Heart of Gold

Heart of Gold

Maisie McGregor polished the toilet seat with slow gloomy strokes and a
dash of Jif.

There were stains of course. There were always stains. What she
couldn't work out was whether they were the same stains which she had
laboriously cleaned away yesterday, but which had somehow popped up
again once her back was turned, or completely new ones, which just
happened to exactly resemble the old ones. Yak. Either way they were
there to make her life miserable. With a final slow sloosh of water to
rinse she straightened up and turned her attention to the bath.

"Will you be long?" she politely asked her pot-bellied husband, who
languished amongst the bubbles, "Only I need to clean the bath."

"Come here and give my back a rub" he leered, wrinkling his nose so
that his chins wobbled dangerously.

Maisie reluctantly peeled off her yellow rubber gloves. As she picked
up the sponge she caught the shrill cry of the telephone.
"I'd better get that," she said, almost tripping over the mop bucket as
she fled down the stairs.

"Dulwich 87646," she said.

"Ah," a voice spoke softly in her ear. "Would this be the number for
Mrs Maisie McGregor?"

Maisie did not know what to say. People did not phone up to speak to
her. Even the double-glazing salesmen asked for her husband.

"Ummm, yes," she eventually volunteered in a whisper.

The voice did not appear to have noticed the hesitation.

"And do I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs Maisie McGregor in
person?"
Again Maisie paused. "Ummm yes," she said.

"I am phoning to inform you that you are a major prize-winner in the
Thompson holiday competition which you entered."

Maisie immediately felt relieved. "No," she said, "I didn't .. I
would't ? No .. thank you."

"But you've won a free holiday, Mrs McGregor. Surely you can't afford
to turn it down?"

"It must be a mistake," she said, more firmly now, sure of her ground.
"I didn't enter a competition."

"Well, you may have forgotten about it. It may have been last year. Or
perhaps your husband entered, as a surprise for you."

"No, it's a mistake," Maisie insisted. Her husband would never have
done such a thing.

"Well, I have here the documentation and your name is in the winner's
box, so I can assure you that you have definitely won an all-expenses
paid, luxury holiday. All you need do to claim your prize," purred the
voice in the same, soft even tones," is to attend a presentation at a
hotel near you in Dulwich and bring us your husband's heart, freshly
cut from his body, baked in silver foil."

Maisie shook herself. "I beg your pardon?"

"Alternatively, you may bring your husband's head when you attend our
presentation, and we will deep-fry your husband's brains for you in a
large saucepan of cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil, served with a
lightly tossed fennel salad."

Maisie was bemused. Had she been watching too many cookery shows? She
must be hearing things.
"I'm sorry. I don't think I quite understood you there," she
said.

"We will accept any major organs from your husband, Mrs McGregor, and
then the free holiday will be yours. You may choose from Malaga,
Sardinia, the Algarve or Corsica. It will all be explained to you at
the presentation on Saturday."

"But are you sure I have really won?" Maisie was bewildered. She had
never been abroad. And her last holiday had been in a caravan on Barry
Island when she was 8.

"Indeed I am, Mrs McGregor. We look forward to seeing you at the
presentation then. 8.30, Saturday evening, at the Hart Hotel." There
was a click, followed by the whine of the dialing tone.

From above, the strains of Nessen Dorma could be faintly heard. Her
husband fancied himself as a bit of a Pavarotti. Maisie felt quite
peculiar as she replaced the phone. Such a strange conversation. Could
she have really won a holiday? What would she wear?

The doorbell rang and a dog barked. She walked down the hall in a daze.
A small man in a green uniform stood on the step, clipboard in
hand.
"Mrs McGregor?" he said. "Sign here please."

Maisie turned the small parcel over. The postmark was smudged. Her name
had been handwritten but she did not recognize the script.

"Who is it?" bellowed her husband. He was standing at the top of the
stairs, clothed now in a purple towel, dripping onto the landing
carpet. Rivulets ran down his nose and plunged off his thin
moustache.

Maisie slipped the package into her cardigan pocket. "It was a
catalogue woman. I told her we don't buy from catalogues."

Her husband grunted. "She should have read the sign."

A list of unwanted callers nestled malevolently next to the yellow
prying eye of the Neighborhood Watch sign.

Maisie said, "I'll finish the bathroom then."
After her husband had gone to work, Maisie took the package gingerly
out of her pocket. It felt solid. She took her nail scissors from the
dresser and snipped at the heavy swathe of sellotape. A small white box
emerged, about four inches long. Carefully, she removed the lid. Inside
was a knife with dull green stones set into the handle. The blade was
narrow as a scalpel. Sharp as sharp.

