Suzanne

 by Sheila Kinsella

Chianti

I tidy the kitchen countertop just the way Rob likes it. Left to right, equidistant between the sink and the fridge - olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper. It’s half-past six, he’ll be home in fifteen minutes. The tantalising aroma of Beef Bourguignon escapes the oven. An uncorked bottle of Saint Émilion stands on the dining table, breathing.

            I watch dusk fall. A bat darts in and out of the flickering streetlights. Its jerky robotic movements mesmerize me. I remember bats are a symbol of rebirth. The momentum is broken by the sound of a door slamming shut. I open the door to the stairwell, but it’s only the upstairs neighbour.  

The V-necked black dress I’m wearing is Rob’s favourite.  The pearl drop necklace he gave me for my thirtieth nestles between my breasts. Matching pearl drop earrings dangle either side of my face. Blusher highlights my high cheekbones.  My strawberry blonde hair is tied up in a chignon. I spray perfume on my neck and wrists. Perfect.

            Seven-forty-five comes and goes, I put the dinner on a low setting. I call Rob’s mobile. No reply. The evening news is on TV, the presenter talks about a terrorist attack. I feel sorry for the victims, but it’s not on Rob’s route home; I switch channels and watch a mind-numbing soap.

            Another hour passes. I chew my nails.

            At eleven-thirty I see him staggering across the square outside. Not again. I sit on the sofa pretending to read a book.

            The key scrapes against the door as he tries to slot it into the lock. First port of call is the loo. The sound of him peeing is like a horse urinating. No flush.

            ‘Still up?’ Rob flings his overcoat towards the armchair; the combination of its weight and a half-hearted throw ensure it slides off the leather into a heap on the floor.

            I go to the kitchen to faff with the dinner, opening and closing drawers. Tidying the fridge.

            I feel a sudden vice-like grip on my arms.

            ‘I’m talking to you!’ Rob squeezes my flesh.

            ‘Want some dinner?’ It sounds pathetic but it’s what I say.

It happens fast. He lets go of my arms and lashes out. I duck, but a drunken punch meets my guts. In the scuffle my necklace snaps and pearls tinkle across the tiled floor. Winded, I clutch my belly, drop to the floor and bury my head in my knees. Through the small gap between them, I see the reflection of the kitchen spotlights on his shiny black leather shoes. He stumbles backwards, grabbing the table to stop his fall.

Silence.

He lets out a groan and starts to sob.

I open my fingers wider. Rob sits on the chair, head in hands. I dare not move.

            ‘I’m sorry,’ Rob sniffs and gulps, snot dribbles from his nose. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

            He lets out an enormous belch. ‘You know I don’t mean it,’ he reaches his hand out. ‘I’m sorry.’

            I flinch when he tries to touch me. I take a deep breath, rush to the bathroom and lock the door.

            I put the loo seat down, flush, and sit. 

            There’s a gentle tapping on the door.

            ‘Suzanne, please forgive me.’

            I run the taps to drown out his voice.

            ‘It won’t happen again. I promise.’

            It’s past midnight. My stomach aches and I’m tired. So tired.

 

            Later, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Rob snores next to me, his body in the foetal position. I go to the toilet; grateful my period has arrived. Tomorrow is another day.

            I awake to a pencil ray of white light streaming in through the chink in the curtains.

            ‘Morning,’ Rob carries a tray laden with croissants and a tiny vase containing a single red rose. 

            ‘Oh,’ I manage. ‘Lovely.’ I sit up and rest my back against the soft bedhead.

            He kisses my forehead.

            It’s Saturday. We get through the day doing mundane tasks. I do the laundry. Rob washes the car. We do the weekly shop in the local supermarket.

            ‘Oh,’ I squeeze Rob’s hand. ‘I’m meeting Rachel tonight, she’s off to New York for six months.’

            Rob lets my hand go.

            ‘You’re okay with that aren’t you?’ I smile.

            ‘Well, if you prefer meeting your girlfriends to snuggling up on the sofa with me.’ His face is deadpan.

            Is he kidding or serious? ‘I told you last week.’

            ‘No, you didn’t. It’s OK.  I’ll find a way to amuse myself,’ Rob looks away.

            ‘I could say I’m sick,’ I offer.

            ‘It’s too late now,’ Rob reaches up to the top shelf for a packet of cereals.

