Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  Skinny felt completely overwhelmed. He felt as if the bizarre happenings could only be possible if they were in a dream. But you weren’t supposed to feel pain in a dream, or feel a dodgy stomach coming on. Dreams were supposed to be beautiful or come in the form of flying bananas, or pints of beer the substance of thick soup that you could never quite swallow. On good nights they included beautiful nymphs feeding him chips from their mouths. But, instead…instead he was sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the sitting room being fed chicken broth and granary bread in bite-size chunks by Big Eve. And she’d put his dick back in incorrectly and his pubic hairs were pulling from his scrotum – but he didn’t dare to tell her.

  It had somehow seemed OK when the nurses had helped him. It had seemed acceptable – something that he could even turn into a pleasure when he related it to the boys later. In the hospital, Doctor Radcliff and the nurses had all asked whether it would be OK for Eve to look after him and he had been in perfect agreement. The occasional cup of tea and some of that nice cake she kept giving him would be fine. He hadn’t really thought about “other stuff”. Yet, Eve had seemed to relish the thought of her duties and had removed his goods from his trousers without any hesitation at all. If he hadn’t felt so groggy, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d first rubbed her hands together and licked her lips.

  The nurses, however, had overridden any embarrassment by chattering to him or each other throughout it all, as if reaching between his legs with a warm flannel was no different than removing a bit of fluff from a friend’s shoulder. If he’d been capable of an erection, he may even have managed one of those during the night, saved from prying eyes by the tent frame that was formed by his plastered arms.

  Skinny tried to take a break from eating and looked around the room. Eve was being a little too enthusiastic about her broth – something she would never dream of eating herself. She had harked back to childhood books in which ill people were always given broth and she had waited all these years to have a person in her care who warranted it. The butcher had been surprised by her request for bones in addition to her usual stewing steak and pork sausages, but had heard about her new patient, and so deserved the hard stare she gave him when he’d mentioned, “You shouldn’t feed him bones, you know, they’ll splinter inside him!” But, he bid her a cheery good day and threw in the bones for free, so she couldn’t complain.

  Eve had quite enjoyed her shopping trip, going to places she would normally only trudge past on her way to the newsagent’s for her “Wordsearch” books. She’d bought fruit in the grocer’s and had even ventured into the delicatessen for some special cheeses that she thought would build Peter up. Indeed, she’d wished she’d had a wicker basket as she strode lightly through town, greeting people she recognised at every other step; swinging plastic carrier bags didn’t really have the same appeal.

  Unfortunately, the grateful smiles she had anticipated and so looked forward to were not forthcoming. Peter sat on his chair gazing around the room with a dismissive look that would suggest that she were trying to feed him a bowl of spit, rather than her esteemed broth. She sat on a chair that was as near to him as possible without her knees knocking his, and, whereas love beamed from her eyes in a way that she could never have concealed, all that showed from his were confusion.

  “Calm down, Eve, m’n,” he snapped as she rested another spoonful on his lips, “I’m not feeling too good.”

  “Sorry,” she muttered unnecessarily, “getting a bit carried away.” Skinny then felt guilty for his sharpness and, remembering the days of having to deal with Teresa’s moods, he instinctively searched for something nice to say. Even in his sorry state, he felt unable to compliment her on her hair, which was now separated into three wiry tangled tufts. However, he’d not been completely unaware of the changes she’d made around the house, although he couldn’t really pinpoint exactly what they were.

  “Ay, Eve, you’ve done a tidy job with this room. It looks great!” Eve’s eyes glowed again and she returned the spoon to the bowl as she prattled about what she had done and where she had bought everything and where she’d seen the ideas.

  Chewing on the unfamiliar granary bread, Skinny suddenly realised just how thirsty he was. A nice pint now would really take the edge away and he definitely needed to relate his tales to the boys – they’d particularly like the bit about the nurses – plenty of room for embellishments there. He was aware of Doctor Sarah’s words and the need to keep out of the pub, but he felt fine now. He’d already gone for quite some time without a drink and therefore had proved to himself that he wasn’t addicted and so one or two, here or there, wouldn’t hurt now, surely?

