My conclusion

My conclusion
By
Jan Harrison-Brown

I don't think my Mum really loved my Dad! Is that an awful thing to
say?
Especially seeing as she isn't with us anymore, to comment or even
agree.

I can never remember them touching or holding hands. I never walked
into a room and thought I was disturbing anything and I never saw a
twinkle in their eyes like young lovers have, you know, that lingering
look . . . Maybe, I was just to young to notice or to know what love
was all about.
But no, I don't really think she did . . . love him that is.

Mum and Dad had their own chairs, where they sat day after day, their
own cups for their ever-flowing pot of tea and their very own places at
the dinner table.
It has taken me twenty years to come to this conclusion, as I sit
across from my own husband, eating his superbly cooked meal.

We sit in silence, as I watch him. Cut into his roast and put a piece
into his mouth. I'd have cut it smaller, into several pieces, in fact.
His cheeks bulge as he starts to chew, preparing his next mouthful, and
in it goes before his mouth is completely empty, then he puts in some
more. His posture is arched over his meal, his hands fist like, with
knife and fork standing to attention, like soldiers, guarding each side
of his plate, as he wastes no time as he attacking the food
again.
I sip my tea, from my china cup; a feeling of revulsion comes over me.
I swallow hard and close my eyes for a second; he has put the knife
down, making a dark brown stain on my tablecloth. He picks up the full
mug of luke warm liquid, as he slurps it, some dribbles down his
unshaven chin. He tips it and drinks every last drop. He crashes the
mug down, making me jump. He burps openly and wipes his mouth on the
back of his hand.
I slowly stop eating and have a feeling, of wanting to be violently
sick, I pick up my plate and leave the table. Scraping what I'd left
into the bin.

I think of my mother, how would she have reacted to such a display of
vulgar behaviour at the table.

Brought up in service. She was proud how she'd gone from scully maid to
serving at the master's table before she reached the age of 18.
Grandmother was chief cook at the great hall. Grandfather the gardener.
He grew the vegetables and she cooked them well.
Grandfather told the squire they'd fallen in love and asked if they
could marry. The squire granted them permission and dropped their wages
ten shillings a year.
"Two can live cheaper than one," he'd said.
So, when mother was born it seemed so natural, at the age of twelve to
become a scully maid. Getting up at 3.30am each morning, to bring in
the coal and blacken the arga, to stoke the fires for hot water ready
for Sir and me' lady.
At the age of seven, she helped to polish the silver and at nine, she
could set the table as well as any servant, using a ruler at first to
measure the distance between each place setting, utensil and
glass.
She had mastered the art of folding napkins, which she shared with me
as I was growing up.
"To set a good table is a fine art." She would tell me, as her father
had told her before.
Everything had to be just right. Even the choice of flowers, nothing
scented that would take away the aroma of the food.
Yes, my mother took a pride in her table and over the years, family,
friends and neighbours ohh'd and arr'd as she not only displayed but
also cooked, the most exquisite compilation of aromatic dishes. Her
table was a masterpiece.
During my early years of marriage, I also dabbled in the art. (They say
you get to a mans heart, through his stomach!)

I smile at this thought . . .

But now, I clear my table of its cheap, pre-pressed cardboard mats with
pictures of famous paintings, some peeling off. Cork coasters for our
drinks. I no longer buy wine; my husband always hated my choice. He's
more of a beer drinker, which I refuse to have in the house. So we have
tea. I'd always buy cut flowers, just a little posy, for the table;
this would set off his hay fever, so this also has been replaced with a
plastic variety. I look at the dishes as I fill the sink with soapy
suds. A 30 piece set, tasteless with a non-descriptive pattern on the
edge.
"A bargin, at just ?9.99," he'd said.
"Tacky," I'd call them.

20 years we've been together. . . 20 whole years! . . Knowing each
other's little ways. He rises from the table. Goes to the kitchen draw
and takes out a box of matches. He lights a cigarette and draws in
deeply, then breaks the match in two and starts to pick at his
teeth.
"Do you have to do that?" I ask.
"Got a bit I can't get at," he says
I say no more and continue to wash the dishes.
Did mother really hate father this much? I wonder, looking out at the
uncut lawn and tumbling down fence. As much as I hate him?
He goes into the lounge and I hear the TV.
"Good evening and welcome."
His favourite show.

