Reliable

Photo by Zac Wolff on Unsplash

Jeff polished his boot with care, just as his dad had shown him.  'Keep your head down, do your job and be reliable.'  His dad had told him.  'You've got a nice little job here, no heavy lifting, no stress.  Look after it.'

Jeff had looked after it for nearly fifty years.  He had been the first in every morning, with his boots polished and his uniform pressed.  He had always filled in on his day off for those that didn't show and who weren't looking after their jobs.  He had always come in to cover holidays and sick days.  He had worked 48 hours straight more than once, because some of the lads were not reliable and he always was. 

Hetty had never understood that he needed to be reliable for his job.  She had divorced him 1978, saying that she couldn't compete with a security guard's job.  Julie had divorced him in 1994.  Jeff had never understood that.  She had said in the dating advert that she was looking for a reliable man.  He was reliable.  His bosses had relied on him for fifty years and he had never let them down.  The kids were the same.  He had always been there for them.  When they were young he had always paid for holidays even though he didn't go with them, just in case.  He had paid for his girls' weddings and he had paid for the suits when the lads got married.  He'd helped with the girl's house deposits and he had bought the lads their first car.   He hardly saw them these days.

Jeff picked up the second boot and started laying on the polish, brushing it off.  One of the lads had turned up in trainers last week.  How were they going to manage. He knew everything about the firm, all its history, all the gossip.  He remembered the boss's grandfather doing the rounds, just like young Mr Delaney did now.  They had always been able to rely on him, and he had been able to rely on them.  It was the current boss's grandfather who had found him somewhere to sleep when Hetty threw him out.  It was the current boss's father who had put him on to the little garage where he had got the reliable first cars for his lads.  They had always been there for him and the firm were putting on a slap up dinner tonight, everything paid for. 

Jeff glanced up at the clock.  He had not been late in fifty years and he was not going to be late on his last day.  He carefully put the boot down on the newspaper on the table.  His uniform was pressed and brushed, just the same as always and he had his lunch packed ready.  Now all he had to do was not think about who he was going to be reliable for tomorrow.  

Washing the Cups

Photo by John Edgar on Unsplash

"Did you see her, the one with the dress?" Angie asked as she splashed the dirty cups through the water at speed.
"Her with the dress and the handbag?" asked Betty.  She switched to a dry cloth for the next batch of cups.  They had been washing up together after the meetings for thirty four years this June and they had perfected the routine.
"No, the one with the dress and the handbag is Zoe.  She reckons that the handbag is designer and cost a fortune.  But you can't tell me that handbag is designer, I saw one just like it on the market." Angie sniffed.
"Well she said that he was doing alright and had got a bonus at Christmas.  I told her that everyone gets a bonus at Christmas but she wouldn't have it." Betty rattled the teacups into a stack and slotted them neatly into a cupboard.
"My Den said that he was doing well, but they aren't spending that much.  You should see the state of her sofa.  I'd be ashamed."
"You do like your furniture nice." Betty nodded.  "Of course, he could be spending some money on her at the corner, you know, just past Mrs Henderson.  She always has nice things."
"Her at the corner, she's the one with the dress.  She said that it was a charity shop find, but you can't fool me.  That dress cost a fortune, and her with her car in the garage."
"She spends her money on something.  There must be some money going into that house with them both working and I know they ask the lad to tip up now he's started at the call centre, but they still have that old car."
Angie nodded.  "My Jim said that it was a scandal that car, they've had it for four years now.  But I saw her in the supermarket and she had a bottle of wine in her basket." 
Betty nodded knowingly as she switched drying cloths again.  "Mind you, I heard that her aunt was the same, you know, the one who married the plumber and moved to Brighton."
"Is it her aunt that married the plumber?  Well that explains it."  There was a pause as Angie changed the washing up water.
"I see Mary's got new curtains." Betty rattled some more cups into the cupboard. "I would have thought she would have done something with her kitchen first.  I don't know how she cooks."
"Mary told me that she got them second hand.  You can't tell me that they are second hand, not with those seams.  And as for cooking, she buys frozen veg.  I pity her husband."
"Of course he makes up for it with the darts team.  They were out again last night.  Ted from two doors down came in at midnight."
"By the way, what was the talk today?" Ang
"The dangers of gossip." Betty gathered her cloths for the wash.  "See you next week."

