Every household is different, every household has its quirks. When one child is invited to another's, for the very first time, there will even be a new smell in the air. It may be a kitchen smell, it may be a garden smell or the smell of washing damp on a radiator or dry in the tumble. One household may in fact be a flat: five rooms, four, three, two. Some children may not even invite anyone back. It may not be the size of their home or indeed the smell, it may be that when their door is at last opened to a stranger, that stranger will see the truth beyond the doorway's frame and that truth may not be a pleasant one to see reflected in another's eyes.
The toast popped away from the filament and was quickly spread with margarine, halved and laid on the plate. Leaving it on the table he took the coffee cup and stood at the stair's bottom. The bedroom door was ever so slightly ajar. The window panes, set in the wall and keeping track with the steps, allowed in a finger of light that lit up wisps of steam rising towards the door. Matthew returned to the kitchen leaving the mug at the toast's side and left via the kitchen door. This door he left ajar, ever so slightly. Moving the empty plant pot at the kitchen window's heel, he stepped up to the dirty glass. Carefully he tipped the pot over and used it to gain a better view, balancing on one foot then the next. The edge of the terracotta pot crunched and crumbed slightly as his weight shifted about, but he held his gaze steady on the kitchen table and the empty chair there.
The light flicked from the hall as something passed by and in to the kitchen stepped Matthew's mother, a light robe with sprawling vines spread this way and that covered her.
Matthew watched as she slowly sipped then nibbled and bit by bit finished the toast. A smile rose then as she drew herself up and stepped towards the door left ajar. He sat back on the pot. Smiled. Heard the creak of the garden chair and caught the scent of the coffee. It was the sun that had drawn her out and now she sat there, bathed in it, coffee resting at the table's edge.
Creeping in through the front door he readied himself for school, made the beds, making sure to firmly tuck in both sides of her duvet and open the window, left out a fresh towel and, as an experiment for today, took an empty mug from the rack, dropped a spoonful of coffee in, filled the kettle and went to school.
Today would be a good day, he could feel it. The lessons today were all favourites, though he didn't especially like the science teacher or the girl he sat beside. On the bus he sat alone, as was his custom. The girl he sat next to in science took the same bus and he saw her look at him then smile at a friend. The friend looked too. He shifted on his seat and looked out at the fields passing by, seeing his reflection, the dark rim around his eyes and the smudge around his neck.
The door was open wide when Matthew came home. He could see that the post had come: all the usual. He picked it up and screwed up the junk, taking it straight to the fire basket. The only remaining letter in his hand was from the doctor. He opened it, read it and resealed it before the gum dried out, leaving it at the side table in the sitting room.
The back door in the kitchen was still open. The coffee cup from the morning was still there and the empty cup with its spoonful of instant was untouched. He moved through the house quietly, searching. Every room was empty, upstairs and down.
Certain now that she wasn't at home he left and went into the woods. Around his house a thin spread of woodland touched the edges before giving way to fields rolling down to the water's edge and a short rocky beach. The rocks here were dark with seaweed and the ground made a wet crushing sound under his deft tread. But it was empty and so he began to circle back to the house along a path that shadowed a thick hedgerow.
She was sat at the bench, her body facing the water but her eyes somewhere else. Matthew watched her. Watched her silently.
In the evening he ate his dinner alone and afterwards made a list: butter, bread, oil. He wrote down everything that needed replacing, conscious of one thing missing. Upstairs he heard a board creak as his mother shifted her weight in bed. Matthew knew it meant she was dreaming tonight. Normally there wouldn't be the slightest movement after getting her into bed. She would lie there statuesque and he would watch to see that she carried on breathing in and out, in and out.
A bark came from outside. Matthew put his pencil down to listen. The bark was from outside the house, not the woods or the path. He heard it again and an accompanying scratch at the door. Flicking on the porch light, Matthew opened the door. A dog sat squarely at his feet forcing him to step back and has soon as he did it hopped in and settled down in the sitting room before the empty fireplace. Outside, a gust shivered through the air and the trees stirred up waving as Matthew closed the door.
The dog lay unmoving, curled in upon itself, refusing to rise and recognise him and so he sat in the armchair opposite watching the dog. All the time the dog stared back and the two blinked at each other in the darkening light; with the drop of the sun a cold cursed through the house and Matthew was forced to lay a fire down. He took the balled up junk mail and made a bed of paper and kindling before building the fire up with larger logs and lighting the touchpaper. The cold retreated and he sat closely as the kindling cracked and spat and burnt up the edges of the wood and everything settled into place. The dog now moved and shifted and finally turned to lay its head on Matthew's knee. He wanted to jump back, but he equally wanted to stay like that all night.
