LAST STRAW

LAST STRAW
Ernest sat back in the chair, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
"Well that's the final piece of the Haywain - the last straw you might
say."
He looked at her. The expected chuckle didn't come.
Ha, ha. Very bloody funny, thought Ruth. The bang and crack of
fireworks filled the air, the sound of people enjoying themselves. It
was New Years Eve. Everyone was celebrating. What was she doing? She
was at the dining room table, dressed in grey skirt, black jumper, grey
cardigan and fluffy pink slippers, putting in the last piece of a 2000
word jigsaw, drinking cocoa.
"I'm going to bed, " she said.
"But you can't. It's only 11.15."
"I can, and I will. Just watch me."
"But.."
She read his thoughts. You have to wait until midnight so we can toast
the New Year. Then we can go to bed and make love.
It was what they'd done every year since they married, twenty-two years
before. At first it was fun; they hadn't had the money to go out
partying. Now, it was just a ritual. A ritual she'd come to
dread.
When Ernest came to bed, Ruth pleaded a headache. The thought of
intercourse froze her blood. The moves never varied as though they were
following a set of written instructions, with a penalty to be paid
should anything be altered. What had happened to spontaneity, to
passion? Would the next twenty years be like this?
Her husband would never change. Ruth had worn herself out trying. In
all those long years she hadn't even been able to persuade him to wear
different coloured socks from time to time. "I'm happy wearing white
ones, thank you," was his only reply, even when she brought him six
pairs of black socks for Christmas. They stayed in the pack for three
years, before Ruth finally gave up and donated them to the Oxfam
shop.
Kept awake by the fireworks, she lay in the strange half light
listening to Ernest's snores. She could no more change him than she
could change the shape of the moon. Then, like one of the rockets that
split the sky it hit her. Life didn't have to go in the same old way,
she could change. It was that simple. At once she fell into a deep and
relaxing sleep.
It was just after dawn when she woke. Silent and smooth as a snake she
slid from the bed, plunged her feet deep into slippers and hurried into
her dressing gown.
A frantic search of the spare bedroom rewarded her. With a flourish she
flung off
the shabby grey towelling gown and, like a stripper in reverse, poured
herself into the velvet robe. With twists and turns she admired her
reflection in the full length mirror. The Mediterranean blue of the
cloth brought out the auburn of her hair and it was a much younger
woman who smiled and laughed back at her.
She hugged herself tightly, giggling helplessly like a teenager. She
hadn't worn anything remotely glamorous for years.
The robe was a gift from Pauline, her best friend. A friend, of whom
Ernest disapproved so strongly, he'd avoid her company at all costs.
Every time Ruth spent time with Pauline she'd be made to pay for it
afterwards. There was usually an almighty row.
The last time they went shopping together Ernest didn't speak to Ruth
for two days, and all because Pauline was an unmarried mother. "I can
understand a woman becoming pregnant unintentionally once, but twice.
That's unforgivable." That was all he'd said to explain his
dislike.
Full of a new resolve, Ruth floated down the stairs, defiantly turned
on the heating, made herself a strong cup of coffee and set about
attacking the living room. Soon it was changed beyond recognition. The
chairs moved to frame the window, the sofa placed across the opposite
corner, its plain cushions reversed to show their sunflower pattern.
Bright orange drapes, never used before, brought the warm glow of
sunrise to the bay window.
"What have you brought those for?" he'd asked when she arrived home
happy, and proud of her purchase.
"I got them for the living room, "she said," to contrast with the
hearth rug."
"They're much too bright," he'd said, and she'd apologised, and put
them away, pleased to do whatever he wanted, she was so very much in
love.
A momentary twinge of guilt stabbed Ruth as she took down the framed
jigsaw which dominated the chimney breast. It was the first five
thousand piece puzzle they'd completed together, so many years before -
a van Gogh painting of a cornfield. She recalled with a pang how, as
Ernest had fitted in the last piece, he'd quipped, 'well there goes the
last straw'. They'd laughed 'til it hurt. It'd been funny then. Now
Ruth was tired of jigsaws.
They must have done at least two thousand puzzles since they married.
Of course, if she wanted to know exactly how many, she only had to ask.
Ernest could tell her. He kept a log of every one - how many pieces,
the subject, when they'd started it, the date of completion. If they
repeated a puzzle, he expected to do it faster, turning a once relaxing
hobby into a race against time. Ruth flung the picture to the
floor.
"Ruth dear. Is that you?" A voice drifted down from upstairs.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you," she said, relishing the lie. The
truth was, she hadn't given her sleeping husband a moment's
thought.
