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He half lifted, half rolled off her and onto his side of the bed, his huge arse touching her equally fat leg, no doubt deluding himself of yet another sharp performance. He’d fall asleep in a few minutes and begin talking in his sleep, just gibberish that made sense only to him, as when awake. She lifted her left tit from under her left arm and reached over for fags and lighter. It was a struggle to move in this heat, the rolls of flab not helping any. Extracting a cigarette from the packet, she lit up, exhaled and fell back against the pillow, sweat having matted her hair and now dripping down her neck, like his fluid, which was oozing out of her. She reached for a tissue, wiped and dropped it on the floor.

It had taken four months to get to this level of familiarity: where he turned his back and she didn’t care. A few too many Southern Comforts, a kebab, drunken sex, and he’d never left. Imagine four years. She shuddered, inhaled, and blew the smoke up at the Artexed ceiling; crazy swirls of plaster originally painted white but which now resembled the colour of lung disease. She welcomed the June breeze as it sneaked in through the open window, lifting the cover to let it in, the air connecting with the residual sweat and cooling her, like ice-cream. The clock flashed 6.10pm. It wasn’t the norm for them to have sex at this hour, David having got off work early and catching her coming out of the shower. How she hated people seeing her mass of body, even him. Usually she timed it to perfection. Get home from her accounts job by half-four, a quarter to five if the office manager was PMTing, quick snack ‘til five and then a leisurely shower, tea ready for six. . . how quickly his routine had inserted itself on her life. Today he’d wanted a quickie. Normally he was faster than sound - in and out, a couple of want it harders and that was usually that. Today there wasn’t even time for a dirty slag or two. And now he was snoring. She looked across at him and felt sick. His arms even fatter than hers, and his stomach, she abhorred it slapping against her like belly-flops from childhood.

Sophie opened the back door and the cat showed his distaste at the outrageous tardiness by completely blanking and taking to his bed. She cooed and fussed but he wasn’t having any of it. Sod you as well. She fed him and started on the spuds, scrubbing each and rinsing it under the tap, skin still intact. There was an extra taste to fried chips if the skin wasn’t removed, an earthiness that she liked. Oven chips were an abomination. Looking out of the kitchen window at the unkempt small garden with its lovely collection of weeds and dead mammals – thanks to the miserable feline – it looked like it had given up and resigned itself to suicide. She sliced the spuds and put them in water to wait for David. She could call him but that would mean having to talk and thus listen to his endless droning. Instead she helped herself to a family-sized bag of Maltezers, the last half of the chocolate cake and took a seat at the kitchen table, the fat of her backside hanging carefree over the sides of the wooden chair. She opened her legs and let the giant nightie open a little to let the air circulate. She was so looking forward to tea.

As she munched, she pondered about Mr Hattersley, recreating the scene to include what she should have said and how she should have acted, deleting what she actually said and how she actually acted. So that when he asked/told her she was working at the weekend it now played in her head as: No I’m not. I have plans. Sorry. And not the okay which is what she did say. The only reason she had to work the weekends was because he was shagging the supervisor in the afternoons when they were supposed to be at meetings. Less shagging and more work. It grated. She obviously didn’t have anything to do at the weekends but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t only her boss. People generally didn’t seem to hear what she was saying. That boy in the shoe-shop last Wednesday when she’d asked for a size smaller and he’d told her she was wrong. Surely she knew her own shoe size? But no, out she came with a pair too big and which were now languishing in the wardrobe next to many similar items. Thirty-five quid down the drain. Maybe she’d grow into them. The self-help tapes said stand your ground until someone paid attention. It didn’t work. She’d tried it for practise when Mr Patel tried to overcharge her again for a punnet of manky strawberries and some out of date Sarah Lee. ‘Keep your voice at one tone and look him straight in the eye.’ Mr Patel told her to get out and stop being so bloody silly English. It was hard being assertive, so tiring and yet other people seemed to take it in their stride. This sort of people always seemed to stand too close to you at the bus-stop, in the supermarket checkout, at the bank, and not respect personal boundaries. Anyone getting too close immediately set off groin and underarm leakage in her. It was much safer and drier to sit at home and eat your goodies alone. Chocolate wasn’t as invasive as people. She picked up the empty Maltezer bag and stuffed it in the bin. She licked her lips and flicked on the deep-fat fryer.