            ‘Oh look! Your favourite biscuits are back in stock.’ I take the packet off the shelf to show him.

            ‘They’re not my favourite.’ He sulks.

            At home, I look for the Belgian chocolates I bought Rachel. Four pralines have been bitten into and replaced inside the box. The tiny handwritten card is missing. I find it in the bin. I’ll get her flowers on the way.

            When I leave, Rob is working on his computer. He doesn’t stop when I kiss him goodbye.

            Rachel waits at the table in the restaurant. The beads she wears around her neck jangle against the glass bottle of mineral water as she gets up to greet me. She flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

            ‘Suzanne!’

            She gives the warmest of hugs. ‘Oh Rachel.’ I fall into her embrace and weep.

            ‘What’s wrong?’  Rachel asks.

            ‘I’m OK,’ I sniff.

            ‘Come on, we go way back,’ she holds my hand in hers.

            I roll the left sleeve of my cardigan down for her to see the bruises. She gasps.

            ‘Rob?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘First time?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘You’ve got to leave him,’ she says.

            ‘Easier said than done,’ I reply.

            ‘Seriously?’ Rachel’s blue eyes pop open. ‘It’s a no-brainer.’

            ‘He won’t let me go.’ I chew my nails. ‘I know.’

            The waiter hovers around the table before handing us the menu and telling us about the specials. 

            We order a bottle of Chianti and two vegetarian pastas.

            ‘Look.’ Rachel lets out a sigh. ‘You’re a shadow of your former self. He’s worn you down.’

            Tears trickle down my face. ‘But we’ve been together for so long. I might not find anyone else.’

            ‘Better alone than with someone who treats you badly.’ Rachel thumps the table with her fist. ‘Right. I’m leaving in two weeks.’ She rummages in her designer handbag and pulls out a set of keys. ‘Move in.’

            ‘What? Just like that?’ I take the keys.

            ‘Yes,’ Rachel smirks. ‘Call in sick on Monday. Pretend you’re going to work as usual. When he’s gone, pack your suitcases and take a taxi to my place.’

            ‘It’s too soon. I’m not ready.’ I fiddle with the cutlery.

            ‘Don’t wait until it’s too late.’

            ‘It’s my fault, I make him do it,’ I mutter.

            ‘Stop being a victim,’ Rachel places her hand over mine. ‘Get out while you can.’

            The waiter arrives with plates of steaming pasta and makes a big show of placing them in front of us, offering us grated Parmesan and olive oil.

            I didn’t mean to blub to Rachel, but I feel overwhelmed and conflicted.  I love Rob.

‘Maybe he can get anger management therapy?’ I twiddle pasta around my fork.

            ‘Stop making excuses for him.’ Rachel points her fork at me.

            ‘Enough about me. Are you excited about your move?’ I attempt a smile.

            ‘Don’t change the subject,’ Rachel replies.

            ‘I’ll think about it/’ I gulp my wine.

            ‘You’d better!’

            But I’m already thinking about what I can do to make Rob happy. Cook his favourite meal. Book a weekend away together. I can change him. For sure.

            My phone beeps.

            ‘Don’t answer that.’ Rachel grabs the phone off me and reads the message: ‘When will you be home?’

            We exchange looks. She pours more Chianti.

            ‘Here’s to New York!’ I raise my glass to chink Rachel’s.

            ‘You must visit.,’ Rachel smiles.

The phone beeps again. She casts me a stern glance before reading the texts:

‘Answer me now!’ ‘I’m warning you.’ ‘Last chance.’

‘Seriously Suzanne. Leave him,’ Rachel says.

My eyes well up again. ‘Sorry.’ I take a tissue from my bag.

We talk about her new job and her eyes light up with excitement. When we part, she tries to persuade me to come with her, but I insist on going back, even though I feel anxious.

As I turn the corner into our street, bats flash in and out of the light. I stand frozen to the spot. Renewal, out with the old and in with the new. Yes, I can do this. I call Rachel to say I’m on my way, before heading back to the tube station. But after a few steps, I feel a sudden blow to my head, and everything turns black.  

About the author

Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw inspiration from her Irish upbringing. Blessed with abundant natural curiosity, Sheila lures the reader into a shrewdly observed world via imagery and comedy. Sheila graduated with an MA in Creative Writing (Distance Learning) from Lancaster University in the United Kingdom in 2017. 

