Deadline

A short story about a relationship that's not working

The early morning is my time. I can do my little rituals, as she likes to call them, without distraction: I read poetry, eat two lightly boiled eggs with a piece of toast and take a long walk in the surrounding countryside. I like to start my walk at 7.30 prompt to avoid, as far as possible, contact with dog walkers so I finish my reading at 6.55, make my way to the kitchen and prepare breakfast. Seven-thirty is the deadline by which time I must be buttoned-up, shoed and protected against the elements and so the morning is quite regimented: I awake at 4.45 (no alarm needed �" consciousness just seems to take over); I am in my chair reading for about one hour; and breakfast must be prepared, eaten and tidied.

 

Today, the wind and rain are in turmoil and I allow myself an extra minute or two in bed, listening to the activity outside. Inside, the house is calm �" a blessed relief after the events of last night. I get up and retrieve my clothes which are folded on a chair at the end of the bed. My drawing room awaits. I am careful to get out of the bedroom without disturbing the snoring one �" having her bark expletives as I manoeuvre myself out of the marital chamber upsets the morning �" and with care I circumnavigate the creaking floorboards. I urinate in the lavatory downstairs so that the flushing doesn’t waken her and I get dressed. Reading poetry is my introduction to the day �" the poet chosen the night before and an anthology left in readiness on the arm of the chair, along with my spectacles. I am finding of late that the familiarity of Blake serves my temperament so very appropriately and I’m beginning to rely on his conceits to start my day. I don’t like to disturb the dark of the early morning and so a pool of yellow from the reading lamp behind the chair is the only light in the room. Between verses I listen to the rain in the trees. The grandfather clock ticks away the hour.

 

Five to seven and I put Blake down. I allow myself few last moments of contemplation before making my way to my kitchen with its familiar smells and warming stove. It is a spacious sanctuary where, in the evenings, I retire to prepare supper. The units and work-surfaces are fashioned from English oak and meticulously cleaned after every meal.  Each of the drawers, except the one next to the fridge, has a large, dark-blue handle �" no more than a knob, really; the odd one out, coloured bright red, marks a very special place �" my knife-drawer. I instinctively open it to check the knives: all present �" shiny and strong. From cleaver to boning knife, they are razor-sharp and I allow no one to touch them. The cooker is clean, the equipment out of sight and there are no empty wine glasses or crumbs on the bread board. Not today, anyway �" the episode of a few weeks ago still disturbs me greatly.

 

I knew as soon as I had entered it that the drawing room was not right. I was surprised that it took so long to realise that there was an irregular feel to the room but the remnants of sleep must have dulled my awareness. Cigarette smoke. She had been smoking cigarettes in my drawing room. Vexed, I turned on the overhead light, bright and destructive. The sofa was in a state of disarray but there was no sign of cigarette-smoking. And yet the faint stench pervaded the room. How dare she? As I searched the room I found two �" two! �" wineglasses either side of the sofa. Crusted red dregs in each and oval lipstick-stains smeared on one. The sofa, too �" both cushions �" was greatly disheveled. I eventually found the telltale ash-t**d lying next to the grate " the b***h had smoked next the open fire, allowing the draw of the flames to hoover up her smoke.

 

Best not to dwell on these matters. Blake has soothed me and I will not let her sully my spirits. What’s more, my 7.30 deadline approaches and I can’t afford the distraction. I slide open my drawer, select the bread knife �" probably the most used of the set �" and cut one slice of brown bread. I wipe the blade clean and return it to the drawer. I drop the bread into the toaster, in readiness. I find a plate from the cupboard on which I place an eggcup and sprinkle some salt, in readiness. I then retrieve two eggs from the fridge and assess the cooking time �" on this occasion I decide on two and three-quarter minutes from boiling point. I put them in the saucepan, cover them with cold water and place the saucepan on the stove, in readiness. I then prepare the table �" butter, a glass of apple juice and cutlery. Confident that I am fully prepared I can now start the cooking process.

 

Planning is such an important concept and it always surprises me that she just goes through her life giving so little thought to her next move. Worse than that, she is so scathing of those of us that chose to organise our lives. ‘Where’s your spontaneity, darling,’ she often chides. ‘It’s my systematic approach to your feckless spontaneity that keeps us on the straight and narrow,’ I want to reply. Although I never say anything.

 

I turn the gas on and immediately lower the bread into the toaster; it is a slow toaster and the timing is such that when it pops up I can leave it to cool for 30 seconds and just before the eggs are ready I’ll spread the butter, allowing it to melt enough to be soft but not so much that the toast becomes soggy. Once boiling point is reached the clock starts and another deadline is set. Irrevocably.

