She’s at the funeral, dressed in a smart black suit and a hat with a veil. No tears. Or would she cry?
The key turned in the lock and Agatha shuddered. Harold Ignatius Pilkington, paper pusher extraordinaire, stopped only to straighten the mirror before changing his dark jacket and shoes for grey cardigan and slippers. Ornaments fractionally out of place aligned as he passed and Agatha tried in vain to control her wayward thoughts. Her lips moved silently as words such as widow and freedom slid across her fertile imagination. She listened … the gospel according to Saint Harold unfolded its nightly litany of warranted public floggings and weak governments too feeble to carry out such necessary measures.
Mushrooms should have been her salvation. After hours spent at the library, she knew every poisonous variety.
Her actual attempt to introduce a toxic end had resulted in the foreign muck — you can’t expect me to eat that — killing the neighbour’s cat, while the grease from the replacement egg and chips had glistened on Harold’s ample chin. Fascinated, she’d watched the yolk trapped at the side of his mouth as it became, within her imagination, a pus-filled balloon that should have devoured him. His tongue, flicking lizard-like, claimed the droplet and she’d slumped, disappointed. He’d survived and Agatha lost the will to try again.
Only in her ever-fertile imagination was she freed from the rigid confines of life with Harold.
A ritual, giving homage to mediocrity, was how she viewed her existence. Life was a Ritual, fully deserving of the capital letter, with every observance observed. Harold climbed the stairs for his nightly ablutions at precisely 9.15pm. By 10pm he’d expect a cup of hot cocoa to accompany his diet of death and despair as the television rolled out another evening’s news broadcast.
Agatha recalled reading an account of death in a Paris hotel when a hairdryer dropped into a bath. She pictured boiled Harold and the funeral procession which followed.
She changed her name to Yvette, lost weight, and wore a close fitting black dress, but no hat. Brave, but sad. Tragic, yet dignified. This time she cried.
Harold, back in his chair, with his pinkly clean fingers sending the remote control into an ecstasy of channel hopping, wanted only his cocoa to complete his perfect evening. Agatha went to bathe in his leftover tepid scum, hurrying to finish before the water cooled, and the froth floated like iceberg tips on a sea of dead passion.
She dressed carefully to conceal; layer upon layer of clothing hiding all trace of flesh. Not for this marriage the erotic flaunting of womanly curves through diaphanous nightwear. She realised she’d be late for the cocoa ritual, their replacement for nights of desire imagined, but never delivered.
In her haste to perform the only wifely duty he now demanded, she tripped and fell on the stairs. Each step bounced her towards oblivion.
Her eyes opened to find Harold expressing relief at her miraculous escape. He would never say, and she would never admit to knowing, how disappointed he was at her breathing still. But she recognised the look. How could she not, when it so often adorned her own face?
One day he’ll die — she’ll wear black.
Lorraine Mace 2006
