by Ayse Hafiza
George didn’t consider himself a drunk, in 1970’s England men had a higher tolerance to alcohol, it was called being a man. He shuffled his feet walking along the gray concrete paving slabs, along the roads that led to his house. As he turned onto his street he looked up at the handsome end-of-terrace house that he purchased for his family. The red bricks of the front wall were crumbling, a large crack had developed, so he considered asking his son Frank to help cement it up. But then he remembered Frank's incredibly lazy and hostile character and so George forgot about the wall. He looked at the white net curtains which covered the lead squares of the single glazed windows. That were deep set into the bricks of the house.
It was a beautiful house, but it was another thing he had grown tired of. After working for thirty years in that thankless factory to pay for the place he knew that as soon as he was interred his ingrate of a son would sell the house. It pained him to think of all those years of toil to be rendered null and void. He was proud of the house it was the single biggest purchase that he had made, and evidence to show Lizzy’s family she had chosen a winner. They had been silently impressed with it, and that was at a point in time when he still cared what his in-laws thought.
He knew they thought Lizzy could do far better than him. She had been a beautiful tall woman, with amazingly soft skin, impeccable blonde hair, and sparkling blue eyes. He used to joke and call her Greta Garbo because she looked like her. Or what he thought she would look like if he saw her in color. The only part that differed was the small gap between her front teeth. But even to a man in love her gap was endearing. Lizzy, or Elizabeth as her mom insisted she be called, ‘because of course, Elizabeth shared the same name with the Queen of England, so she should wear her full name with pride.’ He could almost hear his mother in laws words taunting his ears as he fished in his pocket for the house keys.
Unsteady on his feet, he finally managed to find the right one and slid it into the lock in the wooden surround of the glass encased door. He coughed at the front door which was his habit as he stepped inside. Taking off his coat, he slowly hung it from the coat stand and put his keys on the side table. He could hear the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen. Closing the front door, he pushed the Yale lock hard into the catch. He took off his cap and hung it from the highest point of the coat rack and looked at his reflection in the antique gold surround mirror above the radiator. It looked at odds in the house, but her mom gave it to her. He had wanted to break it, but he knew that was seven years bad luck. He had grown to accept it, even though it was ugly, and the metal liquid of the mirror was chipping in places. Who was the old man staring back, he wasn’t sure he knew anymore? Then he walked slowly toward the kitchen. Her voice chimed out on cue.
“You’re back early,” Lizzy called out.
He rounded the corner and entered the kitchen to find her stood there wearing her usual apron with a battered fish in her hand. He nodded while trying not to look at her but around the kitchen.
“Hmmm. . .have you seen the dog leash? I think I’ll take Buster out for a walk,” he announced.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Oh! Don’t you remember. . .Buster isn’t with us anymore?” said Lizzy as she looked at him.
That was all he wanted, he wanted his wife to look at him, not ignore him as she usually did to mirror his actions.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. How could I forget?” said George with a smirk he hid from her as he backed out the room.
“Tea will be ready at six,” Lizzy’s soft voice was laced with tiredness as she made sure to let him know when to expect dinner.
He said nothing more, that was the most they would communicate in the day. George went and sat in his room, the one which overlooked the back garden. He could see his white vests hanging from the washing line. She had done his laundry. He sat in his armchair packed his pipe and picked up the paper and his glasses. He would be comfortable until she called, he might even have a snooze. As he sat in his chair he looked at the gray rendered walls of the concrete garage. He had plans for that garage, but right now his plans would have to wait.
Tomorrow George would sit and organize his papers. He looked at the scratched gold-plated Casio in scorn, thirty years and just a bleeding watch to show for his hard toil. He was sick of being robbed, the factory, his wife, and his family had stolen his time and youth. He was going to take it all back, he wasn’t going to let anyone take advantage of him again, and that plan took preparation. Even though he felt a keen sense of injustice, he wouldn’t be accused of not fulfilling his responsibilities or doing his duty, and for that reason he needed his paperwork to be up to date. That would take a little time, of course. He had been making preparation for a while, collecting it all together. George would fulfill his duties and keep his promises, but after that he himself would be free, and with that thought he submitted to the slumber which was forcing his eyelids closed.
“Tea is ready,” came the voice with a soft knock at his room door.
“I’ll join you,” he called out.
He never usually joined her, only if it was their anniversary, but this time he would. His plans sparked a sense of excitement, and as an old man there was rarely anything which caused excitement.
“I’ll set the table,” came her faltering voice.
It was darker outside, soon after he stood from his armchair he pulled the curtains across the window and stopped as he caught sight of his reflection. Again, wondering who the old man was that was staring him in the eye.
“Goodbye old man,” he said as he pulled the curtain across, the dulled cream of the curtain hiding his reflection. George turned and left his room to join his wife Lizzy in the kitchen where they sat in silence and ate. Of course, Lizzy would think it was strange. George normally took his dinner in his room alone, but she wouldn’t question him, Lizzy never did. They sat in silence, the only sound made was the scraping of cutlery across plates as they ate their dinner. After fifty years of marriage, there wasn’t much to say anymore.
