Roberts Day

It was a hard decision to make, but once he had made it Robert
prepared himself thoroughly. After all, hadn't his uncle always told
him 'Don't talk about it! Do it!' Now the thinking part was over, all
taken care of, the decision made, Robert felt much better; more settled
within himself. He had gone over the pros and cons time and time again.
It was time for action. He was sure his uncle would be proud of him.
For once in his life his uncle would really be proud.

Robert waited until the old Grandmother clock in the hall struck the
quarter hour, until he.was sure his aunt and uncle had left for the
day. Then, he set about tidying his room. He took all the clothes out
of the closet and put them on the bed, and he cleaned as he had only
seen cleaning done by his aunt, or on Television adverts. By the time
he had finished the closet was web free, dust free, odour free, and the
shelves as spotless as the latest cream cleanser could possibly make
them. He didn't want his aunt to have any excuse to moan when the time
came.

Next he started on the chest of drawers, adding the contents to the
pile on the bed. He removed, joyfully scrunched up and binned the
lining paper and then repeated the thorough cleaning process he had
perfected with the wardrobe.

Robert panicked. No lining paper. His plan was in ruins, what would his
aunt say when she found out. His uncle would smile that slow knowing
smile that always managed to cut him to the quick. The smile that said
'Failed again Robert. Still, it was only to be expected.' He felt like
being sick. So close yet so... A smile spread over his face and turned
into a grin. There would be fresh lining paper in the garage. He was
saved.

Robert went downstairs and through the kitchen to the garage. It was
built onto the side of the house with an interconnecting door. There
had been no car since his uncles trouble and the garage had become a
sort of ground floor attic, full of the stuff that most people throw
out but scrimpers love to save. Yet this was no ordinary higgledy
piggledy attic. This was neat. It was a Garage immaculate.

The door squeaked a little as Robert pushed it open. 'Ha!' He thought,
automatically fetching the household oil and dealing with the squeaking
hinge, 'I'm not the only failure.' The concrete floor was as spotless
as always and Robert was mildly surprised he could still see dust motes
bobbing about in the rays of sunlight that streamed through the
sparkling garden window.

Almost unconsciously Robert checked to see that the case, his case, was
still at the back. It was, its filigree inlaid mahogany end sticking up
from behind a pile of Tea Chests. He walked over and ran his hand down
the dark polished grain. 'Soon my love, soon.' he said aloud, and
paused, thinking once more of his plan. 'But not quite yet.' He stood,
his spirit drinking in the stillness. Of all the house he felt most at
home here in the garage.

When he had arrived those years ago his aunt had shown him his bedroom
and said: 'This is your room now. Your sanctum Robert, your own private
place to put your grief to rest.' But she had lied. She, with her
saccharin voice and her perpetual questions. Always invading his space.
Continually chiding him for this and that. 'We take our shoes off In
this house Robert.' She used to say, and 'Nice people make their beds
before they have breakfast Robert.' Whilst from uncle he would get 'You
are such a disappointment Robert.' Or 'Buck up your ideas Robert.'Just
thinking about them made Robert shudder.

Finding the lining paper didn't take him long with his aunts axiomatic
system of 'A place for everything and everything in it's place.' And he
followed his uncles axiom of 'Never waste an ounce of energy. You never
know what the next ounce will cost you', by picking up the hoover on
his way out.

Back in his room he cut the fresh lining paper to fit, carefully
folding over the edges. Then he closed the empty drawers. Next he
attacked the pile of clothing on the bed. It was all clean and pressed
so no problem there. He carefully sorted and refolded it all into
suitable piles. Underwear Socks and Handkerchiefs. T-Shirts and Jeans.
Shirts, Trousers, Sweaters and Suits. The Suit pile was really not a
pile at all, as he only had the one, but Robert knew it would be what
she wanted. He then placed each pile into its own plastic bag and onto
each bag he carefully stuck a handwritten copperplate itemised label of
contents.

