By Maria Bligh
‘Out of coffee… again!’
Teresa glared at the empty jar. Its decorative flowers wilted in shame.
I mean, really, what’s the bloody point of me creating a ‘Division of Labour Schedule’ if one party won’t stick to it. He’d soon complain if I didn’t do my bit. Imagine no work shirts ironed on Monday morning. Oh yes, he’d be up in arms then. And look at all these dishes waiting to be washed. Honestly, I despair.
Teresa perched on a kitchen stool, brooding. Mostly over the lack of coffee. John knew she liked to relax with a coffee on Saturday mornings. How could he be so thoughtless? She spent the next 30 minutes mentally stacking up all of John’s offenses against The Schedule before progressing to a listing of his general faults. No matter how hard she tried to improve him, his bad habits remained stubbornly ingrained.
Teresa blamed her mother-in-law. She’d spoilt him long before Teresa had got him. He’d never had to wield a duster, scrub a floor or cook a meal as long as he’d lived with Mum. The burden of domestic education had been left to Teresa and she’d made some progress with him over the 26 years since their marriage. Well, if anyone could turn around someone with all John’s faults it was her. She ruled the household with the same discipline that saw her promoted to top of Facilities Management within four years at her firm.
But John was obstinate. He seemed to relish maintaining some of his slips, protesting that he was a free spirit, she was too rigid, life was too short, she should have some fun. As far as she was concerned, they’d done that bit. When they’d first dated they did some mad things. There was a trip to Paris. One night she went to the hotel bar before John and the barman, ‘Pierre – ici pour aider,’ watched as a dark handsome stranger arrived soon after and instructed ‘offer the lady a drink from me.’ Pierre’s surprise when the lady accepted was obvious. He looked incredulous as the woman fell for every cheesy line the drink benefactor fed her. Both Teresa and John swore his disbelief turned to admiration when, after sharing a third vin rouge – fingers entwined in an elaborate dance – the guy pulled out his room key, winked at Pierre and guided his conquest toward the elevator. Despite the rigid disapproval of the hotel’s old lattice-gated ascenseur, they laughed like drains as it creaked its way to the top floor. Teresa almost wet herself.
Back then they spent Sunday mornings sitting in the conservatory, quietly content in each other’s company. Swapping sections of the newspaper, sometimes sharing interesting observations. When it rained they’d shout above the rat-a-tattering on the roof, a sound John found relaxing. She’d agreed at first, but then began to worry about whether the guttering would cope and how the constant moisture might lead to moss growth.
On one such occasion, John grabbed her hand and said ‘Come on, let’s go and dance in the rain.’ She’d tried to protest but he insisted – he could be quite assertive back then. So out they went to the street and danced and laughed until they were both soaked through. John provided the soundtrack with an out-of-tune rendition of ‘Dancing In The Street,’ changing the words to ‘Dancing on Frith Street.’ They held slippery hands as they jumped off the kerb into the deep river of water gurgling down the drain.
Afterwards, they dripped their way along the hall and up the stairs where they peeled off their wet clothes in the bathroom. Soon the steam from their bodies matched that from the hot shower they shared. Steamy bathroom, steamy bodies, steamy sex. The whole moist episode was underwritten by puddles on the hall floor. She’d hurried to dry off and set about a post-coital mop-up fearing water might get under the laminate.
Fortunately, Teresa began to realise that these events were simply excuses to be sloppy so she’d had to put her foot down and enforce her rules.
He’d wanted a dog – no way! Can you imagine the mess? Dog hair everywhere. Another excuse not to do his chores because Fido had to be walked. Oh no, she wasn’t falling for that one. NO BLOODY WAY! He’d kicked back at first, suggesting “spontaneous” things they could do together. For “spontaneous” read “interfering with your carefully planned routine.” He’d bought her a book entitled Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Christmas although she’d really wanted a set of internal drawer organisers. She’d even sent him the buy online link so there’d been no excuse for that disappointment. She sighed. He really could be a piece of work sometimes. ‘How have I managed to put up with him for so long? Thousands wouldn’t.’
Having wound herself up nice and tight, Teresa sprang to her feet and made for the front door. I suppose I’ll have to go and buy the coffee. Wait until I see him. I can already hear the excuse “well I don’t drink it” in his whiny, victim voice. That’s hardly the point, John. Remember the Division of Labour Schedule? Hmm? Hmm? Keeping supplies stocked is YOUR department, not mine. I do quite enough – more than enough – in this house. Not feeling the chill in the air, she didn’t even consider taking a jacket. She felt the door slam behind her.
En route to the High Street, she kept up her internal monologue, every step ticking off one of John’s myriad transgressions. As she relived the time he trod mud into the hall, a friendly tuxedo cat trotted toward her. Its tail was a question-mark asking for a greeting and head scratch. Teresa didn’t notice and just strode on through. The cat glowered after her, its ears down and back. Never had its attentions been so rudely rebuffed. It slunk off behind the bins to rethink its very role in life.
When the park came into view with its bright yellow daffodils nodding agreeably, Teresa didn’t notice. She was reviewing the times she’d had to re-polish the bathroom mirror he’d splattered when cleaning his teeth. How often had she instructed him to keep his mouth shut while brushing? What had she done in a previous life to deserve being hooked up with such a slow learner? The daffodils averted their gaze.
