Something wasn’t right. I knew it from the beginning. There she was, in bright blue anorak, leaning on her spade, a bright red slash of lipstick across her face. Incongruous. That’s what it was.
And then, when I was talking to HIM. “Sex always had to be SO respectable,” as he pulled on his dog collar, muttering something about feeling as if he was always on a leash.
“Does it mean they are any the less called?” he remonstrated, one time, as he considered the horrors of domestic violence, and vicars who beat their wives.
“We’ve decided that masturbation is okay,” he called out to the blue coated figure in the kitchen, as he tramped up the hall.
“Oh have you darling” she replied.
WHO had decided? I wondered.
And then he told me about his anger, WHITE anger. It came on twice a year. In the past he had gone and hacked at the long grass with a scythe.
It was the same monotonous lifestyle every day. Morning Prayer in the church, followed by a crunchy breakfast. I was there one day. At breakfast. And there was something odd about the way he took a spoon, dipped it into the honey pot, filled it with honey, and then dropped it slowly into his tea. Everything about this movement was exaggerated. He desired the sweetness of the honey. It showed on his face. In fact he craved it.
In the evenings I sat with her.m the blue coated figure. By now the red slash had worn off. Mostly she would be doing the ironing. She was an AVID ironer.