The cold shoulder.
By Ell
It was a Tuesday night; cold and late. She had tried to get to bed at a ‘decent hour’, but somehow it was after 11pm again.
“What are you doing!?” she asked. She was waiting to turn the light off.
Her husband was making noises in the kitchen.
“I’m just putting the dishes away!” he replied over the clattering.
“Jeez!” he added under his breath, exasperated.
From the bedroom ,she prickled and called out,
“Don’t speak to me like that please. I was only asking a question.” Her tone was reproving like that of a mother telling off her naughty child.
“Questions!” louder this time, from the kitchen,
“Always with the questions. ‘What are you doing?’, ‘Where are you going?’, ‘Why are you eating ice-cream?’” He used a whiney voice to mimic her.
She made no reply as she set her plump lips into a thin line of anger and narrowed her eyes.
Her husband now entered the bedroom; he removed a wet-weather coat from the closet and placed it on the hall stand outside the bedroom door.
All the while, she was glaring at the ceiling.
He took no notice of her.
In the silence, their old moggy, Abby, coughed and hacked in her basket beside the bed.
Her husband sat on the bed, with his back to her while he set his alarm clock. He then lay down and covered himself with the blankets. Although he was obviously cold (he was shivering), and she was toasty, (having been in the bed for some 15 minutes beforehand with the hot water bottle at her feet) he chose to lay over the far side of the bed with his back to her.
As she snapped the lamp off, her anger subsided and was replaced by rejection and hurt.
His ‘cold shoulder’ wounded her more than his spiteful tone.
“Goodnight” he gruffed over his shoulder.
She was not impressed and replied non-verbally in the affirmative, drawing out the first syllable to show her disapproval, “Mmmmmm-hmm.”
She had expected him to snuggle up to her, the harsh tones forgotten; she was outraged that he continued this negative mood.
Still lying on her back, in a semi-receptive body position, she thought to herself in the darkness,
‘He’ll say something soon about tea tomorrow night or ask me to wash his work clothes. He’ll not be able to get warm and will back up to me and reach for my hand under the blankets and everything will be forgotten, like usual.’
Her thoughts were broken by his loud snoring.
A fresh wave of indignation washed over her ‘How rude! How uncalled for!’
She had the acute desire to kick him ‘accidentally’, just to wake him up, but settled on over-rustling the blankets and rolling over to see if he stirred.
He continued to snore.
She was determined to be cross with him the next day, but equally content to forget his rude actions if he left her a charming love note- as he did from time to time- apologizing.
She fell asleep with the comforting thought that he still had one more opportunity to redeem himself.
*********************************************************************
The next morning, she was surprised he hadn’t awoken her with the usual,
“I’m off now. Have a good day sweetie/honey/beautiful”
‘I must have slept heavily’ she comforted herself.
She wandered, bleary eyed, into the kitchen, expecting to find the apologetic note.
And there it was! On the kitchen table; a small, white piece of paper that was definitely not there the night before and the chair turned outward as if he’d sat at that very spot to write it!
She went back tot the bedroom to get her glassed from the bedside table, so as to better read his heartfelt words.
She picked up the unfolded piece of paper which contained his tight, printed handwriting she knew so well. She smiled smugly.
With a mixture of satisfaction and adoration for her husband, she put on her glasses to read the note in her hand….
“I have taken out rissoles for dinner.
I will be home at 5pm.
My work clothes need to be washed. -D”
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Young Adult Fiction: Untitled. Chapter 2
Chapter two: The staffroom
Jeremy sat in the foyer of the staffroom as Mrs. Frahmien went to put her tub of books away.
The foyer was known to the students as ‘The holding area’. It was a stark area; the walls were hospital white, with the same blue speckly linoleum on the floor which stopped abruptly short as the plush pile of dark green flecked carpet of the staffroom began.
Emma Fellows of year 7 and Terry Deardry of year 8 were lined up along the wall, also awaiting the firing squad. Emma was absentmidedly drawing stars all over her hand in black biro and Terry slumped back in the blue plastic chair, eyes half closed with the white cords of an MP3 player growing out of his ears. Jeremy could hear the distant thudding of the bass beat as he took the seat next to him.
It looks like they’ve been here for a while...great. I’ll never get out of here. I’m so frickin hungry!
Other staff members filed past, into the staffroom; some ignoring him, some giving him raised eyebrows and a look which said,
‘Hmm…in trouble again? I’m not surprised’.