Dream Time

 

Photo by Ibrahim Rifath on Unsplash

Cassie tried to get back to sleep.  The dream was haunting her again.  She focused on her breathing.  She mustn't wake Jim next to her.  She mentally snuggled back in to the dream.
"Cassie, are you awake?"
Cassie rolled over to see her husband.  "Go back to sleep, Jim." She said softly.
"It's that dream again, isn't it?  I can always tell."
Cassie stretched to see the bedside clock.  It said 2.17am.  "It's late Jim, go back to sleep.  You have a heavy day in front of you."
"So do you." Jim sat up and rubbed a hand over his weary face.  "Listen, I know you have trouble getting back to sleep after that dream.  Why don't we go down into the kitchen for some hot milk."
Cassie trailed after him.  The kitchen was cold and hard after the soft bed.  "You don't need to do this, Jim.  Honestly, I'll be fine."
Jim put two mugs of milk in the microwave.  "Should I add a little nutmeg?"
Cassie shook her head.  "I still don't like nutmeg." She smiled.  "But thank you anyway."
"This dream, it's almost every night." Jim was watching the microwave but suddenly turned around to look hard at Cassie, standing dreamy eyed.  "We should go to the doctor.  I could come in with you and help you explain.  I know you have trouble talking to doctors."
Cassie shook her head firmly.  If she took sleeping pills she could lose her dream.  "Why don't I stay down here?  I can read for a bit and get ready for sleep.  You can rest in bed."
"You know I can't sleep if you aren't next to me." The microwave pinged and Jim pulled out the hot milk, giving it a quick stir.  "Are you sure that you won't have some nutmeg?  I'll add some anyway."
"If you add it I won't drink it."  Cassie wondered why it was so hard to have milk without nutmeg.
"It would just be better for you." Jim grumbled.  The nutmeg hovered over the milk for a moment, then he took it away.  "I could go with you to a dream analyst.  Some of them are really good.  I know a few people who have used them."
"I don't think so." Cassie said, sipping her milk. 
"We can drink the milk together in bed." Jim suggested.  He led the way back to the bedroom.  As they slid into the cooling sheets he frowned. "We have to get this dream sorted out.  I can't keep waking like this."
 
Cassie lay still beside him, listening to his breathing almost instantly slip into the slow, regular sighs of sleep.  Jim could never stay awake for more than a minute.  Then she stared into the dark and slid back to her dream.  She was walking again in the golden sunlight with blossom in the trees and the birds singing.  She lay down on the soft, warm river bank and listened to the river chuckling.  And she was all alone.   

Just a Point

Image from Unsplash and in the public domain

Kent waved the letter at his wife.  "It's the valuation." He ripped it open.   Rupert watched carefully.
"You can't be thinking of selling it." Alison said.  "It's been in your family for generations."  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  "And you know painting is haunted.  Look what happened last time it was sent for cleaning."  Rupert nodded.  At least someone else was paying attention.
"Those sort of accidents are normal for a house of this age." Kent looked uneasily over his shoulder.  "And we have to face reality.  We are in a Grade I listed English Stately Home with a leaking roof.  We can't just get any old tiles from the local builder's yard and get the cheapest quote plus scaffolding.  Did you see how much the only firm I could track down wanted?  We need the money."
"Do you want to sell it?" Alison asked as Kent pulled the letter out of it's rich, cream envelope.
Kent shrugged.  "No, I don't.  It's part of the place, I was fascinated by the old man in the picture as a child.  But sentiment won't patch the roof."  He absently straightened out the letter.  "I wish we didn't have to."  He straightened his shoulders.  "And if I'm not getting a good enough offer, I'm keeping it.  There are grants, after all."
Jenkins stuck his head round the door.  "It's Soames about his business proposition.  He's in the study, sir."

