Byw fel ci a hwch – living like dog and sow (fighting all the time)
The following afternoon, Esther crashed the gammon slices onto the board, grabbed a knife and stabbed open the shrink-wrapped plastic covering. The meat burst out as the pressure was released and sprayed her in a shower of juices. The cool liquid on her face did nothing to calm her temper.
David had just phoned her from the golf course, asking if she were going to make parsley sauce as it was Louisa’s favourite. Of course she was going to make parsley sauce. She always made parsley sauce with gammon and mashed potato; it was just what she did. Did he not think that the reason she made parsley sauce was because she knew that Louisa loved it so?
Most of the things she did in the house were because that’s what the occupants wanted and, because she cared so much about them, that is what she did. He might have the time to sit and chatter to Louisa and to wrap her in chenille throws – that was how he showed her his love – but she, Esther didn’t have time to make parsley sauce and sit and chat on the sofa to her daughter. Otherwise, Louisa would never have parsley sauce and that would make her sad. Someone had to look after the practical side of nurturing and, it seemed that the job fell to her.
Her husband’s comments made her so angry. Everyone thought David was wonderful. Their friends always looked past her to welcome him into their houses. His work colleagues idolised him as their firm but fair gaffer and, oh, wasn’t he just marvellous with Louisa…
Maybe everyone had just a bad side and maybe only she, Esther, got to see his. She was just sick of being asked to do things that she was about to do anyway. It made it seem that she was incapable of making her own decisions – I mean, parsley sauce? Come on!
She slammed the meat into the oven and then dragged herself up the stairs in frustrated speed to change and put her spattered blouse on to soak. She cursed David again – if he’d not made her so exasperated, she wouldn’t have been so careless with those blasted gammon slices. It was as if she had no opinions, no mind of her own to make decisions with.
Well, she did have a mind, and she did have an opinion – just like the opinion she had about the woman on the desk in the library – was there really such a need to dress like a tart and wear so much make-up? It was a library for goodness sake: there was no need to show so much cleavage just to dole out books and shush at teenagers. Esther felt that she could probably get that across in a card – no need for a formal letter.
By the time she had rinsed her blouse, David was just getting out of the car. She could hear him as he put his golf clubs into the garage – they always got put into the right place. They never got dumped in a corner, far too bloody precious.
She reached the kitchen in a bad mood: bloody gammon, bloody golf clubs and bloody David. She could hear him as he sauntered in and threw his keys onto the table (instead of putting them on the hook where he would expect to find them when he next needed to go out). She could hear him hum as he took his coat off and slung it over the newel post when he knew it should be hung on the coat rack. Then she heard his shoes getting removed one by one, with the laces still done up, and then hoofed against the skirting board. It was like living with a bloody teenager, she fumed, as she disappeared into the utility room to calm down.
On her return, David was sitting down at the kitchen table looking around in surprise. Esther made a pot of tea and then poured him one. She passed him a cup. “Thanks,” he said. “I was wondering where that was!”
“I’ve only just made it!” Esther began, trying hard not to shriek. “You’ve only been back two minutes. Do you want me to make a cup every minute from the moment you leave the golf club so that it’s always available?”
“Esther, love, calm down! I was only joking!” David shook out his paper with a little chuckle and a shake of his head. Esther felt like crowning him. He had a knack of making her jump to his will and then belittling any small rebellion with that patronising, “Esther, love!” and then his chuckle. She just found herself getting more and more worked up as he seemed to settle down and get more relaxed. However, she decided against crowning him or storming out and instead returned to her pastry making.
David took a loud slug of tea, “Ooh, lovely cup, Esther, love, thanks.”
She didn’t know whether to scream, “Well of course it bloody is! It’s tea and I make several cups of it for you each day: it’s not that difficult to get it right, is it?” Instead, she counted to three and said, as light-heartedly as she could muster, “You’re welcome.”
“Nasty business this.” He said.
“What?” she replied, putting down her pastry knife. That irritated her too – him, saying something that she was supposed to answer, when she had no idea what he was talking about. What the bloody hell are you on about now? Do you expect me to sit next to you, reading the same thing in case you wish to discuss it? One, two, three… “What’s that, love?”
“This – this letter writing thing going on in town.”
Esther put her knife down. Then picked it up again. “Yes, I’ve read a bit before about that. Been more has there?” She was surprised that he couldn’t hear her heart pounding, sending flour dust in puffs from her pinny.
“The women in work were saying that there’s been two dozen or more.”
“Two dozen!” she exclaimed, then checked herself. “As many as that?”
“Well, the Inspector, here, in the paper…” David took an infuriatingly long sip of tea, “says they’ve had three reported, you know, as complaints…offences.”
“I thought people had been pleased to have received them – you know, when they’d had time to think about what had been said. Like in the Tasty Bite café?”
“The Tasty Bite café? What was that then?”
“Oh, can’t remember really – just that the owner had said that what had been said was actually accurate and putting it right had turned her business around. Something like that anyway…”
David shrugged, “Don’t remember reading that. But, here: The Inspector says that the letters are petty and malicious, referring to people’s hygiene and one woman’s weight problem. Tsch, some people, eh? Nothing better to do…” David turned the page.
“Weight problem?” started Esther, “What do they mean, one woman’s weight problem?”
“Dunno,” he replied vaguely, clearly no longer interested, “Hey, looks like our old estate might finally be getting their play area! Typical, eh? Only fifteen years too late for our Louisa to play out in!”
“But, but – weight problem?” Esther was now thinking aloud and knew that it had to stop. She’d never mentioned anyone’s weight problem. Could have done of course, Natalie Phillips could do with a reminder for starters, but she hadn’t, yet. The Inspector must have been generalising or maybe just got it wrong. Unless…unless – unless someone else was doing it too?
Esther’s apple pie was thrown into the oven, the pastry leaves that were usually carefully feathered, were instead two sausages splattered with beaten egg and porcupined with hairs from the pastry brush. Surely no one else would do such a thing? She checked the temperature and set the timer.
She, Esther, was writing those letters in a constructive, positive manner, aiming to help and to turn businesses around. It sounded like this other person – or God forbid, persons – who had jumped on the bandwagon, was being underhand and spiteful. What had the Inspector said? Malicious?
Perhaps the Inspector needed a little one, from her, to explain that she – anonymously of course – was the original letter writer and was a positive, constructive person, not a spiteful malicious one – just so as he understood.
As she walked to the sink to wash the flour from her hands, she peeped over David’s shoulder at the picture of the Inspector on the inside page. Perhaps whilst she was at it, she could mention to him that a more modern haircut wouldn’t go amiss; such thick grey hair didn’t wear a fringe well…