Robert was proud of his calligraphy. His aunt had told him soon after
his arrival that 'handwriting showeth the spirit of the man Robert.'
And 'People will always judge you by your script Robert.' And 'Always
use ink Robert. Never, ever, EVER a Biro!' And so he had practiced and
practiced and had even won a competition, though he had not been
allowed to tell anyone. 'Never boast Robert. It belies a gentleman to
boast.' She had said, and he had thought that proper too. But when they
had burnt his winners certificate, at the dinner table. When she had
taken his prize and joy and handed it to his uncle to burn...

'Bitch!' Robert said aloud, thinking back to the day 'Fucking Bitch and
Bloody Bastard!' He giggled with excitement at his daring. Such
language he thought, such lovely language. Robert put the neatly
labeled bags in a pile on the floor of the closet. His aunt would have
no excuse for complaint, No excuse!

His stomach rumbling, Robert went down to get some lunch. The kitchen
was one of his favorite places in the whole world, nearly as important
to him as the Garage. At least it was when he had the house to himself.
It was a bright and cheery room with a large scrubbed pine table and
chairs, and matching Welsh dresser. It was the room that the outside
world got to see most, and, Robert had decided soon after he had
arrived in the house, it was this room that gave visitors the
impression of normality. The impression that here was a well adjusted
family, going about its well adjusted family business. If only they
knew.

A sandwich, that's what I'll have he thought, and slung together a
cheesy salady thing, making ever sure that he left no trace of his
presence on the oh so clean kitchen work tops. No moaning aunty today
he thought grinning. No fucking moaning aunty today. Using the utterly
forbidden 'F' and 'B' words in the house had put him in a great mood
and Robert decided to eat his sandwich in the garden. He put his
concoction on a plate and walked out through the back door to watch the
birds at play. 'There are quite a few birds in the garden today' he
thought, sitting down at the patio table.... 'Perhaps they know.....
No. They can't possibly know, after all they are only Robins, not
Crows.'

Ever since he could remember Robert had always liked birds, They were
beholden to no one except themselves, and occasionally their mate. They
were truly free creatures. Not liable to receive long lists of chores.
No deadlines. No aunts or uncles. The big cock Robin splashed its wings
and preened its red breast happily in the thin spring sunshine, its
mate watching stoically from a low slung branch nearby. 'I wish I was a
bird' thought Robert wistfully, 'still you never know, maybe next
time'. He shook the plate on the lawn leaving his crumbs for the birds,
and went back indoors.

After he had carefully washed the plate Robert went back to his room to
finish off. 'Righty ho! Now for the desk', he thought gleefully,
humming to himself. He started with the bottom drawer. This held his
personal things. His private papers. He took out the steel lock box
that he had bought after he had begun to suspect that his aunt had been
snooping, and opened the lid with the key he kept in his wallet. It
contained his diaries. He had stupidly thought that he could just throw
them away, but now he saw them he hesitated. Wistfully he ran his
fingers slowly, lovingly down the row of spines. What harm could there
be in reading one or two passages. Reading about happier times.
Reliving, just for a moment or two, days that...

No! He had his plan, and for once he would follow it to the letter. One
by one he put the diaries gently, almost reverentially into the wicker
wastepaper basket. Realising quite how close he had come to wrecking
the plan he started sweating.

Old school books followed the diaries without problem, but photographs
he wasn't sure about. These he did have a look through, deciding
eventually to keep just the one of his parents. They were smiling at
the camera, arm in arm, with the old house in the background and his
mothers favorite rosebush 'Roseraie de L'Hay' in the foreground. Gently
smiling, Robert kissed them both and put the picture in his wallet. The
rest of the photographs he added to the growing pile in the wastepaper
basket along with most of his other personal papers and bits and bobs.
His passport he put in the lock box back in the now empty, and as
always clean bottom drawer. After all, who needed passports where he
was going?

The middle drawer contained stationary which he left alone, having
sorted through it thoroughly just the week before. Nearly there he
thought. looking at his watch to make sure that he was still on
schedule. Nearly there.

The last drawer, the top one, was, he had to admit, a bit of a mess. It
was where he kept his pens, pencils, crayons and rulers, though over
the last few months he had got in the habit of putting the contents of
his pockets in there before putting his clothes away for the night. Old
tube tickets, odd change, scraps of paper and bits of pocket fluff now
had to be sorted out. These taken care of he bound the pencils together
with elastic bands, ditto the crayons. That just left his pride and
joy, His cross pen. The only gift his aunt and uncle had ever given
him.