Rupert waited until Kent and Alison had left the room and inspected the letter.  He concentrated.  Kent would certainly sell for £350,000 but while the figure was flattering, he could not let the portrait go.  It took some work to manipulate it but by the time Kent got back the offer was £35,000, take it or leave it.  The old ghost knew that Kent would never settle for that.  The portrait would be safe for now.  Rupert tapped his ghostly finger on the polished mantle.  Now how could he help with this business idea? 
 

Grave Insight

Cemetery by a Ruined Gothic Church by Hermann Lungkwitz, in the public domain

“I miss him.” Geoff said, looking around the hall. 
“So do I, but I hate admitting it.” Stephanie took off her Chanel coat and hesitated for a moment before hanging it on the peg next to Uncle Jeremiah’s dusty jacket.  “He never approved of me.”
“Or me.” Geoff took off his own faded jacket.  He thought it was quite a spectrum as he hung his jacket up next to his wife’s fuchsia model.  Uncle Jeremiah’s old jacket was probably older than most vintage cars.  Stephanie’s up to the minute coat was probably worth more than most vintage cars and was absolutely right for a top flight barrister.  His own humble raincoat was not as old as Uncle Jeremiah’s but was far more battered and had been bought only with practicality in mind. 
“I looked over the will.  It’s not worth contesting, but what was his solicitor thinking?” Stephanie ran a finger over a dusty table and shuddered.  “I mean, the house is signed over to us, all the bank accounts are closed and the estate is considered settled.  But there is still around a million pounds unaccounted for.”
“It’s not unaccounted for, according to Colin.” Geoff had not had a good opinion of the solicitor.  “It’s hidden in the house.”
“To be precise, the whereabouts is hidden in this house.” Stephanie sighed and got out her phone.  I suppose I had better start making a list.”
“What do you mean?” Geoff opened the door into the sitting room and wandered in. 
“Well, a list of what we need to do.” Stephanie followed him, automatically straightening some sagging cushions.  “It all needs a deep clean and we should probably redecorate.  This is a beautifully sized room with a great view of the garden and we could strip out all these bookcases and go for something more minimalist.” Stephanie trailed off as she checked the side table and adjusted an ornament on the mantelpiece. 
“It wouldn’t be the same.” Geoff said.  He stood motionless in the centre of the room, an older, greying man with a nondescript sweater and faded jeans as his curated, blonde wife darted around the room, unable to stay still.
Stephanie paused.  “No, it wouldn’t.  I can’t imagine it changing.  It would be like losing another member of the family.”
“It needs a good clean,” Geoff said, “And perhaps a lick of paint, but I can’t imagine it ever changing.  There has always been a sofa at that angle, so that you can watch the birds in the apple tree outside.”
Stephanie tested the sofa with a cautious hand.  “Do you know how hard it is to get hold of a decent upholsterer these days?  But it’s sound.” She checked the small bookcase in the corner.  “I mean, I can imagine replacing the sofa but putting the new one in the same place.  I can imagine different books in the bookcase, but I there always has to be a bookcase here.” She sat down suddenly.  “I wish we had seen more of Uncle Jeremiah in the last few years.”
“My nerves couldn’t stand it.” Geoff said, sitting next to her and taking her hand.  “He would be arguing that you should be at home in the house and why wasn’t I in the London office.  You would be arguing that he was an old fossil and when was he going to get out of the nineteenth century.  He would be complaining about how much you spent on handbags and you would be complaining that he hadn’t replaced his wreck of a car.  It would be murder.”
“He didn’t understand us.” Stephanie looked around.  “But he was always there.”
“I know, my dear.” Geoff said.  “The problem was, he was always there with an argument.  And then your career took off and I was busy with the kids.  There was never the time.”
“At least you called him.” Stephanie’s thin fingers clung to Geoff’s sturdy hand. 
“I rang for a listen at least twice a week.” Geoff agreed and smiled.  “Come on, let’s look around.  According to Colin, we need to have a grave insight.”
Stephanie snorted.  “I suppose we need to look out for stone crosses.”
“That would fit Uncle Jeremiah’s sense of humour.” Geoff helped his wife up and they wandered back into the hall. 
 