George pushed his food around his plate as he secretly watched her finish her cod and chips. She ate in record time, and that was his only indication that she was uncomfortable. He watched the swoosh of her flowery blue dress as she swung her legs out from under the table. He used to love it when she wore blue, it used to show up her bright eyes, but now it made her skin look dull. He wasn’t interested in hurting her feelings by telling her the truth, he wasn’t interested in Mrs. Lizzy Blades full stop. He watched her from a safe distance while she stood at the kitchen counter she had her back toward him, and instead of the woman who he pledged to spend the rest of his life with, he saw her for what she was.
A trap.
Lizzy, with her bright red lipstick and shiny eyes, had ensnared him with the dream of falling in love. While he was competing for her attention with Arthur, he had fallen hook line and sinker, and now where had that left him?
His best friend was a dead dog, and the only conversation he had with his wife was to ask what she prepared for dinner. She relentlessly performed her duty toward him and he would do the same, in his way he would look after her. She didn’t know it, but he was going to do her a favor.
That was his decision, and in time it would be a decision that he would regret.
3
The Future
As a retired couple, he knew her routine just from the sounds inside the house. He could hear the water running in the bathroom and he knew she was washing. From the creak on the stairs he knew she had gone down to the kitchen. From the waft of bacon only if she was happy with him, or dried English muffins if she wasn’t, he knew she was making breakfast. His food would be left on the kitchen counter, ready for him when he chose to come downstairs.
He entered her domain when he retired, she always had the house to herself, but with him back home her life had changed too. She gave up her art class, book club, and crochet classes to stay in and plan meals. All of which she had managed to do perf
ectly well when she had friends and interests. He didn’t know why she insisted on changing her routine for him, but he did understand it was part of the training that her mom had given her. How to keep a man happy by Mrs. June Hamilton, who was of course plagiarizing Mrs. Beaton’s Book of Household Management. He was surprised that she wasn’t standing at the front door ready to greet him with a hot cup of tea and his slippers.
Either way, Mrs. Hamilton senior sent her daughter Elizabeth off to get married at the age of twenty-one with a deeply instilled understanding of the right way to do things. Poor Lizzy was a slave to her mom, a slave to George, and a slave to society, the thought softened him for a fleeting moment. But then she was doing her duty, and that was to be a good wife and Mom.
She was keeping her vows, and he would keep his. He could have divorced her, some people did, but they were a social disgrace. He couldn’t mar her like that, a divorced woman or used goods as they whispered. Most of the people they knew were Catholic, it just wasn’t the done thing. Arthurs words of happiness bothered him, but George had been her choice, now she needed to live with the consequences of that decision, good or bad.
George sat at his metal desk and pulled out the right-hand drawer. He took out all the papers and reviewed them placing them in chronological order.
With Lizzy out to get the shopping it meant she would be gone for at least two hours, maybe longer if she lingered at the bakery as was her habit of buying the freshest of buns then she would be gone for longer. He knew that was just an excuse to avoid himself. It didn’t matter, the point was she was out and that gave him a window of opportunity to sit and go through everything. Although Lizzy would never enter his room without knocking first, George was still cautious. He didn’t want prying eyes to realize his plans, not before he was ready to reveal them himself. His jittery hands made it even harder as he looked over the letters between himself, the bank and insurance company. Then he thought to himself that he should leave a note, it would be an act of kindness.
George found his writing pad and pulled it out with a pencil. What did he want to say to the woman who had given him company for the last fifty years? There was so much he could say, but he wasn’t good with words not like Arthur, he wrote plainly.
Dear Lizzy,
Thanks
George
She would know it was him from his handwriting, but he still felt compelled to sign his name. It was reflective of the formality that had crept into their relationship with the revelation of the secret letters in the attic.
He remembered the first time they met. She had beautiful long blonde hair, wore a daring red lipstick smile, sparkling cool blue eyes, and she smelled of French perfume and promise. Like Greta Garbo, she was a stark contrast to the dreary heavy-set brunettes around him. He wanted this blonde angel so much and when she chose him too, he knew he was the lucky one.
George thought to himself what if things had been different? What if Lizzy had chosen his best friend Arthur instead? Maybe then George would have joined the Army, traveled and seen the world, lived. . . really lived, not just scraped by. There he would be fighting enemies of King and Queen and not fighting to meet the expectations of family and society. What would it have been like to feel the sun in Africa?
Lizzy had chosen him, and whether she realized it or not it was a trap, she had robbed him of a real life. Love faded so quickly, then soured with the years into old milk left to rot. The promise of their early married life had been an illusion, and the woman he lived with increasingly a stranger. Someone he committed to spending the rest of his life with was a woman he despised, and with that emotion, nothing but loneliness enveloped him. Love bitter as lemons, a cruel joke played on a hopeful young man, by a woman who had sucked away everything that George Blades had wanted or could want. All his capacity, talent, and potential. He looked at the gold-plated Casio which represented the thirty years given to the factory, he took it off and used it as a paperweight, to hold the yellow slip in place on the top of the pile.