 

Without careful planning all is lost. I’d like to see her boil an egg, with all that spontaneity crap. ‘Right. Time to eat … oh s**t, where are the f*****g eggs,’ or some such nonsense.  Organisation is the foundation of a well ordered life and ultimately, much of our happiness depends on it. It’s be a bit like going on holiday, arriving at passport control and only then thinking that you need a passport. You just don’t do that, do you? Before you go on holiday you plan the things you need �" you might even have a check-list! At some point you’ve got to say to yourself: ‘Right, I’ll need all sorts of travel documents so I’ll start a little folder to keep them at the ready for the big day " tickets, insurance, E111 and passport. And before I drive away from the house I’ll do a little mental check: tickets; passport; money.’ What in heaven’s name was she thinking of?

 

Ring ring, ring ring, ring ring.

‘Hello?’

‘Darling!’ Tears and sobs. ‘I’ve left my passport on the dining room table. You’ve got to do something!’

‘What?’

‘Go next door.’ More sobs. ‘Give Frank the passport and tell him to drive up here with it.’

‘What?’

‘But he’s got to be quick. Hurry, Darling. PLEASE!’

‘What?’

 

And that was it; all of a sudden, at 8 o’clock in the morning, I was expected to knock on my neighbour’s door (my new neighbour’s door �" we’d only been living next to him for a couple of weeks and on day two I had complained about his bloody dog pissing on my drive) and ask him to drop everything and drive 70 miles to the airport with my wife’s passport. It didn’t matter that she was quite chatty with the bloke, I can tell you, my request was not well received. An international departure is a significant deadline and requires meticulous consideration. She had got it very wrong and I was left to pick up the pieces. Again.

 

So, this breakfast time �" every breakfast time �" in the peace of the morning, I am in control of the egg deadline which will allow me to meet the walk deadline. In actual fact, doing anything with her has become a bit of an ordeal and I have in the past suspected her of rather enjoying the angst she causes me.

 

‘See you at three,’ she’d said. Both of us agreed to be outside the train station at three pm. It’s therefore understood that we will then have 14 minutes to buy our tickets and make our way to the platform where we will catch the 15.14 to Paddington. I to meet my publisher; she on some asinine shopping trip or another.

‘Shall we make it ten to, just to be on the safe side? Peace of mind, really.’

‘What’s the point? We’ll just be hanging around on the bloody platform for an extra ten minutes.’

‘But there might be queues to buy tickets and ...’

‘See you at THREE.’

 

Five minutes past three and the queues were building up at the ticket office. She knows I get a little anxious. Why does she do this? I’ll buy the tickets without her. Did she say she was coming back with me or did she decide to come back tomorrow? Who was the ‘very dear friend’ she was seeing, anyway? Where the f**k is she? F**k it. Two cheap-day returns it is, then. Stupid cow at the front writing a bloody cheque! ‘Excuse me, Lady. Hurry the f**k up. Cheques went out with the ark, you know,’ I want to shout. Scream.

‘Hello, darling.’

‘Where have you …’

‘Get the tickets, then,’ she smirked. My relief was great, but not great enough to quell the hatred inside.

 

The toast is buttered and the eggs are waiting �" one in the eggcup and the other on the side of the plate. Cold apple juice in a glass and I’m ready. I sit down and crack the top of the egg. I spoon out the top of the egg, shell and all, to reveal a runny, deep-yellow yolk. Perfect.

 

‘Darling? Darling? Come here.’ She’s at the top of the stairs, shouting. Her voice insistent. I glance up. The kitchen door is open and the passage leading to the stairs is dark. ‘Darling!’ She never wakes up at this time but she is there, alright, on the landing, shouting out of the darkness. The image of her kimono-dressing gown wrapped around her stick-like body and make-up-smeared, puffy eyes jars my senses. My breakfast is waiting. I scrunch my eyes against the tension in my chest.

 

‘Please, Darling. I know you’re there. You’re always there. We need to talk.’

 

She needs to talk, more like! I’m just about to start my breakfast and she needs to talk. We talked last night and she told me all sorts of things I ‘need to understand’. The more she spouted on about her needs the more I didn’t understand them. Except, of course, her need to disturb my evening " she knows I write my diary for 30 minutes before bed. I take another look at my eggs, rapidly losing their warmth with a skin forming on the yolk, and I get up. I make my way out of the kitchen and as I approach the fridge my gaze comes to rest on the bright red, wooden knob.

 

‘Coming, dear.’

 

***

 

I tend to stick to the same route when I walk in the mornings; I’ve got to know the landscape and I like to identify the changes that take place over the days, weeks and seasons. I’m a bit late today and have already had to say ‘good morning’ to some old biddy with a poodle dressed in a little doggie-coat (would you believe!) " a meeting I would have avoided had my breakfast not been disturbed. It is not for naught that I store so much importance on that 7.30 deadline. Still, at least today I’ll have the house to myself.

 

Richard Pearse