The last Straw

By Janet Baldey

With the dishwasher chuntering softly in the background, Celia wiped down the kitchen surfaces, then stood watching as the rays of the setting sun reflected shards of light from the marble and chrome. She looked around, her lips curving into a smile; her dream kitchen, finished at last.  Too big for two, of course, how she wished she’d had it when the children were small.

         Her smile faded and her face resumed its usual expression of mild discontent.  Untying her apron, she decided that a glass of Merlot might improve her mood and she wondered what was on the box.  If they were lucky, perhaps there’d be something they’d both enjoy, although that was unlikely.  She and Tom seemed to have developed wildly different tastes recently and she wondered if that always happened after thirty years of marriage.  They didn’t seem to have anything in common now and sometimes it seemed that, over the years, they’d said
everything there was to be said and their reason for conversation had evaporated. There were no childcare issues to sort out, no juicy bits of office gossip to relate, no work problems to discuss and sometimes the sound of silence in the house was deafening.  Her lines deepened souring her face even further.  How she wished she’d never left her job.  She never really wanted to but Tom had nagged her until she agreed.  “We’ll travel the world” he said, “we’ve no ties now. We’ll empty our bucket and have a whale of a time.” Then, Covid arrived and they were marooned. Gradually, their world was shrink-wrapped to the house and garden and it was then, when they were at their closest, that they’d started to drift apart.   

With nothing much to say to each other, during that time they’d watched a lot of telly and Tom had become increasingly concerned about the plight of the planet.  Now, even though restrictions were easing, he refused to set foot on another plane - or boat, which, he said, were just as bad.   “Sorry love, we’ll have to think of something else. Maybe, we could take up hiking.”  Celia had shuddered and that had been the end of that conversation. 

                                                ***

         Tom was slouched in his favourite armchair, reading a magazine, when she walked into the living room.  He jumped and closed its pages. He looked shifty, she thought, as if he had something to hide. She decided to probe, although she didn’t expect to learn much.

         “What are you reading?”

         “Er..nothing much, just a gardening magazine.”

         Predictable, she thought. He knew very well she hated gardening and would immediately lose interest.  Well, she’d play along with that for now.

         “Do you want a drink?” she said, heading for the bar at the far end.

         “No thanks love.  I’m going out in a bit.”

         “Again?  You went out last night.”

         “Well, you know, these guys….the pubs got a quiz evening and they want me to make up a team.”

         She snorted, quickly covering it up with a cough.  She knew very well he wasn’t going to the pub.  Purely out of curiosity, after he’d gone out one evening, she’d strolled to the Spotted Bull and it had been practically deserted.  To make quite sure, she’d gone inside and ordered a lemon and lime.  Choosing a hidden corner, she’d kept watch but there’d been no sight or sound of a boisterous group of men in any of the bars. It was then, she started wondering just where he did go. Perhaps he had a mistress.

         “Is it the Spotted Bull again?” she asked filling her glass to the brim.

         “Yeah.” He said and she wasted a few drops of Merlot, as her hand shook.

         “Well, good luck,” she said,

         After he’d gone, she poured herself another glass and sat sipping it as she looked around her room.  It was just as she’d planned and in the dim light of the Tiffany lamps, it looked at its loveliest.  Originals on the walls, dark green velvet drapes sweeping down from the ceiling to a polished oak floor puddled by bright rugs.  A room to be proud of she thought as she relaxed back on her dark cream recliner.

         And then, of course, there were her animals.  Her expression softened as she looked at the glass cabinet, hand-made to her own specification. There was the pink satin elephant, complete with tasselled howdah that she’d bought in India. The perky French bulldog she’d got in Paris, the Chinese panda, a trio of monkeys and more, all basking under tiny spotlights.  They were her family now, she thought and not a speck of dust on any of them.  Tom had wanted a real dog once, but her foot had thoroughly squashed that idea.  Nasty, dirty, creatures dogs, with their muddy paws, loose hair and loud barks.  Her animals were much better, no trouble at all.

         The thought of trouble immediately brought her thoughts back to Tom. What was he up to?  It must be another woman, after all, that was the usual scenario.  She remembered countless tales from her office days, of sad sacks of wives past their best, who’d been left high and dry when their spouses had run off with younger versions. She gritted her teeth, that wouldn’t happen to her, not if she had anything to do with it.  Blood thrummed through her veins and suddenly restless, she jumped up.  She needed to defend herself, if he was up to something.  She needed proof and now was the ideal time to look for it.  First, she’d try his study.

