'For Your Own Good'
Friday, February 5, 2010 at 7:06AM George woke on his eightieth birthday feeling irritated. The mattress beneath him felt hard and uncomfortable, the sheets felt scratchy against his skin, and Vera, in her eagerness to rouse him early had left the curtains open. Streaks of sunlight were glistening across his face; his aging, sunken cheeks and wide forehead splattered with beige liver spots, as if paint had been flickered across the canvas of his once fresh features.
Buried deep inside, knots of irritation had become aggravated and were niggling at him.
In the kitchen downstairs, he could hear Vera already crashing about with baking pans. Another day. George glanced around the bedroom at the fading wallpaper and threadbare carpet.
He should get up.
Downstairs, Vera had the electric whisk at full throttle, which meant the creation of his birthday cake was underway. He was too late. Reaching across the bed to grab a pillow, he placed it across his face, and groaned in to its feathery softness.
That meant he wouldn’t be allowed in the kitchen for some time. Not for his morning cup of tea, and certainly not for a bit of breakfast.
‘It’ll do you good to go without,’ Vera would undoubtedly assure him if he peered his head around the kitchen door to plead for a slice of toast.
Never once, over the years, had he been brave enough to admit that if anyone could do with a bit of ‘going without’ it was her not him.
He had met Vera during the war and his memories of that time were hazy. Their romance had been brisk, he remembered that much, and founded upon a sense of jubilation at simply being alive. And Vera had seemed practical and homely, with a skill for creating a hearty meal out of wartime rations.
George lifted his face from the pillow. It had gone silent downstairs, he’d better get up. Perhaps a wash and shave would put the world to rights. If not, at least his girls and the grandchildren would be arriving for his birthday party in a few hours, and that was something to look forward to.
The bathroom mirror confirmed how he was feeling. Although the Doctor had said last month that for a man of nearly eighty he had better health than most.
‘Must be the love of a good woman,’ the Doctor had joked.
Vera had smiled proudly. While he had nodded, ushering his wife out of the surgery.
‘Didn’t I tell you that cutting cake out of your diet was the best thing for you? Your cholesterol’s never been so low.’
George eased the car from the entrance of the car park and on to the main road.
‘I told you, didn’t I, George.’
‘You did.’
‘Wait till I tell Marjorie. She said, what harm could a piece of cake do,’ Vera plucked a handkerchief from her coat sleeve and gave a tentative blow. ‘Saturated fats,’ she said with another blow, ‘she just doesn’t understand.’
Over the years, Vera had taken control of his life. He took his medication and vitamins when she told him too. He drank water, restricted alcohol, walked a mile a day, and slept a solid seven and a half hours each night. While Vera managed his diet, limiting this and that as he followed her siren call, ‘you’ll thank me when you’re eighty…’
Now, here he was, eighty…
Once the girls, and grandchildren arrived for his party he felt brighter. The house less empty and hollow. Their snug sitting room bustled with chatter and excitement, as Leslie, their eldest, cleared space on the coffee table for Vera to place the birthday cake. It was a chocolate cake, his favourite, with butter cream dripping along the edges.
‘Cake’s lovely, Mum,’ Susan said.
The children gathered closer as she served, tiny fingers poking at the icing, until Vera slapped them away.
‘You forgot, Dad?’ Leslie said.
Susan giggled. ‘You can’t forget Dad on his birthday.’
George smiled.
‘Oh, your father’s not having any cake.’
‘Your not?' Susan frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Well I… ’ he started.
‘Cholesterol,’ Vera interrupted.
‘But you said it was down.’ Leslie looked puzzled.
‘It was last month, but you can’t be too careful,’ Vera said.
‘Dad?’ Susan questioned.
‘It’s okay love. Your mother’s right. Probably best if I don’t.’
He felt the happiness of the afternoon deflate, aware of his daughters’ disappointment of him.
‘Why are they always in such a rush?’ Vera demanded, as the girls screeched away.
He’d shrugged, heading into the kitchen, where piles of washing up lay in wait for him.
By bedtime his irritation had plunged into despair. Vera was already in bed, her pudgy face shiny with night cream.
‘Blasted pillows,’ she said. ‘For heaven’s sake, George hurry up and re-arrange these pillows for me will you, they’re uncomfortable.’
George remembered the awkward silence earlier as the girls and their children scrambled into their cars and driven away. That was uncomfortable
‘What a lovely birthday party,’ Vera said, once he was sat on the bed beside her, plumping her pillows against his lap.
‘Would have been nice to have a slice of cake.’
‘It's for your own good.’
He nodded, once.
The knots of irritation began to rise up, and up, hovering like bile in the back of his throat.
He breathed deeply, and reached forward to re-position the pillow.
‘George?’ Vera’s eyes widened as he rested the pillow down across her face and held it there, while her arms fought, thrashing against him. Her screams muffled.
When her body lay still, George relaxed his grip, wiped away the trickle of tears, and lifted the pillow to peer at Vera’s bluish face. For once she had nothing to say. He leaned closer, ‘It’s for your own good,’ he whispered.
Fiction, Fridayflash, Marriage, Short Story
Reader Comments (10)
Lovely build. You knew it was coming, with him tied up in all that quiet desperation. And somehow? It seemed the right thing to do in the end.....
[but wrong of course, desperately wrong....] *grins at you*
Ah, "How not to be a wife" -I don't blame the poor fellow!
Some of his despair was pretty amusing too, "if anyone could do with a bit of ‘going without’ it was her not him." and "now he was eighty..." made me chuckle - in sympathy with him, of course!
I was thinking, maybe we should introduce him to Maggie. But that's not the kind of lady-killer I want her hanging around with....
Tight, tense writing - well done Mel. The frustration at her control is visceral. In spite of the ending (which I agree felt right) this is a morality tale of sorts, and a powerfully told one at that. Very good work!
Simon.
Great pace, neatly written. Strong story.
I thought for sure he was suicidal -- you surprised me at the end ;)
Loved these characters, loved your story. When all went quiet in the kitchen I thought maybe Vera had collapsed. No such luck, eh?
For me the most poignant moment was this: "Over the years, Vera had taken control of the way he lived his life. He took his medication and vitamins when she told him too. He drank water, restricted alcohol, walked a mile a day, and slept a solid seven and a half hours each night. While Vera managed his diet, limiting this and that as he followed her siren call, ‘you’ll thank me when you’re eighty…’
"Now, here he was, eighty…"
It reminds me how we plan, how we direct our lives, so things will be better for us later... and later seems so very far away. Then, all of a sudden, we wake up one morning and we're there. And we ask ourselves: what the hell happened? How did we get here? Did we really live our entire lives without birthday cake and buttercream icing?
Moving story, Mel.
This is really a strong piece. You build empathy for poor old George, and rage against Vera. The disappointment felt by his daughter in his ability to stand up to Vera was so poignant. When she asked for the pillows to be fluffed I figured what was coming, but man, did she have it coming. Great debut for #fridayflash. I'm a bit late, but welcome.
~jon
You built great empathy for poor George here - I felt so sorry for him. Glad he finally got his point across, albeit quite violently. :)
Great work!
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