had married Lady Fennella Parrrott-Skye, the two were separated. It could be an accident. A short in his electric razor. The clutch. She could put more polish on the stairs. She loathed him. Still there was the matter of Ambrosia and McVitie. She had decided the girl’s name, and he the boy’s. Fancy naming your son after your favourite biscuit, the one you dunk in your coffee and leave too long. Of course, she would not murder him. She however, was impatient to get down to Cornwall. Timmy was very conversant with what a clitoris is, whilst Jack damn him, would need a Hayne’s Manual to work that out. Sex was monological. Now, with the children in the house, it was impossible. They did try it in the land rover, but unfortunately the police are now worst than peeping toms. “Hullo, hullo, what have we got ‘ere?” Now, there was the real possibility of their losing their house in Lark Rise Avenue. The ignominy of it all! When they got back from their shopping expedition the two of them were surprised to see their children at the kitchen table. They were looking serious. As Jack put the apple turnover on a plate, Ambrosia, with her hands on her hips, told them both in an authoritative voice to kindly sit down. Jack felt he was being sacked. Ginny thought she was having a bad period. That’s how they looked. McVitie who never came out of his room was holding print outs. “What’s going on Ambrosia?” “You should know. Both of you have been naughty indeed.” “What!” “Silence, this is what they call an intervention.” “An intervention?” “Yes, Daddy an intervention, as children we have a say in the household.” McVitie was fourteen years old but was six foot plus already. He commanded attention. “What are those printouts?” “Emails.” “Emails?” “Let’s start with Mummy.” “What! Give me those papers McVitie, this moment.” “You can have them by all means, we have copies in the cloud.” “For God sake McVitie, what is this about.” “Mummy has been seeing Timmy Darthorne-Foscombe.” “What! You promised me Ginny.” “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Now, Daddy.” Ambrosia piped in, “You have been seeing – who is it McVitie?” “Lady Fennella Parrott-Skye.” What! You beast how could you?” “That’s rich coming from you. What on earth do you see in that pompous idiot?” “Oh you like your Country Life whore.” “Language Mummy.” Ginny looked at Jack. The two of them suddenly burst out laughing. They were laughing so much that they both needed a drink. Ambrosia looked at McVitie and signalled that they should leave the kitchen. Perhaps it was this revelation. Whatever it was. From then on the two were back on even keel again. Ambrosia got a complete set of Jane Austen books, whilst McVitie was given the latest Apple phone. The two had after all saved their parents’ marriage. But, there was some bickering later, the two had been arguing about whether they had made the right decision, because Timmy D-F had a huge house as did Lady Fennella P-S.