He dreamt that night of himself standing at the water's edge, the dog standing by his side.
The toast popped away from the filament and was quickly spread with margarine, halved and laid on the plate. Leaving it on the table he took the coffee cup and stood at the stair's bottom. The bedroom door was ever so slightly ajar. The window panes, set in the wall and keeping track with the steps, allowed in a finger of light that lit up wisps of steam rising towards the door. Matthew returned to the kitchen leaving the mug at the toast's side and left via the kitchen door. This door he left ajar, ever so slightly. Moving the empty plant pot at the kitchen window's heel, he stepped up to the dirty glass. Carefully he tipped the pot over and used it to gain a better view, balancing on one foot then the next. The edge of the terracotta pot crunched and crumbed slightly as his weight shifted about, but he held his gaze steady on the kitchen table and the empty chair there.
The light flicked from the hall as something passed by and in to the kitchen stepped Matthew's mother, a light robe with sprawling vines spread this way and that covered her.
Matthew watched as she slowly sipped then nibbled and bit by bit finished the toast. A smile rose then as she drew herself up and stepped towards the door left ajar. He sat back on the pot. Smiled. Heard the creak of the garden chair and caught the scent of the coffee. It was the sun that had drawn her out and now she sat there, bathed in it, coffee resting at the table's edge.
Creeping in through the front door he readied himself for school, made the beds, making sure to firmly tuck in both sides of her duvet and open the window, left out a fresh towel and, as an experiment for today, took an empty mug from the rack, dropped a spoonful of coffee in, filled the kettle and went to school.
Today would be a good day, he could feel it. The lessons today were all favourites, though he didn't especially like the science teacher or the girl he sat beside. On the bus he sat alone, as was his custom. The girl he sat next to in science took the same bus and he saw her look at him then smile at a friend. The friend looked too. He shifted on his seat and looked out at the fields passing by, seeing his reflection, the dark rim around his eyes and the smudge around his neck.
*
The door was open wide when Matthew came home. He could see that the post had come: all the usual. He picked it up and screwed up the junk, taking it straight to the fire basket. The only remaining letter in his hand was from the doctor. He opened it, read it and resealed it before the gum dried out, leaving it at the side table in the sitting room.
The back door in the kitchen was still open. The coffee cup from the morning was still there and the empty cup with its spoonful of instant was untouched. He moved through the house quietly, searching. Every room was empty, upstairs and down.
Certain now that she wasn't at home he left and went into the woods. Around his house a thin spread of woodland touched the edges before giving way to fields rolling down to the water's edge and a short rocky beach. The rocks here were dark with seaweed and the ground made a wet crushing sound under his deft tread. But it was empty and so he began to circle back to the house along a path that shadowed a thick hedgerow.
She was sat at the bench, her body facing the water but her eyes somewhere else. Matthew watched her. Watched her silently.
In the evening he ate his dinner alone and afterwards made a list: butter, bread, oil. He wrote down everything that needed replacing, conscious of one thing missing. Upstairs he heard a board creak as his mother shifted her weight in bed. Matthew knew it meant she was dreaming tonight. Normally there wouldn't be the slightest movement after getting her into bed. She would lie there statuesque and he would watch to see that she carried on breathing in and out, in and out.
A bark came from outside. Matthew put his pencil down to listen. The bark was from outside the house, not the woods or the path. He heard it again and an accompanying scratch at the door. Flicking on the porch light, Matthew opened the door. A dog sat squarely at his feet forcing him to step back and has soon as he did it hopped in and settled down in the sitting room before the empty fireplace. Outside, a gust shivered through the air and the trees stirred up waving as Matthew closed the door.
The dog lay unmoving, curled in upon itself, refusing to rise and recognise him and so he sat in the armchair opposite watching the dog. All the time the dog stared back and the two blinked at each other in the darkening light; with the drop of the sun a cold cursed through the house and Matthew was forced to lay a fire down. He took the balled up junk mail and made a bed of paper and kindling before building the fire up with larger logs and lighting the touchpaper. The cold retreated and he sat closely as the kindling cracked and spat and burnt up the edges of the wood and everything settled into place. The dog now moved and shifted and finally turned to lay its head on Matthew's knee. He wanted to jump back, but he equally wanted to stay like that all night.
He dreamt that night of himself standing at the water's edge, the dog standing by his side.
An enjoyable read, thanks. Is the first line a reference/homage to first lines of Anna Karenina?
ReplyDeleteHi, I'm afraid I haven't read it...I'm obviously descended from one of those infinite monkeys in a box typing out the complete works of Shakespeare. Glad you're enjoying it though and thanks for the comments though :)
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