No. That wasn't entirely honest. They had given him gifts on each of
his birthdays, and every Christmas too. But these had always been, bar
the pen, needlework mottoes that his aunt had sown and framed by His
uncle. Though they had never actually insisted, he had always felt he
was obliged to hang them up on his bedroom wall, involving himself with
their trite cliches.

The one he hadn't immediately hung up: 'All work and no play makes
Robert a dull boy' had made Robert aware of a deep, seething, and
almost violent resentment emanating from his aunt. This Robert had
found harder to take than the having the beastly things on his wall,
and so had meekly, and as always, neatly, added it to his collection.
As he had finished hanging it up, (the plain wood frame almost
screaming at him 'I was chopped down for this?') He found his aunt
standing in the doorway wearing her 'pleased with Robert' face. To
think that he had been happy to see her.

Now the desk was finished Robert looked around the room to see if he
had missed anything. Guiltily he looked under the bed, but there was
nothing, except clean carpet. He ticked his mental check list off item
by item on his fingers.

Closet. Done!
Chest of drawers. Done!
Desk. Done!
Clothes. Done! (Bagged and in the Closet.)

He took the Wicker wastepaper basket out into the hall, then
meticulously hoovered his room, though at the back of his mind he knew
it wasn't really necessary. Still one could never be too sure. Right.
His room was completely ready.

After returning the hoover to its rightful place in the garage, Robert
took the wastepaper basket down into the garden. Almost hidden beyond
the lawn, beyond the apple tree and behind his uncles shed there was an
area that was used for burning garden rubbish, and making sure that he
still had plenty of time...

Yes. They weren't due back for another three hours.

Robert carefully, diligently and completely burnt the baskets contents.
He got the fire going with his attempt at writing a novel, to this he
added his photographs, finally placing his diaries, one by one, year by
year onto the roaring pyre. Then, and this was almost an orgasmic
moment, he burnt his aunts wicker basket. He felt like screaming out to
the world 'I! I, Robert have burnt aunty Bitches awful wicker basket!'
But he didn't. Couldn't. The neighbours must not know anything yet. Not
just yet. Still it's one in the eye for the rebels, he thought
guiltily. After all, it was one of her favorite baskets.

An hour and a half later he was ready. Ready for the final stage of his
plan. He had been quite dirty after the fire, the sort of sooty smelly
dirt that demands a change of clothes and a shower. This he had done,
carefully putting the old clothes in yet another plastic bag, and
putting this at the bottom of a builders skip, outside the next door
house. This was a last minute adjustment to the plan, but Robert
justified it with his uncles axiom 'Always think on your feet.' Nobody
had seen him with the bag, he had made sure of that and it would add a
little mystique to the situation. Robert went through his mental check
list.

Item one: Room clean? Yes!
Item two: Room immaculate? Yes!
Item three: Can she complain? No!
Item four: can she complain? NO!

Half an hour until they were due back.Robert went into the garage and
collected his case. Cradling it gently in his arms he took it up to his
room, crooning quietly as he walked. It was about three feet by two
feet and the filigree inlay and polished mahogany glinted and shone in
the evening sunlight from his bedroom window. He laid it on the bed,
lifted the catches and lid.

The double barreled twelve bore Purdey shotgun had been all that was
left of his parents estate, and that kept hidden from the 'money
grubbing executors' by his uncle.

'This is all I have left of my Brother.' His uncle was so fond of
saying, but Robert knew that the gun was really his. After all, his
Father would have wanted it. Lovingly he took the barrel out and turned
it in the sunlight, watching the rooms muted reflections in the blued
steel. Then he took out the stock, and with a snick and a click the gun
was complete. He loaded it and sat down on the bed to wait.

The light began to fade as his aunt and uncles taxi pulled up outside
the house. Robert stood up and saw them walk up the path and disappear
into the porch. 'This will show them.' Robert thought as he heard the
key in the lock of the front door. 'This will show them all!'

'Robert!' His aunt called from the hall. 'We're home!'

As his finger closed on the triggers, Robert felt the hammers falling
and cried out 'Oh no there'll be blood on the.......'