Twitter: sheila_kinsella@she_kinsella 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19660897.Sheila_Kinsella

Hiba

 

by Sheila Kinsella

Matcha 

The twitching flare of the lighthouse lamp flashes against the walls. Every ten seconds, a quick white flash illuminates the windows. I sit in the darkness listening to the wind howl across the barren shingle. The chimney rattles like a tin can rolling down an empty street. The windows whistle. Rain clatters on the corrugated iron roof. 

            After a sleepless night, morning brings a stark winter light peppered by watery sunshine.

The milk has turned. Toast for one. The cat hogs the wood-burning stove. She glares at me with her little pansy-like face, miaowing indignantly when I shift her.

            Through my hall window, I see the stark, angular outline of the power station in the distance. The old lighthouse, a few hundred yards away appears miniature in comparison.

            My home is a converted 1880s railway carriage embedded in the pebbles in the unique landscape of Dungeness nature reserve. There are no boundaries, the panorama is desolate but beautiful, with wooden houses and expansive gravel pits.

            As I wash up, I look out over the flat pebbled landscape towards the sea. The view is punctuated by odd cabbage-like Sea Kale and Blackthorns and the odd fishing tackle shed. Winding wooden pathways criss-cross the beach. If you follow the route it's as if there's nothing beyond but a mass of sea and sky until suddenly the path ends, and the shingle drops abruptly down to the sea. The light is spectacular.

            I added a small outhouse to the south-facing side of the carriage to work and display my artwork in the summer months. In winter, I work in my living room, spreading my paints out over my desk. It’s a solitary existence, but I never much liked people anyway. The cold of the winter months makes my knuckles swell, but as long as I can paint, I’m happy.

            My daughter worries about me. She telephones every day. Why don’t I get one of those sheltered flats they have in town? Not bloody likely.

            ‘Hello!’

            I’m not expecting anyone. Then I remember, it’s the supermarket delivery man.

            ‘Come in, it’s open!’ I shout back.

            ‘Hi, how are you?’ He comes in and sets the bags on the kitchen table.

            ‘I’m fine thanks. On your way out can you just pop the milk and tins in the outhouse for me please?’ I reply.

            ‘Sure,’ Ivan separates them from the other shopping.

            ‘There you go, no replacements,’ Ivan says.

            ‘There you go love,’ I give him a couple of pounds.

            ‘Thanks.’

            Well, he’s only a kid, after all.

            ‘Oh, by the way, the coast guard told me there’s been a sighting of migrant boats off the shoreline. ‘You might want to lock your doors,’ his young face is etched with concern.

            ‘Ok, thanks. See you next week.’

            I check his story on the internet. The government has planes ready to fly immigrants who cross the channel in small boats back to France.

            The nearest neighbour is two-hundred yards away in another railway carriage. We don’t socialise much, but we keep an eye out for each other. Dungeness is a remote, but safe place. We don’t need to secure our doors here.   

            It’s a damp start to the day and I’m grateful for my thermal underwear. Living alone you can wear what you like. My choice is layers that I peel off according to the weather. The scenery around here comes into its own when the weather is grim. I pull on my puffer coat and straight away feel like Michelin Man, gloves scarf, the lot, pull the door to and walk to the beach.

            The rain-laden clouds are grey as a dove’s belly. The wind rips the hair from my head. There’s not a soul about. The wooden pathway creaks underfoot as I walk. It stops abruptly and my feet sink into the clattering pebbles for the final drag to the sea.  In the distance to the east, I see the white chalk cliffs near Folkestone and to the west Beachy Head. Straight ahead is France. A strong south-westerly blows. White-crested waves crash their foam on the shore. Seagulls hover on the thermals, dipping up and down. Their squawking is carried away on the wind. Nature’s elements surround me, I feel alive.

            The climb back up to the path takes longer than the descent. Back at the house, I lay my beach finds on the table. A strange flat chalkstone with two holes like eyes. A battered cuttlefish and some seaweed with bubbles. The woodstove is burning a treat, its powerful throw of heat warms the room.

            As I hang my coat and scarf on the back of the kitchen door, I notice muddy footprints on the floor. I mop them up, I must have forgotten to wipe my boots on the mat outside. The fear of becoming forgetful is ever-present.