‘I’ve been thinking about getting married today. No point in fucking about,’ David said, the melted butter sticking to his chin as he took another monstrous gobful of the chip buttie. ‘I mean, best to get it out of the way and then think about having a sprog. Don’t want to be doing it the other way round, mam wouldn’t like it.’

‘Who to?’ Sophie asked, genuinely interested.

‘What do you mean who to? You, you silly fat cunt!’

‘Oh!’

She stood up to get a glass of water even though the one in front of her was hardly touched. Marriage with anyone had never entered her head, let alone marriage to David. She didn’t even like him. A lifetime of him and God forbid - his brats, his mother forever flitting around and cooing over her beloved only child. As now she only had to deal with Satan face to face at the weekends.

‘Mam said it would be better if we did it soon, like, while the weather’s nice. You know what she’s like for the cold, it upsets her bad leg. Could splash out a bit, a weekend at Bognor. Mam said she’ll look after the cat. Got any mayonnaise?’

More like the minute they were gone the old cow would be in to take a full inventory. The way he was talking you would think she had agreed to the odious notion of marriage. The only ones who seemed to know were him and his leaching mother. Sophie hadn’t agreed, didn’t know anything about it and more to the point wasn’t going. Let him marry his mother; they’d be better suited.

The phone started shrilling and refocused Sophie. She went for it while David rammed another handful of something into his mouth.

‘Hello,’ Sophie said.

‘Congratulations. . .you must be overwhelmed. . . like I said to him, it’s not the looks. . .she has a lovely personality. . .he’s always had a big heart. His father used to say the same, God rest his soul. . .’

The receiver became heavy and infected.

‘. . .David’s dad and me went to Bognor every year for the last 30, forget all that abroad nonsense, full of foreigners. Have you thought about Weight-Watchers?’

The handset dropped from Sophie’s hand and banged against the wall on its descent, thrashing like a snake. She turned and headed up the stairs to her sanctuary, the toilet, with its normality and David-free space. She didn’t have the energy to shut the door, just plonked herself down and sweated. How did she get from a nice quiche to now being married, kids and living with the mother better suited to Bates Motel all in the space of forty-five minutes? It was like opening a box that showed a lovely large gateau on the front only to find it was the size of a bun. Family size indeed, they should be had up under the Trade Descriptions Act.

David’s voice came gushing upstairs as he fawned. Each time he talked to his mother he reverted to this voice that was a cross between fanny cancer and Edwina Currie. The words overwhelmed and speechless and the idioms over the moon and tickled pink came wafting up to her. Try horrified and sickened, Sophie mimed to the open door. Try revolted and not-a-chance! With the toilet being so low down, her stomach squashed onto the tops of her legs causing a dull itchy ache. She scooped the rolls up and adjusted. David was still jabbering to the devil, something about doing the garden at the weekend and it not being a problem and no she wasn’t a burden and he’d sort out the roses at the front and yes he would take her to the garden centre and yes he remembered he was taking her to the church and. . .and. . .and. . .and. For crying out loud! What do they find to talk about? He was round there for tea and bacon butties before he started work, had lunch there and called in when he knocked off, so what the hell did these two have to say to each other every bloody night?

A lifetime of this. No!

After promising something numerous times, he hung up. Sophie waited as long as possible before begrudgingly flushing the unused toilet. It was too hot tonight to wear anything that so much as hinted at restriction but she felt vulnerable somehow in her nightie. Scrounging around the bedroom for something loose-fitting - not an easy task - she settled on her favourite: a non-descript piece of cloth that had no shape and was made of cotton. Beige showed all her ripples but she didn’t care; maybe he’d think again and sod off back to his mother’s. If only he would. She would then wear her beige thing every night and blend into the sofa with a box of Black Magic and her Pretty Woman video as she did pre-David. By the time she got the Kaftan over her head she was sweating like a paedophile on a school outing.

David had reheated the quiche in the microwave and was shovelling the last down his gob faster than a combine harvester, tomato sauce and grease still plastered on his chin. She wished he’s put a shirt on at least; it was bad enough looking at her own tits. She busied herself with the kettle.

‘Aw, did you come over all funny, love?’

The frying pan was on the hob and just waiting to be used to smash his fat face in.

‘I was a bit surprised, that’s all.’

‘You would be.’