         Her hands trembled as she rifled through the drawers in his desk finding nothing but bills, receipts and that stupid story he was trying to write.  Very soon, the room looked as if a tornado had hit but Celia was still without any evidence although the scrawled words, Eunice expected at 3 pm. made her heart pound for a second before she realised he meant the storm.

         Bedroom, she thought, I’ll go through his pockets. She was on his third suit when she struck gold. As she shook out his tweed jacket something glinted and fell to the floor.  In an instant, she’d swooped and scooped it up and with a mixture of vindication and grief she recognised it for what it was.  A blonde hair, so coarse it was obviously dyed. Her legs suddenly lost all strength and she fell onto the bed.  How could he?  Did thirty years of devotion mean nothing to him.  Had she cooked and cleaned for him all that time only to be thrown onto the scrap heap?  And the house. Her lovely house. She would be forced to sell it and live in some dingy flat while he jaunted around with his new squeeze.  It really was the last straw. She didn’t cry often but soon salty tears were running down her cheeks. Then, quite suddenly, an idea sprang into her mind.  It was so detailed, so fully formed, that it was as if the devil had been standing behind her and had bent and whispered in her ear.

         She knew exactly what to do now but first she must ring her daughter.  She would put her up, she knew she would. After all, she had a five bedroomed house with a pool and room for a pony. Then, she must rescue her animals, pack her jewels and a few of her favourite clothes.

         At last, she was ready.  All she had to do now was to get what she needed from the garage.  As she ran down the stairs to its inside door, she realised that she could have made her way there blindfolded. She knew every inch of the house, almost as if its brick and cement dust had seeped into her veins. There was the door to the room that they never went in any more.  It was too painful. As if cocooned by time, only cobwebs gathered where her youngest used to play. Grief, ever present, waited in the wings threatening to overwhelm her but resolutely she rushed on. Now she was in the corridor where the girls had kept their bikes before the garage was built. She could almost see their skeletal frames glinting dully in the dim light and remembered her nagging voice.  “Don’t throw them down like that, you’re making black marks on the walls and just look at those muddy tyre tracks.”  If only she could take back every unkind word she’d ever said. Dirt washes off but some things never do.

         She had to hunt a bit before she found what she wanted. The garage was in such a mess. Tom was so untidy; she’d have to speak to him.  Suddenly, the realisation that it wouldn’t be necessary almost stopped her dead but firming her lips, she carried on, spraying petrol around and coughing as the fumes caught in her throat.  She stopped when she thought it was enough, groped in her pockets and for a panicky moment realised she’d forgotten the matches.  But the Devil was present and guided her to an ancient box of Swan Vesta’s that had fallen to the ground.  She fumbled it open and struck a match, it flared at once but for a moment she stood looking around at the jumble of memories inside the garage.  At that point the Devil must have lost concentration, because she realised she couldn’t go through with it. There had to be some other way. Tom, for all his faults wasn’t an unkind man. She stood thinking, match in hand, quite forgetting the flame eating away its stalk.  Suddenly the spark bit and she screamed, dropped the match and screamed again as bright orange fire sprinted in all directions. She whirled, trying to stamp it out but the flames were hungry and much quicker. Out of nowhere a wall of flame raced up the door, cutting off her escape.  Dirty grey smoke billowed and Celia started to cough.

 

                                                  ***

Whistling under his breath, Tom wandered back from the village. As he did, he brushed whisps of golden straw from his clothes.  He felt both satisfied and fulfilled and so glad he’d taken the course in wheat weaving.  He was sure that Celia would love her present, three horses plaited from straw gleaned from the fields around their house and perfect for her collection.  She’d been a good wife, he thought and although he rarely showed his feelings, he really did think the world of her.

         It was when he rounded the corner and started up the hill that he first noticed black smoke curling into the dusk.  Someone’s got a good bonfire going, he thought and then frowned as he saw flashes of scarlet. That’s got out of hand….’  Almost immediately, the realisation of where it was coming from hit him with the force of a wrecking ball.

“Celia” he bellowed and started to run.

         Copyright Janet Baldey