Desperate Remedies

Norman was the first up. He was always the first up and also the first downstairs. This was his routine and in the solitary minutes afforded to him as he made his mug of tea and toasted his bread, he could taste the flavours of another life dancing upon his forlorn tongue.

Mug in one hand. Half remembered buttered toast in the other, he stared out into the world and wished himself just a few yards hence. That was all it would take. To step through the prison of glass before him and be swept up and away by the wind. A fallen leaf carried off to pastures new.

Norman could not afford to fall though. His falling days were long behind him. In fact, if he’d attended to those days well, he would see that there had been no falling for him. His mother had wrapped him up in cotton wool and grabbed at him at each and every falling opportunity, whilst providing a soundtrack that was a litany of don’ts. Yes, Norman’s mother had taught him that life was about staying on your feet and avoiding each and every stumbling block. A life of avoidance was a safe life. Norman’s mother never once mentioned happiness, let alone the attainment of that unicorn of emotions.

Toast cooling and butter solidifying. Tea threatening to grow tepid in a half-arsed mimicry of Norman’s life, he attempted to imagine falling from this life of his. Imagination is a wonderful thing, but shackled as it was by Norman’s myriad worries he instead thought of how bad it would be to be a leaf. Cast asunder by the branch of life. Falling in a half-death and never finding a place to rest. Rotting above ground. Kicked hither and thither by haughty children. Norman had previously had similar thoughts of feathers. 

And yet…

And yet, there were those flavours tripping on his tongue, and those flavours haunted him with an increasing persistence. Their presence grew and grew until he espied strange and wonderful colours in his peripheral vision. A circus approaching from a far off land. A circus that would stop nearby, and were Norman to visit such a gaudy and impossible place, he would be smitten and in his delight of the magic of the tent and all that dwelt within. In his delight he would be noticed, and in being noticed he would be approached and made an offer he could not refuse. After all, every business needed an accountant and if there was one thing Norman was good at, it was numbers.

If only…

“You’re going to be late.”

The only dream Norman ever remembered was stolen from him by the invasive presence of Belinda. Belinda was Norman’s wife. Norman had pondered this in the way that people do. The pondering is by no means deliberate or industrious, instead it is a casual act of vandalism. Mind graffiti daubed upon a concept. Norman thought of the concept of wife and he thought of Belinda and then he daubed a messy question mark in its midst. The result of this was that he felt deflated. He saw the messy question mark with his mind’s eye and it annoyed him. It saddened him. He had sprayed a query upon this aspect of his life so often that he was now becoming angry. Angry at this wanton act of vandalism. Once, he might have wanted to grab a cleaning agent, run hot water and scrub away at the graffiti, but now he saw no point. Somewhere along the way, the badly applied paint made no difference. What lay underneath was just as bad, if not worse.

He thought about shrugging, which is to say that an inner shrug took place, but the power of the message he conjured was not sufficient to move his aching body. He looked from toast to tea, remembering a time when they had been so much better; appetising and vibrant. His desire for them escaped him now. His definition of desire hung on a hook gathering dust. Mechanically, he ate the toast, washing it down with tea gone cold and accusatory.

Rinsing the mug and placing it on the drainer, he turned to Belinda, “see you later,” he said and then he kissed her on her cool cheek and left.

Belinda moved into the space by the window vacated by Norman. She watched the grey car reverse out of the drive, pause outside the house, and then drift out of sight. As she watched this balletic motion she felt a sense of inexplicable loss. A part of her detaching itself from her and leaving never to return.

She had fought this sense of loss for so long. At first she dismissed it as a nonsense. Her tired brain burping as it struggled to get into its stride. But then she resented it, because there was no way that she missed Norman. Not like that. That brand of missing was reserved for the young and crazily in love.

Belinda went around and around in this battle against her sense of loss until she caught sight of that notion of her loss being the preserve of the youthful and lustful lovers. That was when the true nature of her loss began to make itself known to her. That was when Belinda went through the same corridor of emotions that eventually ended up at anger, and with anger came a whole host of other, darkly dizzying emotions.

The angry emotions that came a-calling at 23 Acacia Avenue found open and receptive hosts. It was not that Norman and Belinda were emotionless, but that they took their emotions for granted, along with a whole host of other things in their lives. They had given up, content to go around and around on a merry-go-round that they mistook for living. By the time they could have woken up to what they were doing and what a waste it was, the fungal growth of anger had taken a hold and was spreading at a frightening rate.