Jeremy was getting angrier by the moment and began shooting them looks filthier than his footy socks on a Saturday afternoon.
Here I am again, the loser of year 9… Dad’s gunna kill me. How do I get myself into these things? Stupid exploding pen.
Mrs. Frahmien appeared, her large, apple shape taking up the doorframe. She motioned to Jeremy to follow her to a small room next the photocopier, known as the Interrogation room.
The lecture began.
“Mr. Batton. I’d like you to explain to me what just happened in my science class between you and Stephen Burbury. I’ve just spoken to the nurse in sick bay and she tells me that he’s been taken to hospital. He’s in a very serious way!”
Shit.
“ I paired you two up because I know how good you are at science- even if you don’t want to admit it- and poor Stephen hasn’t got a clue! I thought you would be able to help him. If he fails this class, he will loose his football scholarship, Jeremy, and his parents have no way to pay for him to remain here!”
Double shit.
Jeremy’s guilt returned with a vengeance; a soccer-punch to the gut.
Suddenly that sausage roll waiting for him in the canteen didn’t seem that appetising.
“Well…” Jeremy began, grasping for an explanation.
“It was just a joke! I never meant to hurt him…He was laughing too- at first!” He trailed off.
Excuses never go down well with very strict, very concerned teachers. This, Jeremy should have realised by now. He was beginning to get too familiar with the Interrogation room: its chipboard and veneer topped table covered with graffiti and gouged out channels; the stained, vomit-coloured carpet; and the silver wall vent, to which his eyes usually fell, while he contemplated escape.
“I don’t have time for your excuses- just tell me exactly what happened!
Ummm…how am I gunna cover my ass?
Well!?”
Jeremy gave up trying to think of a way to save himself and blurted it all out in a surge of babble.
“Stephen cranked the Bunsen burner and then turned to start chattin’ up Janey. I saw his pen and pulled out the ink tube-I was just gunna melt the outside of his pen, you know, make it all wavy and cool and stuff, but I thought it’d be funnier to heat up the ink tube, so that’s what I did when you weren’t looking- whacked it over the Bunsen burner- and it exploded! I didn’t know it was gunna do that, seriously! Stephen turned around as it happened and…”
He began to run out of breath.
“ And, yeah…got ink in his eyes…It was meant to be funny…a joke.” He trailed off again.
Mrs. Framien pursed her plump lips into a thin line and furrowed her brow as she absorbed Jeremy’s explanation.
“Well I doubt very much that Stephen is laughing now. What made you think of such an idiotic stunt? What is your dad going to say about this? Do you realize that Stephen could loose his scholarship, never to play football agin, not to mention his SIGHT!?” Mrs. Frahmien’s voice became higher and more shrill, with each question.
Whoah! Question overload!
Jeremy physically recoiled in his chair at the onslaught. He didn’t know which question to answer first, or if they were rhetorical.
“It was just a joke! Jeez!” He pleaded, defensive.
Mrs. Frahmien simply shook her head in disbelief and frowned, her lips now white and invisibly sewn together.
“Mr. O’Neil will see you at the end of the day. I’m just so appalled Jeremy, that you can take this so-called-joke lightly…go to lunch now and think about what your little joke could cost this boy.”
***************************************************************************************
“Man, anyone would think I exploded ink into her face, the way she carried on!” Jeremy complained. Sam was waiting for Jeremy outside of the staffroom. They walked toward the canteen across the green.
Sam chuckled and added, “It was sooo funny though- to see your face, mate! Ol’ Mrs. Military woulda roasted you! Haha! Poor Steve though. He’s gunna be so pissed at you when he gets back to school.”
“Yeah, well, he should learn to take a joke.” Jeremy grumped. The more he called it ‘a joke’ the less funny it seemed, but he couldn’t turn back now. That was his story and he’d stick to it. You had to save face, or you were a wuss.
“What are you gunna do if he’s like, blind and stuff?” Sam asked thickly through a mouthful of salad roll.
“blind and stuff”…What the hell will I do?
Jeremy sat in the foyer of the staffroom as Mrs. Frahmien went to put her tub of books away.
The foyer was known to the students as ‘The holding area’. It was a stark area; the walls were hospital white, with the same blue speckly linoleum on the floor which stopped abruptly short as the plush pile of dark green flecked carpet of the staffroom began.