It was hard, going from room to room.  Every room had a ghost of an argument and a swathe of happy memories.  The study was the hardest.  It seemed to have become Uncle Jeremiah’s living space, with a tray for his meals sat on a table near the door with a salt cellar perched in the corner.  Photographs were everywhere you looked. 
“Look, do you remember this?” Stephanie picked up a picture.  “It was the summer after we married.”
Geoff looked over her shoulder.  They looked so young in their dated clothing, sprawled on the unkempt lawn at the back and filled with joy.  “I remember.  We had the most amazing time.  We had most of our meals in the garden, played cards for matchsticks every night and you and he had a ding dong battle about the Children’s Act.”
Stephanie shrugged and put down the picture, wiping her dusty fingers on a tissue as she wandered around the room.  “Geoff, come and have a look at this.”
Geoff followed her to a dim corner.  “That’s a lovely picture, and it’s full of graves.  Perhaps it’s a clue.”
Stephanie looked hard at the painting.  It looked nineteenth century, with dark, small leaved trees and sprawling shadows.  Graves framed the path to a ruined church and it pulled you in to its sombre centre.  “If Uncle Jeremiah was here, we would be having an argument right now about Romanticism versus Classicism and I would be quoting Byron and he would be talking about Tchaikovsky.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. 
Geoff leant forward.  “I bet this is the clue.  This tells us where the money has been stashed.”
“I suppose so.” Stephanie straightened the picture.  “It’s got graves on it.  Perhaps we need to count them or something.”
“At least it doesn’t refer to his grave.” Geoff said, his head to one side as he studied the picture.  “He was cremated and his ashes scatted at sea.”
“He said he was going to do that so I couldn’t dance on his grave.” Stephanie took a deep breath.  Hardened barristers did not cry. 
Geoff frowned.  “It’s not a very good clue.  I mean, shouldn’t it have a map or a motto or something?”
“You are a genius with numbers, my darling, but you never worked out how Uncle Jeremiah’s mind worked.  The grave is a red herring.” Stephanie lifted the picture down.  It was surprisingly light and left dust marks across the sleeves of her silk blouse.  “He would never give us a plain clue.” She turned the painting over.  On the back was a small key and a nondescript envelope taped to the corner.  She laid the picture face down on the desk and picked at the tape holding the key as Geoff worked the envelope free.
“It’s numbers.” Geoff said, spreading out the slip of paper.
Stephanie wasn’t paying full attention.  The key was small but well made.  She looked around the room and the large, mahogany desk had keyholes in its drawers.  She found which lock the key fitted on the third attempt.
“At least, it’s numbers but I don’t think it’s about the numbers.” Geoff said.
Stephanie turned the key in the oiled lock and pulled open the drawer.  It held a handbag, a beautiful, Hermes Birkin bag, in her favourite fuchsia pink.  She picked it up and stroked the immaculate surface.  The clasp moved easily under her fingers and nestled inside the perfect lining was a note addressed to her in Uncle Jeremiah’s spiky handwriting.
“It’s a bank account number.  I’m pretty sure it’s international.” Geoff said but Stephanie wasn’t paying attention.  She unfolded the note.
 