He caught her look of horror and somehow mistook it for something else. He winked while grabbing his crotch, but he just turned her stomach. What he saw in himself and what she saw where polar opposites. Hairy back, bad breath, stretch marks, body odour, speared toenails, flatulent, hairy arsed and one testicle. More grotesque - the rubbing of finger in the crack of arse and sniffing, remnants on the sponge when he’d masturbated, which left her with sleepy sticky eyes. She was beginning to come out in a rash, angry splotches forming on her upper arms and her legs, scalp infested with biting fleas. She was allergic to him. Must be.

She stirred the tea.

‘Oh, meant to say, mam’ll come over at the weekend and go shopping with you for a wedding dress and that shit. You know she’s got a natural flair for stuff, people say. You could learn a lot. . .have you got any of that cake left from yesterday?’

Sophie put the teaspoon in the sink and looked out at the mass of gnarled weeds fighting each other for space and life.

‘No.’

© Trev Taylor
Reproduced with permission

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'SLIPPERS ON THE TABLE'
by Trev Taylor

She turns on the lamp, puts her tea on the bedside table and lights up. A bedroom crammed with junk of yesteryear. A child's game sitting on the wardrobe, a boxing-ring game with ugly figures. Press a button and it punches. She's never liked it, tacky, cheap. Offensive. Never liked children.
The bed is warm.
She lights up again, swallows her tea, thinks about another, can't be bothered.
She sleeps.
The letter-box clattering in the morning tells her it's eight o'clock - ish. Junk mail.
Her hand goes down between her legs. A habit more than need. Slippery. Satisfied. 63.
Wash, shit, hair-brushed, glasses on. Tea, toast, fags and tea. She looks out of the window, life is still there.
She puts on her make-up, and best coat. Local shop around the corner, three minutes if you walk slowly, ten minutes if you take your time. A touch more lipstick. It may be a council house but people need to know she's better. Look at that lovely fur coat.
That's what they'll say. She's superior. That's what they'll say.
She puts on her high-heels, a spray of perfume
The door sticks on her way out. It does that when it's cold.
Her shoulders are high and her back is straight, she half smiles at 'Good Mornings', enough to show she heard, enough to show she's better.
She won't touch the black girl's hand. The skin is too dark to know if it's dirty. It probably is. Get me this, get me that. The shop assistant does as she's told.
She checks her change, twice, taking her time and ignoring the few people behind her in the queue, single mothers on drugs.
She commands the assistant to put the things in the plastic bag. The assistant falters and then defers.
She walks out of the shop, ignoring everyone as loud as she can.
She looks at her change again. You need a mortgage for a pound of butter. Should be illegal immigrant. Free. Margarine won't do, word will get around. Only the best. Standards.
She puts the butter in the cupboard, the other things somewhere else. A fag, tea, shoes off, slippers. In her chair, gas-fire on, sandwich.
The phone doesn't ring. The doorbell doesn't chime.
The portable flickers.
It gets dark. Lights on.
Pie for tea. For one. Nice gravy.
She sits, rubbing her shins, fag-ash all around, tea gone cold.
'Coronation Street'. Good.
'The Bill'. Queers. AIDS.
It's time to get undressed. She puts the chain on the door, goes upstairs, comes down in her dressing gown. Tea and fags. A Bette Davies film. It calls for a celebratory Kit-Kat. A cup of tea.
It's time for bed.
Bathroom, face washed, a piss.
She turns the blanket off and climbs in.
She sleeps.

