107 292
Ritual, 1969 [two stories]
107
‘Do you want lunch?’ she
called.
He came and stood beside
her, gently touched her
shoulder. ‘This is nice. You
look pretty in a frock.’
He paused a moment, then
kissed her cheek.
‘I need a soak,’ he said.
‘Not used to this much
exercise. Won’t be long.’
She switched the radio on,
turned up the volume and
fairly danced about the
kitchen, washing lettuce,
chopping
tomatoes,
cucumber, spring onions.
She fried mushrooms,
leftover potato, onions
and ham, then set them to
one side, meaning to add
the beaten eggs at the last
moment.
Everything grew cold in the
pan as the minutes went
by. She sipped her tea
and went to the window,
the apple tree was in
blossom and the rhubarb
was unfurling its giant
leaves. His sleeping bag
was hanging on the line
like a great bat, its wings
folded and its head down.
Lifeless.
How long had he been
upstairs?
Too long, she thought,
and her heart seemed to
flutter inside her chest, to
quiver like an insubstantial
jellyfish. She raced up the
stairs, the bathroom door
was shut and no sound
came from behind it. As
she looked she sawa trail of
watery footsteps stepping
from the bathroom and
crossing the landing. Each
print evaporated as a new
one appeared.
*