Here is the result of a prompt from Studio 30 and The Darkroom. I want to be extremely clear - this is a work of fiction. My house is always messy. The picture of the sink also reminded me of the poem I wrote last September called Displacement, which I wrote not long after my father's funeral. It's worth looking at the responses to these prompts from other people, you get to read some great stuff then.
“I’m sorry, darling.” Darren
smiled nervously at me. “But it is only
twice a year, and it is only from Thursday to Tuesday.”
I took a deep breath. “Of course, I know. Your mother and I don’t see eye to eye, but
that’s okay. She’s your mother and we
both love you. That’s why I’ve got the
day off to get the house all set up for her.”
Darren winced. “I’ll pick her up from the airport. I’ll pick up a takeaway on my way back.”
“Absolutely not.” I said
firmly. “I’ll make a lovely casserole
and that way it doesn’t matter if you are a little late.”
“Thank you, darling, I do
appreciate it.” Darren gave me a quick kiss and hurried off to work.
Pamela, my mother-in-law, did
only visit twice a year, the first weekend after the Christmas break and the
first weekend in July. It was some awful
ritual where a demon was unleashed twice a year. They could make a Nicholas Cage movie out of
it. As for the takeaway, I was not
falling for that again. Four years ago I
had made the mistake of allowing Darren to pick up a pizza on the way
back. For the last four years I had been
hearing about how a proper wife made her husband meals, no matter what the
circumstances.
I slouched into the
kitchen. I had never felt less like
being a domestic goddess. It was all so
humiliating. I was far too particular,
according to my friends, and wasted far too much time cleaning. According to Pamela, I was a slattern. Every inch of this house would be
scrutinised. Last time I thought I had
her. There was no dust on the top of the
kitchen cupboards and the walls had been washed down. I had put brand new bedding on her bed and I
had dusted behind every stick of furniture.
I had had the oven professionally cleaned and steamed the carpets. The old witch had actually taken the drawers
out of her dresser and found dust on the inside of the frame. She had been so smug, sitting opposite me in my kitchen, eating my food which I had cooked,
while Darren sat between us, twitching.
I looked around my lovely,
clean kitchen. Not only would she go
over the room like a forensic detective but she would also sigh and complain
that it looked too bare. “It’s a shame
you don’t have any knickknacks around,” she had said last time. “Of course, not everyone has a flair for
decorating. Perhaps it is just as well
that you haven’t tried.” She had smiled a wide, fake smile and patted my
arm. “I’ll bring you some nice things next
time I come. Then you won’t have to
worry about getting it wrong.”
The old trout had great taste –
for 1972! I knew that she would have a suitcase full of cheap tat when she
turned up, and that it would have to be in the same place she left it when she
returned six months later – and she would know if the plastic grot had been
moved an inch. I swear the old bat had a
photographic memory.
I threw together a boeuf bourguignon
and put it on slow. I’d already taken
out every removable drawer in the house and cleaned behind them. All the carpets, curtains and rugs had been
steamed last week. Not only was the
bedding in her room new but so was the curtains. I’d cleaned all the lampshades yesterday and
dusted all the lightbulbs. I sighed and
started to pull out the fridge. Then I
paused.
Why was I playing her
game? Why was I running round in circles
trying to get her to like me when nothing short of a sharp blow to the head
would ever make her accept the woman who stole away her baby boy? I’d been doing it wrong for years. If she ran out of things to check I swear she
would pull up the floorboards. Okay, if
she wanted something different, she could have something different.
By the time Darren’s car
pulled into the drive I was finished. I
ached with the efforts, and I had had to get a few friends to help out. It had been entirely worth it. I looked around as I heard Darren carefully
reversing into the garage. The kitchen was
smeared with jam and I had done my best to give a greasy feel by spraying the
wall with the oil spray I used in cooking.
I had found some kitchen curtains in a skip which were now drooping at
the window. I had gone to every friend
and neighbour and scrounged the contents of their vacuum cleaners. After some trial I found that a light mist of
water helped the dust of a dozen homes cling to walls, sink and bath. I had put a mouse trap at the back of her
dresser, just where it would get her if she checked, and I put the contents of
four dryer filters under her bed.
The trip to the charity shop
had been the most fun. The house was
awash with ‘accents’. Our house was now
a temple to the worse taste that ever landed on an Oxfam donation table. There was plastic everywhere. I had also got
some extremely washed bedding from the charity shop and begged some curtains
for Pamela’s room that they were going to send to the rag man and rubbed damp
instant coffee granules along the edges for an added artistic touch. I had had fun, and so had my friends. Everyone had got photos.
I turned round as Darren
unlocked the door. “Darling, my mother’s
plane has been delayed and she has decided not to come until the Christmas
break after all…” He stopped as he walked in to the kitchen. There was a long pause. “Darling, would you like a drink?”
