My husband Ken always said that I was useless....maybe he was right. He was always banging on about what the role of a wife entailed and how bad I was at it. Oh, I know that most of the time it was for my own good. It was true that I needed to know how to cook, so the meals would be edible. How to wash up properly, so I wouldn’t kill us by allowing germs to breed on the pots and pans. How to be organised, so I would know where everything was without turning out all the drawers and cupboards when I needed something. He talked a lot of sense...some of the time.
He was a very particular man. His motto was everything in its place and a place for everything. That tended to put me under pressure I must admit. Trying to meet his exacting standards was wearing. It’s a funny thing, but the more particular he became, the more flustered I became. Some days he only had to look at me in a certain way and I would drop whatever I was carrying, spill the tea or trip over something I had left out by mistake.
BANG! Goodness that startled me. For a minute there I thought it was Ken. But no, it was only my friend Jenny from next door going out. She must be going to pick up the kids from school. Now she has a nice home....lovely and tidy, of course, but somehow nice and warm with a homely feeling to it. She was always telling me not to worry, to calm down and that things would take care of themselves. Personally I couldn’t see how things would take care of themselves. I was brought up to believe that you had to take charge of your own destiny. So why had I allowed Ken to take charge of my destiny for so long?
We had rubbed along together for years and years in our own peculiar fashion. Looking back, things seemed to get worse after Ken had that bad virus. It affected his sinuses something chronic and he ended up not being able to smell anything. That made him extremely irritable. He said his food never tasted the same after that. He always liked the place smelling clean and fresh – but of course he couldn’t smell the air freshener anymore. He used to make me spray it in front of him so he knew I’d done it, even if he couldn’t smell it. He couldn’t smell the fabric softener on the sheets, so I had to make sure I ironed them, so he knew I had put clean sheets on the bed. He took to watching me cook, so he knew what ingredients I was using as he couldn’t smell the curry power or the garlic and wanted to make sure I had the right blend of herbs and spices.
In a way though, it had the effect of taking some of the pressure off me. If I burned the toast, he couldn’t smell it, so wouldn’t roar down the stairs about me being bloody useless as usual, wasting his hard earned money. If I decided to have the odd sneaky cigarette, he couldn’t smell it, so he didn’t launch into a diatribe about me trying to kill myself and him into the bargain through passive smoking. Not to mention the inquisition about where I had managed to get a fiver from to afford to buy the bloody things in the first place.
It was about that time that Jenny started to notice the difference in me. She said I was less wound up and nervy and wondered if I had gone to the doctor after all to get those little pills she was always on about. In fact I had gone to see that nice Dr Raj, who prescribed Prozac to make me less anxious. He did warn about the dangers of taking too many. If I wasn’t careful they could make me very sleepy and forgetful, he stressed. So I had to be vigilant and keep to the prescribed dose.
But as everyone knows I’m a bit dippy, irresponsible and well, useless. After all Ken had told everyone I was often enough. So it was understandable that I kept forgetting how many tablets I had taken and when I had taken them.
When the accident happened, I was happily drinking tea in Jenny’s large, comfortable warm home watching the kids play. Completely oblivious to the fact that I had left the gas cooker on and the door to the hallway open, causing a draft, which blew out the flame. So when Ken came home from work he couldn’t smell the gas and he turned on the kitchen light. Blew himself and the kitchen to smithereens he did.
Everyone was very sympathetic. I told them I didn’t know how I would cope without Ken. After all he was my rock, the man who made sure I did everything I should in the way I should. However would I manage without him?
Dr Raj wondered if I needed anymore tablets to help me through the grief and shock. But I said I needed to be strong and would try and manage without them in future. I told him I had a few tablets left in case I needed them. I checked when I got back home. There they were in the bathroom cabinet. A nice pristine bottle of pills, with the seal still intact. I got rid of most of them down the toilet. I just kept a handful back. After all I had promised Dr Raj I would take one if I needed it.
I’ve found that life’s a bit different now. I can do the things I want to do. Things like joining a creative writing group and trying to write a “What if.....” short story.
Still, this writing business is a bit difficult. Especially when you’re the sort of person who doesn’t know anything or nothing ever happens to. At least nothing that I can write about that is. Let’s face it, I can’t exactly write a “What if you left the gas on deliberately so your husband would blow himself up” sort of story can I? So I think maybe I’ll try to write a story about “what happens if a dog that I haven’t got bites someone that I don’t know”. Yes, that should do it.
Another Satisfactory Day
No Mercy (Sgt Major Crane story) Page 2