Absently, Maisie started to polish the handle, to make the stones
gleam. They seemed to glow, half-blinding her, but holding her gaze.
She stood entranced, until the sound of the dustmen roused her. She
shivered. She had an impulse to run out and throw the little dagger
into the dustcart, but her feet were like lead. Slowly she put the
dagger back into its box. It was an enchanting little thing. Perhaps
she should keep it after all. She couldn't imagine it would be any use.
It might make a letter-opener, but it was a bit small. And she didn't
want her husband asking awkward questions. Oh well, best hide it for
now. It hadn't half turned cold in the house. She was chilled to the
marrow. She'd better not stand around any longer. She was already
behind. 9.15 - she should be halfway through the dusting by now. Never
mind. Perhaps she could leave it for one day. A quick run round with
the hoover would soon get her warmed up.

The alarm went off the next day at 6 a.m., as usual, and Maisie leapt
out of bed to run her husband's bath and put his porridge on to cook.
He liked it done the old-fashioned way, long and slow, leaving a thick
white crud in the saucepan which no amount of soaking would soften.
When the kettle had boiled she carried his cup of coffee up for him to
drink, as usual, in the bath, while she cleaned the bathroom. He liked
to watch her work. She could feel his eyes on her; feel the heat of his
thoughts.

When he ducked under the water to rinse his hair she felt the knife
quiver in its box. Sharp as sharp. Why, the flesh would just melt away
from it like hot butter. He would scarcely even feel it. There was his
belly, all ripe and exposed. She could dig deep, deep with the little
knife and find a liver or a pair of kidneys, or forage her way upwards
and find the living, pumping heart. "Oh," she cried aloud in shock. Her
husband did not hear her. He emerged, spouting water. Maisie was
trembling but he did not notice.
"Don't stand there with your mouth open," he glared." Pass me the
towel, woman."
At breakfast Maisie found her eyes straying to the curve of his neck,
bent over his porridge bowl. 'Easy to slit a throat,' she thought.
'Fillet him down to the breastbone. Then we'll find some organs. Sharp
as sharp.' Again, the little knife leapt inside its box. Maisie was
appalled at the wickedness of her thoughts. She spoke sternly to
herself, 'I must not kill my husband. I must not kill my husband. I
can't kill him. I can't.' She buried her hands in soapy water till her
husband was safely out of the house.

All day she was aware of the box, waiting in her pocket. Finally, she
hid it in a shoebox in the wardrobe, then slipped out to the shops,
just before closing. She wanted something special. Something specific.
Not the sort of thing they stocked at the supermarket.

She didn't like those doorbells that rang as you entered a shop. They
always made her jump. The sudden appearance of the butcher made her
jump even more. He was wearing a green uniform, and she had the feeling
she'd seen him before. She paid for her purchase quickly. She was home
in good time to ensure that tea was ready and on the table as her
husband walked through the door.

And then it was Saturday. Dawn-pink rays filtered through the blinds
and traced patterns on the flock wallpaper. Maisie's mind was racing.
She had never felt so excited. Not even on her wedding day. Stealthily,
under cover of a dense blanket of snoring, she dressed and made her way
downstairs.

As she mechanically began her round of morning duties, which on a
Saturday included breakfast in bed for her husband, (full English), she
tried to quieten her wild thoughts. Her case was packed and hidden away
in the back of the linen cupboard. 'Malaga,' she thought, 'That's where
I want to go.' She wondered whether it would be very hot. She really
hoped so. She would love to be somewhere really hot. She had bought a
cheap bottle of sun-lotion, factor 20, just in case.

She carried the tray up to her husband at precisely two minutes to 9.
She stood by the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of the flowery
duvet cover. 'Sharp as sharp', she thought. A sudden loud rattling in
the wardrobe startled her. Her husband woke up, snorting and snuffling
in panic.

He calmed at the sight of breakfast. "Thought I heard something then,"
he complained through a mouthful of bacon.
"You must have been dreaming," Maisie reassured him. Thankfully there
was no sound from the wardrobe now. 'Patience' she thought. 'Not
yet.'

And so the day dragged on: a few chores in the morning, a cooked lunch,
then a little light gardening in the afternoon, with beans on toast for
tea, followed by football roundup in the sitting room. She was not
allowed to speak, barely allowed to breathe, while the results were on,
as her husband meticulously noted down each score in his newspaper. She
sat, unmoving, concentrating as fiercely as her frowning husband until
it was over. Not long now.