"Is there any tea?" he called.
"No." The word pleased her. "No, I'm not making tea."
She put the broken puzzle in the dustbin, and filled its place with the
hall mirror.
As she stepped back to admire her handiwork, the silence of the house
screamed at her. All she could hear was the tick tick of the lumpy
carriage clock which sat like a gargoyle on the mantelpiece, mocking
her. The sound echoed and throbbed inside her head like a
migraine.
With the clock hidden in a cupboard, Ruth's hand reached for the remote
control. " But I don't want to watch TV. I want music. "
She'd spoken the words out loud, surprising herself. She would do what
SHE wanted. Watching TV on Saturday mornings was simply a habit, and
she was finished with all that. From now on, no more habit, no more
doing the right thing. With a girlish laugh she flung open a drawer,
and rummaged through her CD collection. With a whoop of triumph she put
one on.
'I can't get no satisfaction', complained Mick Jagger.
Ruth turned the volume up, then up some more. The bass throbbed. The
walls pulsed with the beat.
Her out of practice voice wobbled and shrilled as she began to sing
along.
"What's going on? Have you gone mad?" Ernest stood framed in the
doorway, his brown checked dressing gown tied with a neatly symmetrical
bow.
"What? I can't hear you," said Ruth, a hand cupped to her ear.
"Turn that noise off - it's only 9 a.m. You'll upset the
neighbours."
Ruth was singing as her husband came into the room. She carried on
singing as Ernest tripped over a chair, and bumped into the sofa,
before he found his way to the music system. Silence.
"That's better. I couldn't think straight." He waited for her to speak.
He expected an explanation. None came.
"Coffee dear?" she asked, brightly.
"No thanks. I don't like coffee first thing. What happened to my cup of
tea? You always bring me tea in bed on a Saturday."
Ruth shrugged and smiled foolishly, dancing to a silent record as she
spoke. "I felt like a change."
"I can see that. I almost broke my leg on that chair." He looked round
the now silent room. " And where's the jigsaw gone?"
"I took it down."
Ernest made a silent tutting sound, tightening the muscles in his lips
and mouth. "Where have you hidden it? Let me put it back, and we'll say
no more about this."
Ruth examined her nails. As soon as the boutique was open again, she'd
have a manicure, and get her hair styled and coloured. No more middle
aged housewife. No more frump. She looked at her husband and felt a
giggle rise in her throat. Let him be miserable if that's what he
wanted. If he couldn't see how marvellous it was to be alive again. To
have something, anything, to look forward to.
Ernest began to fidget. He scanned the room for empty bottles or
glasses. "Ruth.
Now this is serious. Look at me."
She raised her laughing eyes to meet his cold, dark and humourless
pair.
"Have you been drinking?"
"Course not, silly. It's nine in the morning."
"Then why are you behaving like this?"
"I'm having fun dear. Remember fun," she said, grabbing hold of his
elbow and spinning him round. "Come on, let's dance."
With a shake of his arm, Ernest separated himself from her. "I can't
dance," he said.
"Course you can, just swing those hips." She flicked the music back on
at a reduced volume. "I wanna be your lover baby, I wanna be our man,"
she sang, lips thrust out in a Jaggeresque pout. Ernest left the
room.
They were both relieved when the 5th of January arrived and Ernest
could get back to work. Ruth watched as he busied himself making
sandwiches, preparing a flask, filing papers, making lists of things
for her to do while he was out.
"Now Ruth, remember to pick me up from school at 4.30. I've made a note
of it here for you." He pointed at the wall chart. " My car's going in
for its service."
At 4.50 it was a very cross and irritated deputy head who stood waiting
outside the school gates. His eyes peered into the distance, searching
for the familiar sight of his wife's blue Nissan Micra
When the cherry red Volkswagen Golf screeched to a stop, its horn
blaring, it took Ernest some time to figure out it was Ruth in the
driving seat. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes. Long wavy hair, a
deeper auburn than he remembered, poured over her shoulders. Blood red
nails caressed the leather clad steering wheel. It was only when she
spoke he was certain that it was her, and not a ghastly apparition sent
to haunt him.
"Hop in. Sorry I'm late. Had to wait ages at the salon"
A search for suitable words produced no result. Ernest stepped gingerly
into the
car. It raced off, engine raging, before he had time to fasten his
seatbelt.
"For God's sake Ruth, watch your speed! It's freezing. Where's your
car? Why have you got the roof down, and why on earth are you wearing
dark glasses?"