“Bastard!” Belinda spat out at the spot where the car stood when it was not at Norman’s workplace. Then she turned to the mug that had no right to be there, snatched it up and thrust it into the dark confines of the dishwasher. That Norman had placed the teaspoon in the dishwasher wound her up no end. He knew! He knew what was required of him and yet he left the mug on the drainer in a wanton act of defiance. Hateful man! Hateful, hateful turd of a man!

Norman had never once heard Belinda swear. Not even when she stubbed her toe on the coffee table so hard she lost her toenail a week later. Belinda had a side that she did not show Norman. Norman was equally guilty of this form of deception. A deception that had been inculcated in them both from early childhood. Unfortunately, they did not see it as deceitful. For them, it was the only way to be. There was no decorum in letting it all hang out. Holding it in and presenting the best front possible was how people were meant to act. The real Belinda was not worthy of the world and Belinda was afraid to show the world who she really was. The person Norman really was shied away from a world that his mother had created. A world where Norman could never, possibly be good enough.

In this respect, Belinda and Norman were a perfect match. Possibly not a match made in heaven, more a theoretical match. The sort of match made as someone sorts through their Top Trump collection using one of the scores as a sorting mechanism. There was no accident in their choosing to couple up. They identified their common cause and enjoined in it. Now they resented each other for the false front they could see, and that resentment was what had invited the anger in, welcomed it with open arms and showed it the sort of sordid affection that would have made Belinda blush and Norman clear his throat uncomfortably before he excused himself from the room.

At lunchtime, Norman sat in the park adjacent to his workplace and ate a meal deal that he purchased from a supermarket nearby. The ham sandwich was acceptable, more so as it was accompanied by salt and vinegar crisps. Once he had finished, he would open the orange juice and drink it in four mouthfuls. Sometimes he chose apple juice as he was conscious that he should introduce variety into his lunchtimes, but he could not bring himself to part with the ham or the crisps.

Pigeons milled about the park. There were people who fed the pigeons despite the signs warning them not to. Norman was conflicted by this. He quite liked the pigeons and thought it mean not to feed them, but the rules were the rules and they were there for a reason. 

Today, two of the pigeons were being affectionate, possibly with amorous intentions. Norman hadn’t meant to stare, wasn’t initially aware of where his eyes were directed. But when he saw the pair take turns to rub their heads into the neck of the other, the sight of it spoke to him in words he did not understand, and yet there was a meaning he could not miss. Looking away from the pigeons, intending to think upon this strange and perturbing message, his eyes strayed to a couple walking along holding hands. His focus was upon the interlinked hands and again meaning came to him unbidden. 

Once again, he removed his gaze, knowing it to be rude to stare. In the next moment he witnessed an elderly couple on a bench diagonally across from him. He breathed a gentle sigh of relief, only for them to then turn and face each other, embrace and to top it all, kiss in a way that was far from chaste, and that once upon a time would have challenged notions of public decency. Norman’s sense of decency was from another era, and yet he felt no outrage. Instead that meaning visited him for a third time in quick succession.

Three being the magic number, Norman arose from his park bench, tore asunder the lid of his orange juice and downed the contents in one go. Energised by this brutal action he swept up his belongings and strode to the office, placing his litter in the bin along the way. Empty orange bottle in the recycling portion of said bin.

Back at the office, Norman composed an email and sent it. Then he closed his computer, tidied his desk and left for the day. Norman’s line manager would open that email in an hour’s time. They would reread it twice and then silently and within the bubble of a numbing awe, they would shuffle out of their office and observe the empty desk of an employee who was so much a part of the furniture that his absence made no sense whatsoever.

Today, Norman knew, was one of Belinda’s non-work days. Belinda worked three days a week. This she had done ever since Norman had been promoted. The rationale for this had been lost in the mists of time, as many things are. This arrangement just was. If Norman had ever thought about it, his thoughts centred around things women do. His mother had mentioned things women do a number of times and the way she mentioned them was with a deep sense of foreboding. Norman’s mother made it abundantly clear that these were things that were none of Norman’s beeswax and that he should stay well away from them. Norman’s mother made darn sure that Norman knew his place and that he stayed well within the confines of that place, even when it came to his thoughts. It was better that way.