And so evening approached. Her husband always pretended that he
tolerated Saturday evening quiz shows for her sake, but she knew that
he enjoyed showing off his own knowledge, whilst ridiculing the
contestants. He usually drank a bottle of beer while he was watching,
and then, by half-past seven, he was invariably asleep in the chair.
She prayed that tonight would be no exception. Even so, it would be
cutting it fine to get everything done and be at the presentation by
eight-thirty.
As 'Squillionnaire' drew to a close, she heard a change in her
husband's breathing and knew it was time. Silently she went
upstairs.

Ten past eight - the smell of roasting meat filled the house. She had
used the combination setting on her microwave to speed things up. That
meant she couldn't cook it in foil, so she fumbled now with the roll,
her hands trembling as she tried to tear off a decent sized square. She
burned her fingers as she lifted the baked heart out of its juices, and
tucked the foil round, leaving it exposed to the air. 'Better let it
cool a minute' she thought. Quickly she collected her case and her
coat, then wrapped another layer of foil around the heart. It still
felt warm. As she opened the front door, case in one hand, parcel in
the other, she looked back at the figure of her husband slumped in his
chair. No going back.

The Hart Hotel was on the main street. She hurried up the steps and
presented herself at the desk. As she gave her name to the receptionist
she noticed a pale woman standing opposite. With a shock she realized
it was her own reflection. When did she get so grey? Not just her hair,
but her face, her clothes .. everything? The receptionist smiled, even
white teeth, blood-red lips &; nails, flawless foundation, bright
blonde hair. Maisie felt an odd stab of envy. Her name was checked
against a list. Her package in foil was noted. She was directed to The
Filbert Suite.

The Filbert Suite was screened by thick damson curtains with gold
flecks. Tiny buzzing sound-bytes escaped around them. Maisie gripped
her case more tightly, took a deep breath and walked into the
room.

It was full. Almost every seat was occupied by a woman like herself.
Almost exactly like herself, in muted shades of grey and brown. A
gathering of moths.

The platform at the front housed a gleaming aluminium cooking range,
topped by an oversized saucepan with a handle either side. A heat haze
shimmered above it and vanished into an extractor fan.

A number of attendants in crisp white uniforms stood at the front. They
were motioning to individuals to come up. The women, all clutching a
jar or silver-wrapped object, obediently formed a silent, slow moving,
dull-faced line. As each one approached the cooking pot she was urged
to toss in her ingredients.

The first woman emptied her pot with a splash. She drew back from the
boiling oil. The haze became denser. It eddied and swirled in a rainbow
cloud around her. As she stepped away to return to her seat she moved
more lightly, more gracefully, and with a shock Maisie realized the
woman had been transformed. No grey or brown moth now, but a brilliant
butterfly. It was as though someone had turned on a light inside the
woman and she glowed with radiance.

With every splash the same magical transformation took place, as woman
after woman threw into the pot what she had brought. At last it was
Maisie's turn. Her own heart was beating so wildly she had a sudden
fear that it might just leap from her chest of its own accord and
splash! into the pot. Perhaps it would serve her right if it did.

She unwrapped the foil, as she had seen others do, and tossed the baked
heart into the pot of boiling oil. Just as with the others, she saw the
haze become a rainbow around her and felt herself renewed inside.

The holiday was a wonderful experience. She flew to Malaga on a plane
full of radiant woman, and knew herself to be radiant also. She soaked
up the sun, the sand, the sea, the peacefulness of it all. Her days
were bliss.

The fortnight passed all too quickly and she arrived back in the early
hours of the morning. Her taxi was waiting. The journey passed easily
enough. The taxi driver commented on her tan and joked about English
weather. Then she was back in Dulwich, outside her house. As she paid
the fare, she glanced nervously at her front door. Nothing seemed
amiss. She unlocked it and let herself in. The strains of Nessen Dorma
drifted down the stairs. She put down her case and, heart in her mouth,
crept up to the bathroom. She tapped on the door. 'Come in,' called her
husband. She pushed open the door. Her husband had obviously just
finished his bath. The purple towel was around his waist. The sink and
bath gleamed. He was wearing the rubber gloves and singing as he knelt
to clean the toilet bowl.

'Good to see you, darling,' he said. 'You look wonderful. I'll just
finish this and then make you a nice cup of tea. Go and put your feet
up. We'll have dinner out. Thanks for your postcard by the way. I'm so
glad you had such a great time.'

Maisie smiled and walked slowly back downstairs. There was a vase of
crimson roses in the sitting-room. She was surprised, she had to admit.
She had known he would be different. The long red scar on his chest
bore testimony to that. She wished she had had a little more time, so
that she could have made a neater job of it. It had seemed strangely
appropriate, substituting the pig's heart. She felt now that she had
rather misjudged the pig. Who would have guessed that it would make
such a considerate husband?