Tag Relationships

SoCS Feb. 13/16 – tire

freyathewriter 12 Comments

‘I wonder if one ever tires of living life like just this,’ he mused, stroking his beard meditatively. He glanced across at his wife, who, to all intents and purposes seemed to be basking in the sunlight pouring in from the tall, Georgian sash window just behind her. This library of his, everyone declared, was the finest in the county.

“What do you think, my dear, hmm?” he asked, as if she had heard his thoughts as clearly as if they had been uttered into the still, mahogany clad room.

“I think I’m bored to tears, Humphrey. Why on earth we have to stay here when everyone else is in St Tropez is absolutely beyond me. At least let me go, why can’t you?”

Humphrey frowned. The perils of marrying a woman twenty years his junior seemed to be thrust under his Roman nose more and more often these days. As one of the bright young things, she had been an absolute charm, but now her tone was shrill, her wants had turned into needs and he rather suspected she was beginning to tire of him and his middle-aged ways. But dammit all, he’d had enough excitement in the last shout, and if the papers were to be believed, that arrogant little man with the ridiculous moustache was spoiling for another fight sooner rather than later. No, he, Humphrey, just wanted a quiet life.

“Anything you want my dear, you shall have. Get Frensham to pack your bags and we’ll get you on old Davidson’s little plane lickety spit. Will that do you?”

She jumped up. all smiles and red lipstick. “Oh, Humphrey, you are the most darling creature, I don’t care what they say about you!”

She shimmied out of the room, calling for her maid, heels echoing on the marble as she skipped into the hall.

No. He would never tire of her, this house, this life.

Especially now that he had the place to himself for a few weeks. Just like the old times. Just the way he liked it.

——-

Here’s my first attempt at Stream of Consciousness Saturday! Please head on over to Linda’s blog to find out and to read all the delicious creativity that can be found there.

Thank you to Linda for creating this little community!

Fly in the Ointment

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Fly Agaric – Richard Crofts – Wikimedia Commons (click here)

Making breakfast hadn’t always been Valerie’s responsibility. When they had first married, Evan had insisted on waking her with a kiss, a purple tulip and a boiled egg, made just the way she liked it.

Valerie reminisced as she prodded the mushrooms sweating away in a desultory fashion in the frying pan. Those really had been the good times, sadly long gone, she though, even though today was only their first anniversary. What had happened to them, to Evan’s eagerness to delight her in every way possible?

She sighed so heavily that her breath rippled the surface of the tea steaming in the bone china cup waiting on the counter. Not her tea, of course. She couldn’t stand the stuff. Coffee was her poison, quite literally, in Evan’s oft-voiced opinion. He claimed that the almost black roast that she brewed several times daily was going to give her a heart attack.

Back then, she had laughed, taking all his criticisms lightly and in her stride. Bu now, now she had had her fill – more than – of his relentless digs. She had come to realise that his breakfast ritual had been his way of controlling her. Decaf bloody coffee, for God’s sake! Did he think she hadn’t noticed? And as for the egg – well it was just the way she liked it because that’s what he had made her believe over time. God, she craved a bacon sandwich, the bread fried until it was crispy and and oozing with grease. Not whilst Evan was in charge.

The mushrooms were done, at last. So much for coffee giving her a heart attack. She rather thought that the woodland fungi glistening on the plate might just do the trick.

Evan did so adore wild, organic food. And those red mushrooms were so pretty.

He’d love them.

Wouldn’t he?

Dark harvest

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I put tulips under all the pillows, and then I set fire to the house.

You see, they hadn’t believed me when I said I would wreak my revenge. Dr Fernandez just told me I was attention-seeking and waved his hand at me in that Spanish way of his, dismissing me from his rooms like a naughty child. In fact, that’s exactly what he said I was ‘”A reediculous niña”‘ as he pushed me out into the reception area so hard that I tripped over that damned stupid rug and ended up sprawled on the floor, nose pressed against his receptionist’s Malono Blahnik’s. She is paid far too much.

Anyway, on the following Friday, we packed our bags and planned our escape. When I say ‘we’, I mean me and Vincent, my loyal English Bull Terrier and only friend. And when I say ‘planned’, well, that’s a rather grand description for chucking my holdall in the boot and gunning the poor old Morris Minor’s engine to within an inch of its life. Vincent doesn’t like the car, pretty much because there’s a hole in the passenger seat’s footwell, so if you stare at it too long, the rushing tarmac makes you feel sick. Or, makes you sick, in Vincent’s case. He’s since learned to hunker down on the back seat and close his eyes, pretty much.

You see, I’d never have done that thing with the tulips if it wasn’t for Fred. I’ll never forget the time that he went to the garden centre and never came back. Seventeen, I was. He was Mum’s new bloke, really nice and all, not like some of the other men she’d hooked up with since Dad high-tailed it to Spain – trouble with the Vice Squad, so Mum told me. ‘”Just off to Greengage’s!”‘ Fred had sung out as he stepped out the front door, and I knew he’d come back with those beautiful purple tulips that he knew I loved. I’d almost hugged myself with the pleasure of it all. It was like having a new dad all over again.

Only, he didn’t come back. It was like he’d been wiped off the face of the earth.

But Mum didn’t seem all that surprised, or even bothered.

And then, quick as you like, Nigel moved in. Barely out of his teens and a cocky so-and-so. Fancied himself. And unfortunately, me as well.

No damned way.

Shame about the house though.