  Recognising the need to placate Eve enough to help get him out of the flat, he thanked her profusely for the soup and bread, saying he felt much better and “Ooh, did you really make the broth? It was delicious.” He then prepared himself to stand and after a few pathetic attempts, Eve helped him to his feet, unaware of the whimper she made as she circled her arms around him. She only just managed to resist the urge to plant a very soft kiss on the back of his head.

  “Well, thank you very much again, Eve. You’ve been very kind. Would you do me just one more little favour please and then I’ll be out of your way. Would you mind finding me my wallet and then opening the doors? I could, er, do with some fresh air and a bit of a chat with my mates.”

  There was a silence as Peter stood, smiling as amiably as he could, wishing he could put his hands in his pockets and roll back and forth onto his toes in a light-hearted way.

  Eve, however, stared at him, biting her lower lip hard and frowning as if a battle was being fought within her head. Doctor Radcliff had said that this would happen and that if she really cared for and wanted to help Peter, she needed to be strong. It was entirely his right to drink, but it was her right not to help him do it. She had a sentence ready, as Doctor Radcliff had suggested, that would reflect her happiness to care for him, not judge him on his drinking, but to reflect her refusal to be a party to it. “Say it, mean it, then walk away,” said the Doctor. “Go for a walk or go for a swim,” she had added, trying to kill two birds with one stone, “but just get out of there. No fuss, no debate. OK?”

  Although Eve had nodded and had fully listened at the time, as she stood and deliberated in the sitting room, with Skinny’s eyes imploring hers for help, she realised that she hadn’t actually expected this to happen. With their love and her broth, she’d felt sure that it would be fine and that they would have sailed through it. She also realised that she’d spent more time thinking about how they’d manage bath time than this.

  It was a jolt to her to acknowledge that the love she’d put into making the broth hadn’t actually been transferred to the person who’d eaten it. In addition, she was also beginning to doubt the strength of his love within this relationship. There’d been none of the affection and caressing of the old days and all she wanted was to have him state his love for her. If she helped him drink, then she’d have it back by midnight. If she refused him, he would hate her and she could lose him for good.

  She felt as if she were standing on a precipice; if she jumped one way she had the thrill and the joy of the fall, but the knowledge that eventually it would end in disaster. Or she could turn the other way and face the trudge up the remainder of the mountain. Mountains always looked difficult to Eve – her weight in this issue was going to be no less of a handicap than if the metaphor were to be real. But Eve had never been a selfish woman, it was simply not in her nature and therefore she didn’t deliberate long. Instead, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and said her lines in the same monotone as the last rehearsed lines she had delivered – as the lamb in the hateful school nativity play.

  “I’m sorry, Peter, I am more than happy to help you and you are of course welcome to have a drink, but I am not willing to help you do it. I am going out now and please don’t ask me again.” And with that she picked up the dishes, walked from the room and clo
sed the door.

  Eve didn’t say hello to anyone as she made her way to the park. She clutched the slab of ginger cake in the pocket of the cardigan over her arm to stop it from swinging about and didn’t raise her eyes from the ground until she reached the grass. Once there, she allowed a few little tears to seep out and these she wiped away with a shaky hand.

  She hated argument and confrontation; any sign of rebellion or even debate in her childhood home had been stopped dead by a snarl from Gloria and thus the sound of Peter’s reasoning, then shouts, then abuse being followed by a loud crash had scared and upset her. Eve headed towards the avenue beside the river and began to walk. She quickly felt much calmer and more peaceful under the gently swaying branches of the beautiful cherry trees, just as Doctor Radcliff had said she would – although in fairness, the doctor had made no mention of the need to nibble on a large piece of cake. But this piece had spices in: it was bound to be good for her…

  Peter, on the other hand, was feeling far from tranquil. He was finding it hard to believe what had just happened – and, not only had she not helped him, but the bitch had gone and slammed the sitting room door after her. He’d tried to be polite, but had then gotten angry as his reasoning had fallen on what he felt to be deaf ears. He’d kicked the door, but the impact of the checked slippers that are only worn by anyone when they are ill, was as soft as a marshmallow against teeth. He’d heard Eve forage in the kitchen for a while and then the flat door slam shut. The clump, clump that shook the whole building told him that she had gone down the stairs and out the front door.