The letter-box clattering in the morning tells her it's eight o'clock - ish. Junk mail.
Gets up.
Nothing to do all day.
Sits in her favourite chair by the gas-fire, absently rubbing her shins, fag-ash fallen on her lap, on her slippers and down her cardigan, unnoticed.
Still nothing to do all day.
It's not too late outside, the winter sun hasn't quite gone. Time is irrelevant. Could be frost tonight.
The black and white portable sits on a chair in front of her, crackling and fuzzy, pictures of lives outside these four walls. It's forgotten her; she's dismissed it.
The kettle boils and sends steam racing around the tele. Click. She's not thirsty but tea is what she does, continuously: fag in this hand, tea in the other. She reaches down and pours the water, discards the teabag, lights another. Leans back.
She doesn't really watch the telly. And then it's time to get undressed. The sleeping blanket takes off the chill. Her dressing gown keeps her warm and comfortable. No need to worry about visitors coming this way. She leaves her dirty knickers by the bed, keeps her bra in place and heads for the bathroom. There's no heating in here.
She wipes her face with the same flannel she uses for her arse. A quick swill under the tap and it's ready for tomorrow. She only puts the washer on Saturday mornings, the cloth can wait 'til then.
Back downstairs.
The fag she left has burned out and the tea has gone cold. She knew they would, but it gives her something to do for five minutes. The portable has gone even fuzzier than normal. That is probably the thunder that she smelled earlier. It should be overhead within a couple of hours, unless it turns and fucks off. It would be easier to go into the living room and watch the big colour telly, rest in the reclining chair. But that is the best room.
She sips her fresh tea and stubs out the fag in the overflowing ashtray. It spills, but no matter, the ashtray lives in the hole cut out of the brick-effect fireplace. No danger.
She rubs her shins, then cleans her spectacles on the hem of her dressing gown.
It's very quiet. Dark now.
It wasn't always so quiet, not with five kids running around. Enjoyed their tears. Enjoyed using one sibling against another. Husband dead.
More ash falls down her dressing gown, she watches its descent, waits for it to settle, and then brushes it onto the carpet. She rubs it in, stubs the fag out, lights another, swallows the last of the tea, fancies another Kit-Kat. Can't be bothered to get up.
She knows there is something wrong, probably cancer. Her mother had it as did her mother before, and probably the ones before that. It will be her legacy. Not the gold chains, bracelets and rings hidden in the seat of the reclining chair. She'd throw them away first. Money, when the time comes that will be taken out of the bank and burned, note by note by note by note. Shame she has to leave behind the insurance. A superior send-off. Standards.
Something finishes on the telly; something else starts. More tea, more fags. More tea, more fags.
She goes to bed.
She sleeps.

The letterbox clattering in the morning tells her it's eight o'clock - ish. Junk mail.
Wash, shit, hair-brushed, glasses on. Tea, toast, fags and tea. She looks out of the window, life is still there.
It's pension-cashing today. A different dress, different perfume, different shoes, different handbag. She puts on extra make-up, he must be worth a few quid.
She flirts, but the postmaster doesn't notice. She tries again, he just smiles. Shame, he must be worth a few quid. Wife dead. Breast cancer. Wasted opportunity.
Her back is ram-rod as she walks to the other parade of shops, to the bank. Ten pounds for this account, ten pounds for that account. She hides what she's doing from other customers. People know people.
Bakers. She buys a custard tart, nutmeg, still warm.
Her at number seven tries to pass the time of day. Common. Ignored. Dismissed. Probably lesbian.
It's raining today, gets dark quicker. Lights on. Beef sandwiches, crumbs on her skirt. She re-heats the custard tart.
Tea, fags, tea, fags, Kit-Kat. It's 9 o'clock.
She turns the blanket on, puts on her dressing gown, comes down and makes more tea. She's not tired. Jelly in the fridge.
The phone doesn't ring. The doorbell doesn't chime.
It's difficult to get to sleep tonight. Nightmares. Some regrets? Mother, wife. Misunderstood. No regrets
She sleeps.

The letter-box clattering in the morning tells her it's eight o'clock - ish. Junk mail.
No pension today.
No bank today
No custard tart today.
No phone ringing today.
No doorbell chiming today.
It's time for bed. She turns the blanket on, changes into her dressing gown.
Tea, fags, tea, fags.
It's time to go to bed. Nightmares.
She sleeps.

The letter-box clattering in the morning tells her it's eight o'clock - ish. Junk mail.
No pension today.
No bank today
No custard tart today.
No phone ringing today.
No doorbell chiming today.
It's time for bed. She turns the blanket on, changes into her dressing gown.
Tea, fags, tea, fags.
It's time to go to bed. Nightmares.
She sleeps.

The letter-box clattering in the morning tells her it's eight o'clock - ish. Junk mail.
Washer on. Spin, rinse, washing-line.
Fags and tea.
Bake a pie.
Have it for tea.
Washing dry.
Dressing gown.
Time for bed.
Nightmares and self-pity.
Wake up in the night. Chest pains again. Tears, alone. Lonely.
She sleeps.

The letter-box doesn't clatter on a Sunday morning at eight o'clock-ish. No junk mail today.
Wakes up. Still tired, very tired.
Telly on, still in dressing gown. No need to get undressed later.
Too tired to eat tonight. Slippers on the table, hem come unstuck, glued and drying. Pains. Bed.

The letter-box clattering in the morning doesn't tell her it's eight o'clock - ish.
Chest pains. Heart attack. DEAD.
No pension today.
No bank today
No custard tart today.
No phone ringing today.
No doorbell chiming today.
No regrets today.

© Trev Taylor
Reproduced with permission

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