Pilchards or tuna?

Pilchards or Tuna?

Margot finally released her breath, stepping around the puddle of urine as the lift door creaked open. As bad as it was in the lift, it was preferable to the stairs, where the graffiti was disgusting, graphically describing physically impossible sexual acts and praising Annabelle’s lovely juggs. The accompanying drawing made it clear that Annabelle was not a potter.

 Margot counted the fifteen paces to her front door, each step leaving a damp footprint. She fumbled and dropped her keys onto the Welcome Home mat at her feet. Creaking audibly, she stooped to retrieve them. As she opened the front door she knew that Bobby would be there, waiting excitedly on the other side. He had very acute hearing. It was a very welcoming homecoming.

“I’m home!” Margot called unnecessarily from the hallway as she shut the door on the outside world and sighed with contentment.

The odour of toast from breakfast still hung faintly in the air. The washing on the airer over the bath smelled fresh and clean but overriding it was a far more compelling, cloying aroma that Margot had long since ceased to notice.

Three chipped china birds flying over the nicotine-brown tiled fireplace were reassuringly permanent. She would never throw them away even though the fourth member of the flight had long since migrated south alone leaving behind just its faded outline. A dusty clock in the shape of Big Ben ticked away remorselessly on the mantelpiece and tucked behind it was a yellowing wedding photograph, unframed and curling at the edges. There was nothing in Margot’s flat that was new or even recently purchased except for the day’s shopping in her carrier bag-for-life.  Nothing got thrown out in Margot’s flat, nothing discarded, however decrepit.

“Home sweet home,” was one of Margot’s daily mantras. Hurrying into the lounge she enveloped Bobby in a big hug before she eased into her familiar routine. She hefted the shopping bag onto the ancient and cracked kitchen worktop with a grunt. She took off her hat, stabbing it deftly with her hatpin. Scarf, coat, tabard and down-at-heel work shoes were next as each was carefully placed into its correct home.

 “A place for everything and everything in its place,” Margot announced quietly to herself, smiling. Another daily mantra. She poked the toes of her tired, end-of-a-long-shift feet into her well-worn, comfy slippers and shrugged into her old friend, the faded red cardigan that hung from the hook on the back of the cupboard door. It had one button missing but that was fine as long as Margot knew that it was safe in the pocket, wrapped in a piece of tissue, still waiting patiently for the thread that would reattach it. As ever, Margot checked that it was there and then, satisfied, she switched the kettle on. She knew that Bobby had his own routine too. When she was out he spent his days settled comfortably on his side of the sofa, his favourite place to sit. Whenever she picked him up to give him a big hug Margot could see the indent he left in the soft and faded grey velour of the cushion, next to the larger one made by her own, much heftier posterior.

 Margot chatted away to Bobby across the kitchen counter. It wasn’t much of a conversation but she knew he was listening. She knew that he wanted to know all about her shift on the checkout. She burbled on about some of her customers’ quirky purchases and every time she looked up, there was Bobby, looking right back, hanging on her every word. She could see the sparkle in his eyes, especially when she laughed. Margot laughed a lot but sometimes she had angry days and then things felt darker, more uncertain. Occasionally she cried and laughed at the same time. She never knew which would come next, the laughing or the crying or getting angry but she knew that Bobby didn’t mind.

Margot busied herself in the kitchen, putting away the shopping whilst she chatted to Bobby. She lined up the tins according to size, in ranks, evenly spaced, like soldiers in her cupboard. She shopped every day at the end of her shift in the local Mini-Mart. Well, who better to know where all the bargains and last-minute best buys were?

“Old Mrs. Thompson, you know, her from No. 23, well you’ll never guess what she bought today?”

Bobby couldn’t guess but it didn’t matter as Margot told him anyway.

“Three packs of cigarettes, a tin of spaghetti hoops and a tin of sardines, on special offer, of all things! Didn’t know she smoked.  Must have her son coming to stay.”

Bobby continued to listen from the sofa, his head, as ever, slightly tilted to one side.

“I know she doesn’t like sardines. She told me. Perhaps her son is bringing his cat. That’ll be nice, won’t it Bobby?”

Bobby didn’t disagree.