  He aimed another futile kick at the sitting room door and fell back on the sofa – and then regretted it immediately as he realised that he’d effectively slammed his own prison door for the day. He tried to get to his feet, but not having perfected the harrumph of his captor, he remained like a woodlouse on its back. His frustration eventually turned to tears as he tried again and again to stand, but stomach muscles never get much exercise when their only job is supporting a man supping beer and straightening the occasional beermat.

  Skinny didn’t even think of calling for Trefor – the fact that someone else lived with them hadn’t really registered beyond his subconscious.

  Trefor, on the other hand, was very much enjoying the moment. He had heard most of the happenings of the day via the headphones that he had rigged up and connected to a series of small microphones throughout the house. Since conversation had stalled on Eve’s departure, he had to move to less technical solutions. He slid a pencil through a hole in the wall and very gently pushed at the picture that hung over it. He muttered a few curses to himself; he needed to get this bit sorted out – get the cameras rolling. The weight of the picture against the pencil tired his fingers and his field of vision was limited.

  He could hear the mumblings and sobs of his flatmate. He had no thoughts about rescuing the man or indeed even comforting him. It simply didn’t enter the bachelor’s mind.

  Eventually, Trefor tired of the lack of action from Peter, who just wept with no way of mopping the tears or stopping the snot other than to heave it back in. That was the problem of living with Peter and Eve – apart from the last couple of days, there really hadn’t been much audible action to monitor. Perhaps he should move into a bigger shared flat – maybe one with student girls in?

  Frustrated, he took his pencil from the hole and rubbed his fingers. Perhaps he’d wait until Eve returned?

  It was a shame really that Trefor missed the change that came over the pathetic man’s face when he realised after one particularly choking sob that he needed the toilet – and really quite badly. He would also have enjoyed the more frantic harrumphs that attempted to drag the exhausted inmate from the low and all-enveloping sofa, the final one accompanied by a different noise. A noise that ended in resignation as Skinny slumped back into the depths of the sofa, the saggy tracksuit bottoms slowly soiling and ruining the delicacy and the passion of the white boxers that Eve had bought with such high hopes.

  Chapter 42

  That Ham Sandwich

  Eve felt on top of the world as she turned the key and battered the heavy door into submission with her hip. She had enjoyed her walk in the park on such a beautiful day and had gone further up the river than she had gone in her whole adult life. Feeling brave, she’d stopped in at the Llew Coch on the way back and Dan D had welcomed her with a big smile, encouraged her to sit up at the bar on a stool with the bedraggled early afternoon crowd and given her an orange juice on the house.

  She had felt very important as he had asked about Ski— er, Peter, and the rest of the crew listened, chuckling quietly. She later wondered whether she would have got the juice for free if they had known the real truth – that Peter was sobbing alone in his cell, being unpleasantly warmed by a poultice of his own waste, but never mind, it’d be worth it in the end.

  After a while, Eve and Peter were forgotten and new and more important subjects were debated – plasterboard or plaster, regular servicing or drive ‘til it grinds to a halt, and although Eve no longer spoke, she felt involved and part of a crowd. It was a feeling wholly new to her and she ordered another orange juice and then some peanuts in case the juices should make her gripey.