She failed to notice the happy squeals of the children as she passed the park playground. Her focus was on replaying an argument they’d had when he’d washed the car so shoddily she’d been forced to take it back to the service station and do it again.
By the time she reached the small café just beyond the village church she’d worked herself into such a lather of boiling resentment that she missed the confetti sprinkling her hair. Each piece of coloured tissue carrying a hope for the future of the happy couple exiting the church gate seemed to shrivel and discolour as it reached her.
About to push open the café’s glass door, Teresa stopped dead. Inside, sitting at a table in the window, was John. What the heck was he doing here? For the last couple of years he’d taken to going into the office on Saturday mornings. Well this sure as hell wasn’t the office.
What’s more, he wasn’t alone. Cosied up beside him on the wooden pew was a woman in a bobble hat. Had Teresa been in a more charitable frame of mind she’d have called her pretty – quite stunning, in fact – but no beauty could permeate Teresa’s ugly state of mind. Teresa hesitated. Maybe it was a perfectly innocent business meeting. Then Bobble Hat moved her mouth close to John’s ear, whispered something clearly amusing as he laughed before turning and planting a quick but unmistakably tender kiss on those plump, rosy lips. Teresa pursed hers such that they might have been mistaken for tuxedo cat’s anus.
Then she noticed the dog. It had jumped up when John’s kiss landed as if it, too, wanted to be involved in this scene of snug domesticity – coffee, cuddles and canines! The lead from its harness was wrapped around John’s left hand as if the beast belonged to him. The couple switched their attention and fussed it while it wiggled its back end and propellered its tail. Wafting its fleas everywhere, thought Teresa. This was the one thing she’d never liked about her otherwise favourite café. It was “dog friendly.” Well how about being hygiene friendly instead?!
John should have known better than to take a hound into a food establishment. He knew how she felt about the grubby creatures yet here he was. And sitting in the window, no less. On display with his floosy. Had the man no shame?! Anyone might see him. Teresa would be humiliated. I’m not bloody well standing for this in my own home town, she thought as she prepared to blast through the door and confront the pair of them… and the scabby mutt!
A familiar voice stopped her: Hello Teresa, love. At first she thought it came from inside her head but looking round she saw their old friend and neighbour, Adam. At one time, she and John had been close to Adam and his wife but then Adam developed cancer. They’d visited him in hospital and saw how the aggressive disease was ravaging his body. On their final visit, he’d been barely recognisable as the force of nature they’d enjoyed so many fun evenings with. After that, Teresa had put her foot down – again – and decided they weren’t going to the hospital anymore. It was too upsetting to see him wasting away like that. But now…
You’re looking so well. You’re out of hospital. You’ve made a great recovery? Teresa hoped Adam wouldn’t remember that they’d suddenly stopped visiting.
No, I died. I’m dead, Teresa…
Teresa blinked several times. Opening her mouth to speak, she found nothing ready to emerge so she snapped it shut to allow more time to prepare a response.
…and so are you continued Adam. He looked at her with a tender sympathy that she felt rather than saw. I’ve come to guide you home, Teresa. You don’t belong here anymore. You died three years ago.
Panic found Teresa’s voice for her. What? No! I’ve things to do. John can’t manage without me. I run the household.
Sorry, darling, John’s done his grieving and moved on. He re-married last year. He’s happy.
Teresa shook her head. When she spoke, her voice was thick. You’re lying. Why are you saying these things? I’m right here.
Terri, you can’t stay. We hoped you’d have realised by now but your anger’s keeping you here. You’ve got to let go. None of this stuff matters anymore. If it ever did.
A woman struggling with heavy bags approached the entrance and Teresa saw they were in her way but Adam made no attempt to move and the woman passed through them. As she did, Teresa felt her human essence for a fleeting moment before emptiness took its place.
It’s time to remember said Adam with sadness, and he moved toward her.
As the sluice gates containing her memories finally buckled, the night she died came roaring back to engulf her very spirit, whooshing into focus as if Spielberg himself were directing her life – her death.
They’d had a row. A big one. She couldn’t remember what it was about but she recalled charging off down the hall, grabbing the car keys and taking the car. She’d nowhere in particular to go, she just wanted to spite him so he couldn’t take it. It was a wet night after several hot, dry days – the kind that disturbs the oily road surface and at least trebles the minimum stopping distance. She made sure she’d revved the car livid so he’d hear her go. Only a mile out of town, maybe two, the crash barrier approached. The steering seemed disconnected from the tyres and the zebra-striped metal prepared to catch her. It crumpled the front of the car before agreeing to give way. She watched now from above as the poor little Fiat tumbled down the embankment. Thank God she wasn’t still inside.
But you were, Teresa, Adam’s voice was gentle but firm. Keep watching.
Enter the heroes of the hour. Firefighters. Cutting her motionless, mangled body out of the tangled mess of metal. So much blood. Hers. In the café doorway, she began to sob. Wretched, heaving sobs that would have shaken her whole body had she still possessed one.
As Adam enveloped her with warmth and comfort, she realised a fresh ability to feel. In fact, there was nothing but feeling. And the only sensation was love. She experienced the love she’d had for John but had never really shown. She sensed the love between the happy trio in the café. A love that could have been hers. She wept harder as the mortal world faded away.
John had been right. Life was too short to sweat the small stuff. Stuff like running out of coffee, for example.
Contact Maria at: mariabligh@gmail.com