“Tea?”  Margot called out, following up with “Is the Pope Catholic?”

 Then her habitual chuckle. Of course she and Bobby would have tea together. That’s what they did every day when she came home. Part of their routine. The kettle roared away, agitating the water to the boil, angry at its enforced idleness since breakfast that morning. Margot brought tea for them both and set them down on the low table in front of the sofa.  A 1953 Coronation mug for her and an odd saucer for Bobby. Three sugars for her and just the one for Bobby.  Well, he was much smaller than her, wasn’t he, although she knew he did have a sweet tooth.  Margot flopped down beside Bobby, their sides pressed companionably together. How they both loved those moments of gentle relaxation at the end of Margot’s shift. She slipped her arm around him and gave a sigh of contentment. She picked up the TV times and flipped through it to plan her evening’s viewing.

“Oh, good. Look Bobby, “Silent Witness” is on at 9. You like that don’t you?”

 She sipped her tea and then delved into her handbag. She popped a couple of her “special” tablets out of their foil wrapper and looked at them in the palm of her hand.  Just another part of her routine, albeit an important one that the doctor said she must not forget. As if she would!

“Or else you may have another of your episodes and we don’t want that now, do we, Margot?” The doctor suggested in that slightly patronising, slightly over-loud voice reserved for people of a certain age. Margot didn’t mind.

Obligingly, Margot said, “No, we don’t, doctor.” But as she could never remember what actually happened during her so-called “episodes,” she slipped the pills down the side of the sofa where they nestled with the scores of others, mingling with a pin, a fluff-covered mint imperial and a pound coin. It was part of the routine. She never forgot to do it. The doctor would be pleased. Such a nice young woman.

Margot dropped off into a peaceful light sleep, her russet-cardiganed  chest rising and falling gently, her hand in the pocket grasping the detached button. Bobby rested contentedly by her side, his clear eyes unblinking. He gazed up at her through the many layers of cling film wrapped around him to keep him warm after Margot had noticed one day that he was stiff and cold. She added more layers over the next few months just for extra warmth and kept the heating on. Well, winter was coming on, wasn’t it?  The extra layers also helped to keep the flies away. Margot knew that Bobby had a sweet tooth but she hadn’t noticed that some of her discarded pills had slipped through the lining of the sofa. She would have had to move the sofa to have seen them but Bobby found them. They had proven to be irresistible to him as they sat there on the carpet in their pink, sugary coats. Deadly.

Margot came round from her sleep. Having a cat was such a comfort she always said as she gently stroked Bobby through the plastic. He crackled with contentment as she tickled him behind the ear. She didn’t notice a tiny but well nourished fly that wriggled free from between the layers and zig-zagged its bloated way across the room to settle lazily in the fruit bowl.

 Meat course over, now for the fruit.

“Right, well this won’t do, will it, Bobby?  Time for tea, I think.”  Margot stood up briskly and her knees creaked into action as she padded in her slippers across to the kitchen.

“What would you like tonight, Bobby?  Your usual, I expect, eh?”

 She opened the cupboard and took out two small tins. She wiped the dust off each one and studied the sell-by dates. Satisfied, she turned to Bobby.

“Pilchards or tuna?”  She held up the tins and looked at Bobby and Bobby looked back as she juggled the tins from hand to hand.

“Tuna, pilchards, pilchards, tuna?”  Bobby stared back at her, his head inclined slightly towards the tuna. “OK, tuna it is,” Margot said.

Picking up a tin opener and the tin of pilchards she marched across the room and leaned over her husband, sitting silently in his armchair, staring at the turned-off television with wide-eyed interest.

“I’m still not talking to you,” she told him sternly, waggling the handle of the carving knife that protruded from his chest through the many layers of cling film that bound him to his chair.

“You can get your own tea!”

 She put the opener and the tin on his lap.

 “You’ll have to make do with the pilchards. Bobby’s having the tuna.”

It was one of her happy days so she laughed then. The only reply from her husband’s armchair was the crackle of plastic and a faint buzz as another corpulent fly escaped and headed for the fruit bowl.

Margot knew her husband was happy too as he sat there in his favourite armchair, drip, drip, dripping onto the carpet.

He loved pilchards.