Emma Fellows of year 7 and Terry Deardry of year 8 were lined up along the wall, also awaiting the firing squad. Emma was absentmidedly drawing stars all over her hand in black biro and Terry slumped back in the blue plastic chair, eyes half closed with the white cords of an MP3 player growing out of his ears. Jeremy could hear the distant thudding of the bass beat as he took the seat next to him.
It looks like they’ve been here for a while...great. I’ll never get out of here. I’m so frickin hungry!
Other staff members filed past, into the staffroom; some ignoring him, some giving him raised eyebrows and a look which said,
‘Hmm…in trouble again? I’m not surprised’.
Jeremy was getting angrier by the moment and began shooting them looks filthier than his footy socks on a Saturday afternoon.
Here I am again, the loser of year 9… Dad’s gunna kill me. How do I get myself into these things? Stupid exploding pen.
Mrs. Frahmien appeared, her large, apple shape taking up the doorframe. She motioned to Jeremy to follow her to a small room next the photocopier, known as the Interrogation room.
The lecture began.
“Mr. Batton. I’d like you to explain to me what just happened in my science class between you and Stephen Burbury. I’ve just spoken to the nurse in sick bay and she tells me that he’s been taken to hospital. He’s in a very serious way!”
Shit.
“ I paired you two up because I know how good you are at science- even if you don’t want to admit it- and poor Stephen hasn’t got a clue! I thought you would be able to help him. If he fails this class, he will loose his football scholarship, Jeremy, and his parents have no way to pay for him to remain here!”
Double shit.
Jeremy’s guilt returned with a vengeance; a soccer-punch to the gut.
Suddenly that sausage roll waiting for him in the canteen didn’t seem that appetising.
“Well…” Jeremy began, grasping for an explanation.
“It was just a joke! I never meant to hurt him…He was laughing too- at first!” He trailed off.
Excuses never go down well with very strict, very concerned teachers. This, Jeremy should have realised by now. He was beginning to get too familiar with the Interrogation room: its chipboard and veneer topped table covered with graffiti and gouged out channels; the stained, vomit-coloured carpet; and the silver wall vent, to which his eyes usually fell, while he contemplated escape.
“I don’t have time for your excuses- just tell me exactly what happened!
Ummm…how am I gunna cover my ass?
Well!?”
Jeremy gave up trying to think of a way to save himself and blurted it all out in a surge of babble.
“Stephen cranked the Bunsen burner and then turned to start chattin’ up Janey. I saw his pen and pulled out the ink tube-I was just gunna melt the outside of his pen, you know, make it all wavy and cool and stuff, but I thought it’d be funnier to heat up the ink tube, so that’s what I did when you weren’t looking- whacked it over the Bunsen burner- and it exploded! I didn’t know it was gunna do that, seriously! Stephen turned around as it happened and…”
He began to run out of breath.
“ And, yeah…got ink in his eyes…It was meant to be funny…a joke.” He trailed off again.
Mrs. Framien pursed her plump lips into a thin line and furrowed her brow as she absorbed Jeremy’s explanation.
“Well I doubt very much that Stephen is laughing now. What made you think of such an idiotic stunt? What is your dad going to say about this? Do you realize that Stephen could loose his scholarship, never to play football agin, not to mention his SIGHT!?” Mrs. Frahmien’s voice became higher and more shrill, with each question.
Whoah! Question overload!
Jeremy physically recoiled in his chair at the onslaught. He didn’t know which question to answer first, or if they were rhetorical.
“It was just a joke! Jeez!” He pleaded, defensive.
Mrs. Frahmien simply shook her head in disbelief and frowned, her lips now white and invisibly sewn together.
“Mr. O’Neil will see you at the end of the day. I’m just so appalled Jeremy, that you can take this so-called-joke lightly…go to lunch now and think about what your little joke could cost this boy.”
***************************************************************************************
“Man, anyone would think I exploded ink into her face, the way she carried on!” Jeremy complained. Sam was waiting for Jeremy outside of the staffroom. They walked toward the canteen across the green.
Sam chuckled and added, “It was sooo funny though- to see your face, mate! Ol’ Mrs. Military woulda roasted you! Haha! Poor Steve though. He’s gunna be so pissed at you when he gets back to school.”
“Yeah, well, he should learn to take a joke.” Jeremy grumped. The more he called it ‘a joke’ the less funny it seemed, but he couldn’t turn back now. That was his story and he’d stick to it. You had to save face, or you were a wuss.
“What are you gunna do if he’s like, blind and stuff?” Sam asked thickly through a mouthful of salad roll.
“blind and stuff”…What the hell will I do?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