Dearest Stephanie, Over the years I’ve come to appreciate more and more that while you may not be my idea of a good wife, you are perfect for Geoff and an asset to the legal profession.  Please forgive an old man his mistakes.  And don’t go spending all the money on handbags.  This one should be enough. Jx 
 
Behind her, Geoff was checking his phone.  “It’s a Swiss account.  We’ve found the money.  Stephanie, we’ve found the money!” But she couldn’t answer.  All she could do was choke back the tears as she hugged the bag. 
 

Not as it Seems

Photo by Koons Automotive on Unsplash

 Jeff kept his professional smile as he showed the couple around the car dealership. 

“It’s a very reasonable price,” he said.  The Ford Fusion gleamed.  “Very low mileage and we include a full service before delivery.”
India’s lips were pressed together so hard that you couldn’t see her lipstick.  “I don’t see why I have to pay out for that kid.”
“Sweetheart, it’s my godson.  He’s seventeen, he has a hobby…”
“He’s a spoiled brat.”  She turned back to Jeff.  “The kid is just going to take it to pieces.  He hasn’t even got his licence yet…”
“He’s got his test booked…” Jason said helplessly, taking a swift mouthful out of a small flask as India turned back to Jeff.
India hadn’t noticed the flask.  “I have to scrape by and make do, but when it comes to the kid he can’t say no.”
“His name’s Oliver.” Jason muttered. 
India shrugged then turned to Jeff.  “Honestly, something a little cheaper.”
“He should have been called Nancy.” Jason mumbled. 
“Oliver can see it as a project.  What have you got that needs work?”
“I wouldn’t let them call him Bill.” Jason managed another crafty mouthful from the flask.
“You’re making less sense than usual.” India looked at Jeff.  “Anything?”
Jeff smiled.  “Between you and me, there’s one vehicle we weren’t thinking of selling at this moment,”he said with absolute truth.  It was booked for the scrapyard.  “It’s a fixer upper, but at a very good price.”
“What do you mean?” India followed Jeff to where the wrecks were stored.
“It’s a nice little car.” Jeff waved a hand at the red wreck in front of them.  “Once it’s done up it could be quite desirable.  Is the lad handy?”
“He’s a good lad.” Jason said quietly.  “Good with his hands.  I was thinking of taking him on as an apprentice.”
Jeff watched India’s hands clench into fists and then slowly unclench.  Then her shoulders slumped.  She nodded.  “We’ll take it.”
“Why don’t you look it over while I sort out the paperwork.” Jeff didn’t like leaving people alone, but today was an exception.  “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

With the salesman out of the way, they quickly found what they were looking for. Jason slumped against the Toyota, shielding India as she knelt next to the wheel arch and quickly felt inside.  She looked up.  “Keep talking to cover me,” she whispered.
“She could have called him Sikes,” Jason said, his voice getting a little louder. “She never called him after me.”
“Hang on.” The woman struggled a little then nodded.  “I’ve got it.”  She pulled out a small, tightly wrapped package.  “Okay, let’s stage the argument and get out of here.”

Jeff was shuffling the paperwork on the when he heard them shouting. 
“What do you mean, he’s your son?” India yelled.  “I can’t believe it.  After all these years!” She stormed over to their car and threw herself into the driver’s seat. 
“Sweetheart…” Jason scrambled into the passenger side as the car rattled out of the yard and screeched around the corner onto the main road. 
Jeff shrugged.  He may have lost a sale, but at least he didn’t have a headache.  
 

Domestic Demon

Photo by PuroClean of Fort Worth on Unsplash

“I’m sorry, darling.” Darren smiled nervously at me.  “But it is only twice a year, and it is only from Thursday to Tuesday.”

I took a deep breath.  “Of course, I know.  Your mother and I don’t see eye to eye, but that’s okay.  She’s your mother and we both love you.  That’s why I’ve got the day off to get the house all set up for her.”

Darren winced.  “I’ll pick her up from the airport.  I’ll pick up a takeaway on my way back.”

“Absolutely not.” I said firmly.  “I’ll make a lovely casserole and that way it doesn’t matter if you are a little late.”

