Eggshells and Pachyderms

Eggshells and Pachyderms

How best to kill him she thought? She stared down at her husband. Tom was lying on his back, his mouth slackly open, snoring noisily. He had seemed to fall asleep almost immediately they had retired to bed, while she lay there, crying softly in the dark. She couldn’t sleep; even his snoring seemed yet one more weapon deployed against her. She knew he hadn’t really gone to sleep that quickly; that he had lain there awake, deliberately ignoring her obvious misery.

God, she hated him. She thought back over the day’s events. Their daughter, Claire, had travelled down from Sheffield for the weekend. Claire was a researcher for one of the big pharmaceutical companies, Astra something or other. Margaret could never remember. She had done a roast dinner for them all and had spent most of the afternoon preparing it. She had insisted on the two of them going for a walk together down by the river. She said she was fine on her own, more than happy pottering round the kitchen.

As soon as they disappeared, she had poured herself a glass of wine; half a bottle had disappeared by the time they came back but she was careful to hide this in the drinks cabinet in the dining room, putting a fresh bottle in the fridge to cool. Then she prepared dinner: roast chicken with roast potatoes. a carrot and swede puree, cabbage, broccoli and courgettes. She also prepared a dish of sweet potatoes. Timing was the thing and she prided herself on getting it exactly right. Except this time she didn’t get it right; she had forgotten to put the sweet potatoes into the oven until the very last moment. Swearing softly under her breath she now put them in. Never mind, she thought, I can serve them late; it will be fine. I’ll just slow everything else down.

Her husband and daughter returned. It had started to rain when they were out and the smell of their damp clothes filled the hallway. They both helped Margaret to serve up, Claire giggling when the chicken leg she tried to lever on to her father’s plate toppled onto the kitchen table instead. Margaret pursed her lips; the table was pine and she knew it easily stained. She wiped the greasy surface where the chicken leg had fallen with a damp cloth.

“Whoops,” said Tom. “Good job that wasn’t me or I’d be in the doghouse.”

Margaret glared at him, a look that warned him not to do anything that might spoil the afternoon. Tom pretended not to notice. 

She left the oven on to give the sweet potatoes another five minutes to cook and then poured both herself and Tom a large glass of wine. A Bordeaux, her favourite.

“You can finish serving up,” she called to her husband. “I’ve done my bit.”

Tom looked at his daughter and shrugged. They both guessed Margaret had started drinking whilst they’d been out.”

“She’s getting worse,” whispered Claire. “I’m really worried about her.”

Tom sighed and stared down at the table. “So am I love, so am I. I’ve tried talking to her but…”

“Do you want me to say something?”

Tom glanced at her briefly and looked away again. He suddenly seemed shrunken, defeated.

“No, best not.”

“Elephant in the room.”

He grimaced. “Exactly, a fucking big pachyderm shitting all over the house. Sorry, Claire, didn’t mean to swear…it’s just…”

His eyes shone with tears. Gently, Claire cupped one of his hands in her own. “So, we say nothing then.”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Eggshells.”

“Fine, eggshells it is then. Eggshells and pachyderms – not an ideal combination really.”

Tom gave a brief snort of laughter. “No, not really.”

They were sat at the table in the dining room, their daughter facing them, Tom beside her. Margaret stared at herself in the large mirror hung on the wall opposite. I should have arranged things differently, she thought. I should have made sure I was on the opposite side of the table so I wouldn’t have to stare at my own reflection for the duration of the meal. Her face was flushed and blotchy, her hair an untidy mess of dark curls. All this was in sharp contrast to her daughter’s flawless complexion and neat page boy cut. She always looked so perfect. I was never like that. Where on earth does she get it from? Not me anyway, she thought bitterly.

Margaret turned to her husband.

“Can you get me a refill?” she said, holding out her wine glass.

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“You haven’t finished that one yet.”

“Well, it’ll save me getting up again.”

“Fine,” he said.

In the kitchen he noticed the oven was still on and turned it off. He returned with the wine and settled himself to eat. Moments later, Margaret let out a cry.

“God, I’ve forgotten the sweet potatoes.”

She rushed out to the kitchen.

“Who turned these off? She called.

Tom grimaced.

“I did. I thought you’d left the oven on by mistake.”

“Of course, I bloody didn’t. You knew I had the sweet potatoes in there.”

She returned, wearing pink oven gloves, and holding the tray of sweet potatoes aloft like a key piece of evidence proffered at a trial. 

“These aren’t cooked,” she said accusingly.

“Well, that’s not my fault,” said Tom. “You should have put them in earlier.”

“You did this deliberately. You don’t like them so you made sure no-one else would have them either.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re being completely irrational.”

“You did it deliberately. You’ve ruined this meal.

“Mum,” said Claire, a note of warning in her voice. “Leave it now; it was an accident. That’s the end of it.”

Margaret stared at Claire. Tears pricked her eyes. Humiliated by her own daughter, the afternoon spoilt by her unfeeling pig of a husband, almost as though he’d engineered the whole thing. Her own daughter, who she loved to distraction, siding with him.

She stood up.