I clear the rest of the table and put everything neatly away. I take
some bread out from the freezer, for mornings breakfast, and pour
myself some juice.
I hear him roar with laughter as he shouts my name to come and
see.
"Leave that and come and watch this."
I go through and see the television audience laughing and enjoying the
evening's entertainment. He describes what I have missed. He sits
upright but sprawled across the sofa, his arm laced across the back of
the seat. His shirt buttons straining over his expanded stomach, traces
of the meal he's just eaten down the front. His muddy shoes marking my
cushions. Cigarette ash on my clean floor.
I sit in my chair and pick up my book. I try to read, but the TV is too
loud.
"I might have an early night," I say. He doesn't hear me; he's
engrossed in the programme.
I go to bed and can still hear it still booming out down below.
I read till I hear movement.
The fridge door goes, he's making himself a snack, then, Silence and
lights being switched off down stairs.
I lie there and think of mother married for 60 years, Father would
watch his football and mother read her books. Romance, obviously trying
to find that missing ingredient in her marriage.

I smile to my-self . . . Daughter, like Mother.
I wonder . . . would I miss my hubby if he were to die? No. . . I don't
think I would. In fact, Im sure that I wouldn't. . .

When Mother died, Father was devastated.

I don't think my husband would even notice I was gone! His shirts would
eventually become un-ironed and his meals would consist of
microwave-able plastic food, from the freezer. The dining table would
become a shelf for his mound of papers and bookie slips. His new eating
venue, a tray, in front of his precious TV.

I hear him urinate, then release wind almost simultaneously in the
bathroom. The click of the bathroom cabinet, then a gargling sound,
finally he spits the liquid into the sink followed by a sudden gush of
water from the tap.
I switch off my bedside lamp and roll onto my side towards the window,
away from him. Pretending to be a sleep. Hoping and praying he doesn't
touch me.
He comes into the room; his belt buckle tinkles as his trousers fall to
the floor. The bed bounces as he sits on the edge to remove his socks
and shirt. I hear a whoosh as he throws them across the room. Missing
the chair, they land where they fall.
My heart misses a beat . . .Then thumps harder. Ker thump. Ker thump.
Ker thump . . I close my eyes tighter.
"You asleep?"
I don't answer.
Please God make him go away.
He bounces about for a minute or two, fluffing up pillows, turning down
the quilt.
He lies on his back, playing with himself. The bed rocks gently for a
while, then he is still.
"Good night," he says.
I don't answer.
He slaps my backside - hard, making me flinch but still, I don't
answer. He rolls away from me and releases wind again.

As we lay in our marital bed, back to back, I think of my mum, some
more.
No, she didn't love my dad, like I don't love him.

She just tolerated him . . . Yes . . . I think that is the word . . .
Tolerate!

Except! I'm not going to wait, till I'm dead before I'm
appreciated.

Nor am I going to look miserably back from the photos taken, at our
golden wedding anniversary. See, I'm not as brave as my Mum. . .
house-proud maybe, but - nowhere near as brave.

The washing and ironing is up to date, and the freezer is full. It
should take him a month, maybe even two before he eats his way through
the mountain of pies, pizza's and TV dinners, I'm sure he wont miss me
till then.

I smile now thankful, it's coming to an end.

I wont upset his morning routine. It will be breakfast as normal.

We won't speak and I shall put the radio on to take away the noise he
makes whilst eating his cereal. He will leave his toast crumbs in the
butter, as he always does and leave the knife stuck in the jam. While
he obsessively stirs his three spoons of sugar in his mug of luke warm
tea and continues, to read his - God damn paper.

Oblivious of what I will be doing.

Oh yes, the radio will be very loud tomorrow . . . and maybe I will hum
along.

When he eventually looks up and notices that I have gone . . . Perhaps
he will wonder what it was that happened, what was it I had tired of
and was it something he had done?. .
Who knows? . . . Who cares? . . . Not me. . .
Words 1800
Copyright 2003