“Thank you, darling, I do appreciate it.” Darren gave me a quick kiss and hurried off to work.

Pamela, my mother-in-law, did only visit twice a year, the first weekend after the Christmas break and the first weekend in July.  It was some awful ritual where a demon was unleashed twice a year.  They could make a Nicholas Cage movie out of it.  As for the takeaway, I was not falling for that again.  Four years ago I had made the mistake of allowing Darren to pick up a pizza on the way back.  For the last four years I had been hearing about how a proper wife made her husband meals, no matter what the circumstances. 

I slouched into the kitchen.  I had never felt less like being a domestic goddess.  It was all so humiliating.  I was far too particular, according to my friends, and wasted far too much time cleaning.  According to Pamela, I was a slattern.  Every inch of this house would be scrutinised.  Last time I thought I had her.  There was no dust on the top of the kitchen cupboards and the walls had been washed down.  I had put brand new bedding on her bed and I had dusted behind every stick of furniture.  I had had the oven professionally cleaned and steamed the carpets.  The old witch had actually taken the drawers out of her dresser and found dust on the inside of the frame.  She had been so smug, sitting opposite me in my kitchen, eating my food which I had cooked, while Darren sat between us, twitching.

I looked around my lovely, clean kitchen.  Not only would she go over the room like a forensic detective but she would also sigh and complain that it looked too bare.  “It’s a shame you don’t have any knickknacks around,” she had said last time.  “Of course, not everyone has a flair for decorating.  Perhaps it is just as well that you haven’t tried.” She had smiled a wide, fake smile and patted my arm.  “I’ll bring you some nice things next time I come.  Then you won’t have to worry about getting it wrong.”

The old trout had great taste – for 1972!  I knew that she would have a suitcase full of cheap tat when she turned up, and that it would have to be in the same place she left it when she returned six months later – and she would know if the plastic grot had been moved an inch.  I swear the old bat had a photographic memory.

I threw together a boeuf bourguignon and put it on slow.  I’d already taken out every removable drawer in the house and cleaned behind them.  All the carpets, curtains and rugs had been steamed last week.  Not only was the bedding in her room new but so was the curtains.  I’d cleaned all the lampshades yesterday and dusted all the lightbulbs.  I sighed and started to pull out the fridge.  Then I paused. 

Why was I playing her game?  Why was I running round in circles trying to get her to like me when nothing short of a sharp blow to the head would ever make her accept the woman who stole away her baby boy?  I’d been doing it wrong for years.  If she ran out of things to check I swear she would pull up the floorboards.  Okay, if she wanted something different, she could have something different.

By the time Darren’s car pulled into the drive I was finished.  I ached with the efforts, and I had had to get a few friends to help out.  It had been entirely worth it.  I looked around as I heard Darren carefully reversing into the garage.  The kitchen was smeared with jam and I had done my best to give a greasy feel by spraying the wall with the oil spray I used in cooking.  I had found some kitchen curtains in a skip which were now drooping at the window.  I had gone to every friend and neighbour and scrounged the contents of their vacuum cleaners.  After some trial I found that a light mist of water helped the dust of a dozen homes cling to walls, sink and bath.  I had put a mouse trap at the back of her dresser, just where it would get her if she checked, and I put the contents of four dryer filters under her bed. 

The trip to the charity shop had been the most fun.  The house was awash with ‘accents’.  Our house was now a temple to the worse taste that ever landed on an Oxfam donation table.  There was plastic everywhere.  I had also got some extremely washed bedding from the charity shop and begged some curtains for Pamela’s room that they were going to send to the rag man and rubbed damp instant coffee granules along the edges for an added artistic touch.  I had had fun, and so had my friends.  Everyone had got photos.

I turned round as Darren unlocked the door.  “Darling, my mother’s plane has been delayed and she has decided not to come until the Christmas break after all…” He stopped as he walked in to the kitchen.  There was a long pause.  “Darling, would you like a drink?”