  She had then dropped in on Gloria and had enjoyed breezing in and then out, being persuaded to stay and have afternoon tea rather than it being a focal point of her day. She’d prattled lightly about what she had been up to and how she’d been chatting to “the boys” in the Llew, ignoring Gloria’s snort, “Oh Christ, it’ll be you next then.” Gloria was quite put out by the new lease of life in her daughter and, feeling her drawing away into her own world, did what any good mother would do – invented ailments to make Eve feel guilty about her neglect. But Eve was too preoccupied to notice and after a grumbling trip to the bathroom, she checked her watch for the tenth time, enjoyed saying how much she had to do and left her mother settled sourly in front of some afternoon confessional show to watch another family ruin their lives in the name of entertainment.

  Once more consulting her memory for Doctor Sarah’s wisdom, Eve resolved to innocently return, not allude to the earlier conversation and continue as if nothing had happened. She imagined she would find Peter, a little morose perhaps, in front of the television, probably chatting with Trefor who would have come out to see what the noise was about. Indeed, perhaps she could draw Trefor out of his shell a little; she expected that he would like the occasional chat with the boys in the Llew too.

  Instead, she was a little concerned to see the sitting room door still closed and after turning the stiff handle, she opened it slowly and peered in. The smell hit her straight away, but the sight of the small man who seemed so much smaller than he usually did, huddled in the corner of the sofa, his arms locked out in front of him, not knowing where to look or how to look, was worse. He didn’t know whether to be angry, indignant, apologetic or sad, but managed to look a mixture of all of these as he stared up at the door and then turned his tear-stained face away, the pitifulness of his situation bringing an unchecked sob to the fore. Forgetting all her good intentions, Eve acted as instinctively as one would to a crying child and she ran to the sofa, knelt on it beside him and pulled his salty, snotty face to her bosom and stroked his hair crooning gently as the tears flowed again.

  Eve would make a fine mother one day and she showed this in her treatment of Skinny. She hugged him, reassured him and eventually made him laugh in spite of himself. Under Trefor’s watchful eye, she helped him to his feet, making him chuckle again at how easy it actually was. She undressed him gently in the bathroom, ignoring the fate of his new boxer shorts and the sagging tracksuit bottoms that were probably now ruined from waist to knee. It was just as well Trefor wasn’t watching this element as the defiled items were put “to soak” in the sink, perilously close to his toothbrush and with a squirt of his fine shower gel, with the matching soap thrown in as an afterthought to diffuse the residue. Just as the nurses had shown her, she took the sh
owerhead from the socket and directed it close to Peter’s pale skin, having checked it first on her inner arm for the temperature, being sure not to wet his plaster.

  Although a power hose and a good stiff brush would have been more suited to the job, Eve had soon washed all the “bits” down the plughole and then was able to start soaping. She took rather longer than was truly necessary about this, lathering the soap around Peter’s upper thighs and buttocks as if in a trance, debating whether she would be taking it a bit far to actually get in the cubicle with him. Despite everything, Skinny was also enjoying the experience. It had been an emotionally exhausting day and to feel Eve’s caressing care and attention was a tonic. He also managed to squeeze a wee out when she wasn’t watching to save on another ordeal later…

  He tried to think back to the last time he’d felt so indulged, giggling like a schoolboy when Eve turned him to face her and, gazing into his eyes, reached down and tickled his John Thomas with a soapy finger. Teresa had been his only proper girlfriend and times alone had been rare and snatched.

  Teresa had been a high maintenance beauty and therefore tumbles in the fields were not for her. Make-up had to be regularly attended to and hair like hers had to be fixed in a large mirror – preferably lit and with side wings. So, whilst his friends had been off shagging on the hills, rolling in the itchy bracken and skinny-dipping in moonlit rivers, Skinny and Teresa had been watching television with her parents. They’d had to make do with the occasional rummage and fumble when the parents left the room to make coffee.

  In addition to that, at least part of the available unchaperoned time had to be set aside for checking hair and make-up and him washing his hands, with lots of soap. He would then have to surrender them for a sniff test that Teresa would perform with the same lack of embarrassment that a parent has when deeply inhaling at their baby’s nappy in the middle of a dinner party conversation.