“I can’t eat now; you’ve ruined everything. I spent all day preparing this meal for the two of you and this is the thanks I get.”

“Margaret,” said her husband despairingly, “please don’t.”

“Mum,” Claire cried, “sit down. Dad didn’t do anything.”

“I can’t,” said Margaret and burst into tears. “I can’t – I can’t bear it. I can’t.”

The following day it was still raining, the sky a suffocating grey. Her husband had got up early and she could hear him laughing downstairs in the kitchen with their daughter. Thirty years I’ve put up with this she thought; his condescending manner, how he managed to put her down and humiliate her in front of their friends. Then he was all innocence afterwards of course. But he knew exactly what he was doing and now he had turned their own daughter against her. Well no more she thought. Today marks the end.

She told them she was going for a walk, needed some fresh air.

“Do you want me to come with you?” said Tom. “It’s still raining by the way. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s fine. I won’t be long anyway.”

The rain became fiercer as she walked, almost as though it was warning her to turn back. Her jeans were damp against her thighs beneath her anorak, her trainers already spongy and wet. There was a wood close to the house and she turned into it. The plant she needed was close to where a tree had recently fallen, a gaping wound torn in the earth, a hydra’s head of twisted roots. She stared for a moment at the black bead like berries, each held in a cluster of leaves like a star, almost like jewels offered up for her admire. She slipped on a pair of disposable plastic gloves she had brought with her, and carefully prised a number of the berries away from their casings, quickly filling a small freezer bag. Blueberry muffins, she thought, his favourite. She could give him one of them tomorrow once Claire had gone.

When she got back she found a note on the kitchen table written in her husband’s almost illegible scrawl.

Gone for a walk. We’ll buy a paper on the way back.

Good she thought. That will give me the time I need to do these muffins. She mixed in some blueberries into the dough together with the belladonna berries. She had googled how many might be needed to kill an adult; ten to twenty it seemed. Far too many for a single muffin. Well he’s greedy enough to eat two at a sitting so that should be enough surely. I just need to give him a bit of encouragement. Once made, she placed them in a large cake tin and hid it one of the cupboards behind some packets of cereal. She barely had time to wipe down the work surfaces to remove the residues of flour and pastry left there when she heard the front door open and the two of them bounced into the kitchen.

“Got completely soaked out there,” laughed her husband. “Hmm, something smells nice. You been baking?”

“No, well yes, I made some puff pastry for the chicken and leek pie later.”

Tom sniffed the air.

“Smells sort of sweetish though, a bit like cherries.”

“I think you’re hallucinating dear – probably in need of a sugar rush. How about a nice cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit?”

“Sounds good. Got the paper by the way, although it is a little damp.”

“More than a little damp Dad – you’ll need a hairdryer to sort that out,” said Claire.

“Do you want tea darling?” said Margaret, turning to her daughter.

“No, I’m fine honestly. I’ll just change out of these wet clothes if that’s OK. Oh look” she said, “I think it’s clearing up.”

They stared out of the window. The sky was patched with blue, the sun peering from behind a curtain of grey cloud like an actor with stage fright.

“Typical” said Tom.

The afternoon brightened enough for the three of them to venture out into the garden. Tom wiped down the metal garden chairs with an old tea towel and adorned them with some blue and cream striped cushions from the garage. Claire made them all a jug of Sangria and regaled them with tales of her housemates, how inept they were at cooking and how one of them had got so drunk at a wedding reception that he had toppled backwards into a hedge where he lay helpless like an upturned beetle until some of his friends had rescued him.

Margaret leant back in her chair, the sun warming her face, and felt her anger at her husband slowly seep away.

At one point Claire disappeared into the garage to fetch some more ice from the freezer for the Sangria. She came back not with the ice but brandishing two hula hoops.

“Remember these Dad? You taught me how to use one of these when I was ten years old which is a bit of a joke because if I remember you were pretty rubbish at it.”

“I was not,” said Tom. “I think I was pretty good.”

“Well you can prove it now then,” said Claire.

“You’re on – hand me one of them and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Tom gingerly stepped into the hoop and lifted it to his waist. He expertly spun the hoop, his hips moving smoothly to keep it spinning.

“Not bad for an old ‘un,” laughed Claire.

“Less of the old if you don’t mind,” said Tom and he winked at Margaret.

Margaret smiled up at him. She had a vision of their wedding day. He had turned and winked at her in exactly the same way when she arrived at his side, having made her way nervously up the aisle of the church. She had giggled and from that moment on the day had flown by in a euphoric rush. God, how she had loved him she thought and how giddy and fun filled their early years together had been. Then she remembered the muffins. I have to get rid of them. What was I thinking? Have I lost my mind?

“Are you alright Margaret? You look –“

“I’m fine. I’ve forgotten to do something. I’ll be back in a second.”

“Is it something I can help with? “ said Tom.

“No, no it’s fine honestly.”

She went back into the kitchen and stared out at them; they weren’t looking back. They were laughing and smiling and engaged in animated conversation. The sun disappeared behind some clouds and it seemed suddenly darker. She bent down to retrieve the cake tin and carefully lifted the lid. She had made six muffins. Two were missing.