As he neared home, Norman almost overthought his way back to work. Or at the very least anywhere other than this place. He was taken with an overwhelming sense of fear and this fear upset him. It upset him so much that he pulled over just around the corner of his home, slumped forward and for the very first time in his life he cried in public. Albeit in the relative safety of the metallic cocoon of his car. He cried for what felt like an age. He cried until his ribs hurt and his head throbbed. He cried and cried and did nothing to staunch the flood of tears, nor the snot snaking from both nostrils.

A gentle tap at the driver’s window of his car brought him back from the brink of what felt like a sobbing oblivion, “you alright, Norman?”

Norman recognised the voice. Knew what he would see before he saw it. It was Bill and Bill was with Dodger, his bull terrier. Norman had always wanted to point out that Dodger wasn’t the Dickensian dog, not even the owner of the dog. He wanted to talk to Bill about this because he suspected that the dog had not been ironically named, but erroneously labelled. Norman worried as to whether he was a cruel man in his desire to do this, or whether it was the nature of his profession; finding error in everything around him.

Without lifting his head, Norman opened the car window, “yes, I’m fine,” he told his neighbour, “just having a moment,” he bravely added. These additional words were not words he was in the habit of uttering.

“Oh, right,” said Bill. 

Then an unexpected thing happened. Bill reached through the window and squeezed Norman’s shoulder, “just you take care, Norman. You know where I am if you ever want a cuppa, OK?”

The moment was transformative. Despite the shame of his soggy face, Norman looked up and smiled, “thanks Bill, that means the world to me.”

As Dodger looked on with an intense curiosity, Bill nodded a nod that meant good. His neighbour straightened up, “come on, boy,” he said lovingly to his dog-companion, but before Dodger left he barked once at Norman; he means it, OK?

Norman grinned and the grin brought him back to himself. Only now did he notice the car’s engine was still running. He switched it off and opened the door. Paused. The window was still open. He looked at the space where there was no window and that space looked back into him. Challenging him. He shook his head. Not this time. 

Pocketing the keys to his car, he left it not only with the window open, but unlocked. Sometimes rules were an obstacle. Sometimes rules were locks, chains and blinkers. Right now, Norman needed to be free of those things. He needed space. He needed air.

He needed to be.

Of course, Norman had a plan. Norman held plans dear. Plans were important. Plans helped prevent falling. His plan was simple, he intended it to be effective. And if it didn’t work, then at least he would know. He was beginning to understand that what he hated was not knowing. What he was angry at was his own ignorance. He was blind, but by his own choosing. What made it all worse was that he didn’t remember ever making that choice.

The Norman that carefully entered his home burst forth when compared to the Norman who had crept away that morning. His stride was purposeful. Norman was a man on a mission. Norman was going to do. Norman was going to be.

All that bravado and intended action froze in time and space as Norman walked in upon Belinda. Not the Belinda he knew. Not the woman he’d married. No. Not that. Not that at all. Norman knew that Belinda, like him, was a suppressed soul and that she had a secret and that secret was her. But this…

“Fuck!” said Norman for the very first time in his life.

At this gruff expletive, Belinda also froze. Her attention was elsewhere and it should not have been possible for her to hear her husband above the racket and hullabaloo she was in the very midst of, but Norman’s uttering was almost elemental and it was not possible for Belinda to miss it.

Belinda turned to face her husband. Turned to face the music, now her secret was out. And once their eyes met much and more passed between them. Norman should have been distracted by the entire tableau of secrets presented to him, but all he saw in that moment were Belinda’s eyes. Eyes filled with those secrets, accompanied by a maelstrom of confusion, but Norman saw beyond all that, and for the very first time he actually saw Belinda.

“Belinda,” he said in that same gruff voice he’d uttered his very first fuck with.

“Norman,” Belinda said in a husky voice neither of them had ever heard before.

Norman closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around his wife. His plan had been to hug her for a minimum of twenty seconds, but the embrace went on for much, much longer than that. 

Norman kissed Belinda full on the mouth. His plan had been to kiss her for a minimum of six seconds. Norman’s plan was to do these things in an attempt to change their lives. He’d read about the chemicals released by hugs and kisses, and he wanted to effect that change. This plan though was an irrelevant pigeon, and it flew out of the window and into obscurity.

Norman came up for air well after the six, or even twenty seconds he’d allotted, “turn the hoover off,” he told his wife. Then he led her to the sofa, taking his time, drinking in the sight of her, “this is what you do on your days off?”

“Not just this,” she said with a smile that promised so much more. And then, they both began delivering on those promises.