"You like them? They're made by Porsche - the car people - cost me
ninety-five
pounds - worth it though. " She shot a glance at Ernest, daring him to
argue with her. "And I've got the top down because I can, that's all.
Feels wonderful, doesn't it?"
"No it doesn't feel wonderful. I'm freezing to death, and you still
haven't told me where the Micra is?"
"I traded it in. They gave me ?3000 for it so this only cost us five
grand - a bargain don't you think? "
Ernest felt light-headed. He had no idea what to say or do. His ears
rang with the cold. He closed his eyes and prayed to be home. Home,
where everything just might be normal again.
As he opened the front door he was hit by a strange and exotic smell.
A smell of incense and perfume, not the expected aroma of roast
chicken. He scurried into the kitchen and flung open the oven door.
Nothing.
Ruth ambled in after him. "Put the kettle on, Ernie, I need a cup of
tea. Takes it out of you, all this shopping."
"But&;#8230;" The argument died on his lips. Instead he did as he
was told. The tea tasted different. "This isn't Earl Grey is it?"
"No, it's Assam, " said Ruth as she walked past him and went to put on
the TV. He followed her, looking like a lost spaniel searching for
anything familiar. "What time's dinner?" he asked.
"What time would you like it?"
"6.30 - as usual."
"OK" she carried on sipping her tea, her eyes not straying from the
screen.
Ernest fidgeted, picked up the Guardian, put it down, tried to watch
the TV, tried to make sense of everything. He stood up, went to the
window, sat down again. Crossed
and uncrossed his legs. Nothing he did felt comfortable. Why wasn't
Ruth in the kitchen making his dinner? Was she ill?
"Are you all right Ruth?"
"Never better. How about you?"
"I'm not sure. Look Ruth., I'm worried . I think you should see a
doctor."
"No need. I'm fine, perfectly fine."
"But you're different. Something's wrong with you."
"There's nothing wrong Ernest. Now hush, this is an interesting
bit."
He stayed silent for a full sixty seconds. "But what about the dinner?
Shouldn't you have
put the chicken in by now?"
"Were not having chicken. We're having lasagne. It only takes a few
minutes in the microwave."
"But we haven't got a microwave."
She gave him a look. A look that spoke volumes. A look that told him
buying a microwave was just the beginning..
Every day, Ernest prayed that normality would return. That Friday
night, hope
flickered in his heart. At eleven o'clock, bang on cue, Ruth went to
bed. Friday was their night for making love. He would have a cup of
coca and follow her upstairs a few minutes later. She'd be lying
waiting, in the darkened room.
Ernest felt an excitement he hadn't felt for ages. Everything was going
to be all
right, but when he opened the bedroom door, the light was on. Ruth was
sitting up in bed reading a Joanna Trollope novel. She was wearing the
blue velvet gown
10. The Last Straw
"It's Friday night, I thought...".
"You thought what?" asked Ruth, eyes fixed to the text.
"Well, you know - we always.."
"Always what, Ernest?"
"You know, make love. We always make love on Fridays."
"Not any more we don't," she said.
Ernest decided his wife must be unwell. It was probably something to do
with her hormones. Once women reached the age of 45 anything could
happen, or so he was led to believe. If he was patient, things would
sort themselves out.
A few days later he arrived home late from a PTA meeting, wondering
what surprises that evening would bring.
An inviting voice wafted down the stairs. "Is that you Ernest? Come on
up, I'm in the bedroom."
It was only 9 p.m. What was she up to now, thought Ernest as he climbed
the stairs.
He found Ruth in bed, her naked body sprawled across the bed.. Next to
her lay the equally naked body of Pauline.
"Come on in Ernest - there's room for a small one, " said Ruth. The two
women giggled.
"I can't , I don't&;#8230;"
"What's the matter? I thought all men fancied trying three in a bed.
Pauline's
very good - we've been practising. "
Ernest watched as though hypnotised as his wife's heavily manicured
hand caressed Pauline's right breast. "Stop that. Stop that at once,
it's, it's &;#8230;"
"It's what dear?" asked Ruth.
"It's disgusting!" He spent the night in the car, only going back
inside when he was sure Pauline had left.
The next day, when he arrived home from school, he found a removal van
parked outside the house.
"Hi there. You're just in time to say goodbye. Don't worry I've only
taken a few bits and pieces."
"But Ruth, darling. Please stay, I need you. Is it about last night? I
could try to get to like Pauline."
Lost and alone in the house, his wife's laughter still ringing in his
ears, Ernest took out a jigsaw and began sorting out the edge pieces.
It was The Haywain. If he tried very hard, he might just beat his
record of eighteen hours and fifty-seven minutes.