He looked at the slip again, he could crumple the paper in his hands, but he erred on the side of politeness. Would it hurt to say thanks? He knew the answer. Besides, it wasn’t time to think about the past, especially when his future was calling. George Blades opened the second metal drawer of his desk, and took out the cord, he was checking it was still there because he would need it soon.
George Blades wanted to look presentable, so he took a sip of whiskey in the morning, which was his immediate cure for his jittering hands. He went to the bathroom to shave, and in the solitude he cherished, he'd whispered into the steamed-up mirror the words he used to imagine telling Frank years earlier.
Franks was his only child, and in the mirror, George had practiced telling him that he was going to leave his mom. He rehearsed the conversation millions of times, practicing his comforting tone until he knew it sounded perfect. Giving Frank time to ask the why and what questions that he knew would accompany the conversation.
George had never wanted himself, or his logic, questioned so he prepared as an actor would in the mirror, perfecting his tone and expressions for what he knew his son would understand as yet another selfish act.
Why did George Blades want out? That would be the question his son would ask, and all of society given a chance. Because it would be an act of rebellion, he didn't care for societies expectations that trapped different people together and damned a hopeful man into a loveless existence. He knew at best himself and Elizabeth were cohabiting strangers. They had not shared a bed for many years, after their son was born his wife had moved into the second bedroom of their semi-detached home, her bedroom overlooked the small garden, garage, and shed. She had stayed in that room initially as their son had been a terrible sleeper, and George being the busy man of the house and the breadwinner needed his sleep. Only she had stayed in the back bedroom for the remainder of their marriage. After all, she provided him with a son and heir, maybe she felt her job was done, and there was no need for the messiness of sex. As his dutiful wife, she looked after the house. But beyond the service that she offered him, there was a void in which loneliness had taken root developing into a barrier between them. Initially he was pleased with her ability to compromise and her sweet temperament, it had created for him no doubt that he would rule his house. Her ability to unquestioningly serve was what he wanted, but it had meant that he grew bored of her fast. If George had been a wiser man he would have realized that judging someone leads to an inability to love them, without realizing George killed the love he longed for.
She was a mother of his son, he couldn’t take that away from her. It was for that reason he always took her to local pub Christmas party. The pub was a man’s domain, and yet he took his wife annually, though even that made him cringe. Listening to the same neighbor’s brag about their children. Of course, Lizzy joined in the pointless competition boasting about their son Frank’s latest achievements, and how proud they were of him. George never backed her up, so she spoke for him with the other ladies in the neighborhood. He was glad he wouldn’t have to put up with yet another one of those dreary parties again.
He finished his shave and washed away the remainder of the soap, he felt his skin, it was soft. Dabbing his old spice aftershave onto his face, he was done. He headed into his bedroom and laid out his suit. A gray one, it was the only one he owned, he only used it for weddings. He put it on. His hands lingered over the ties, although wearing a tie would complete his outfit, it would just get in the way.
Heading down the creaking stairs he went to look out of the front door window. The last thing he needed was Lizzy turning up now. Luckily, she was nowhere to be seen, just the Moms walking home after dropping their children at school, and the postman walking door to door. George walked back to his desk and picked up the cord, testing it with his hands. He took another swig from the bottle, all of it this time. She didn’t drink whiskey, so what was the point of letting it go to waste?
He picked up the bottl
e and went to stand in front of the hallway mirror, the old one which looked like it belonged in Versailles and not a semi-detached house in South London. He stood staring at himself, gazing into his drunk eyes, looking for the murkiness of his own soul. His reflection smiled back at himself, even though he knew he wasn’t smiling. He watched the curve of his lips turned up into an unnatural smile, and he knew it was time to embrace his future. He took another swig from the bottle and turned away. He didn’t see his smiling reflection stand watching him walk away, because George was single-minded.
It was with one final lunge of effort that a drunk George kicked away the side of the wooden kitchen chair. The chair that he had been standing on, and now his feet had nothing to take his weight. The cord constricted immediately around his neck becoming taut as he kicked his legs about, desperately he tried to find a ledge for support. The cord was doing its job perfectly, and George’s hands were around his throat, frantically trying to tug and loosen it.
Less than half a second later he knew it was futile. George felt the immediate fire piercing through his chest as his body struggled to find oxygen. His legs kicked faster. He felt his eyes bulging in his head as if they were about to explode from their sockets and his brain started to swell inside his skull. He kicked more forcing the cord to become tighter, constricting everything. George kicked his legs involuntarily as the piercing fire developed into an all-consuming ball and finally became far more than he could handle. The fireball traveled between his stomach and chest, increasing its reach through his limbs and sending pain along them. The fire burned in intensity, scorching everything inside. He was aware his organs were starting to fail.
George, with his last moment of consciousness, told himself that it was all going to change any minute now. Although the seconds felt like years, and minutes like centuries. The rope tightened more, and George felt his eyes start to shut down as he lost the gift of sight. He could smell burning from inside his body in his nostrils, he felt nothing but the burning sensation move along every nerve as he twitched from the electricity inside himself. The fire was going to consume him, without mercy. A minute later his arms fell to his sides and the tips of his shoes finally point downwards.