            I rub my hands together in front of the fire, stretching my fingers out and making fists, again and again, to loosen them up before beginning to paint. I love painting the sea, trying to bring it to life on the canvas. Sometimes I stand for hours swaying back and forth to inject energy into the work to capture the movement of the waves. Hours pass unnoticed. Using a large brush, I pick up some white and stipple it into the blue/grey while it's still wet, blending the edges softly.

            The sudden noise of the door slamming shut startles me.

            ‘Is anybody there?’  I pause mid-stroke, put the brush down and go to investigate.

            A trail of cereal leads from the kitchen cupboard to the door, but the box is nowhere to be seen. Footprints. Again. Small footprints.

            It’s not a fox.

            I ease open the door and tiptoe outside. The outhouse door is ajar, but a sudden gust of wind hurls it shut. I grab an old walking stick I was gifted but refuse to use and grasp it raised with both hands.

            ‘Come out whoever you are!’

            Nothing.

            With one hand I fling the door wide, ready to strike with the stick in the other.

            Sobbing.

            A wretched tiny figure rises from behind the canvases, hands raised.

            A boy.

            ‘Come out where I can see you,’ I say, armed with my cane.

            A boy wearing a hat and tattered rags emerges from the hut. Streaks of dirty tears trickle down his face.

            I feel an outpouring of empathy for this human being. I remember Mother making me watch a film of the torrent of displaced persons traipsing across Europe after the Second World War. ‘Maria, we were all escaping something,’ she used to say.

            ‘Are you hungry?’

            No reply. Just sobs.

            When I realise that he is no threat to me, I lower the cane. He flinches at the sudden movement.

            ‘Speak English?’

            He is trembling. Cold. Fear. Both?

            ‘Come,’ I gesture for him to follow me into the house. ‘I’ll fix you some food.’

            He huddles outside against the wall of the house, waiting. He must be hungry, otherwise he’d run. Although there’s nowhere to run to.

            I give him a chicken and salad sandwich on a plate. Dark eyes stare gratitude at me.

            ‘Thank you,’ he says before attacking the food.

            ‘Water?’ I fill a large glass at the tap and give it to him. He hands me the empty plate.

            He drinks the water and hands me the glass.

            Once he realises that I will not hurt him, his shoulders drop, and he wipes his tears with the sleeve of his jacket.

            His features are delicate, a neat nose, high cheekbones, little flesh and huge eyes like pools of tar. Pretty.

            We begin this ritual, he and I. Morning, noon and night. Feeding times. He sleeps in the outhouse where I fashioned an airbed and a sleeping bag to keep him warm. He asks to read my books. I give him my emergency torch to read by.

            Day after day, he unwinds and his story slowly spills forth, drip by drip.

            On day four, he enters the house.

            ‘Beautiful painting,’ he says when he sees the canvas.

            His voice is high pitched and unbroken.

            I watch as he stands in front of the painting and wonder if I have some of my husband’s old clothes that might fit, for he was a skinny man.

            It is at that point that I notice a dark wine-coloured stain seeping through the back of his trousers.

            He is a girl.

            She is Hiba. Her family was killed by a bomb that hit their home in Aleppo. She disguised herself as a boy to escape. 

About the author

 Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw inspiration from her Irish upbringing. Blessed with abundant natural curiosity, Sheila lures the reader into a shrewdly observed world via imagery and comedy. Sheila graduated with an MA in Creative Writing (Distance Learning) from Lancaster University in the United Kingdom in 2017.

Kat

 

by Sheila Kinsella

tea

Mrs Scholes reached up and ran her finger over the top of the picture frame. She pursed her lavender lips, showed the dust to Kat, and sighed.

Kat bit her tongue. She needed this job. The rent was due, and her son needed new school shoes.

‘I’ll be in the bedroom. ’ Mrs Scholes shuffled off. Kat waited until she heard the door click shut. The older woman complained each time, uttering not one little word of appreciation.

The sun streamed in through the patio doors, casting an elongated checker pattern over the rosewood dining table.  Kat cleaned the furniture with a slightly damp cloth, followed by a dry one to rub its surface up to a shine.

Newspaper laid out around the hearth; Kat swept the ashes out of the corners and into the dustpan. She coughed as a veil of acidic coal dust settled on her face and hands.

The morning dew tickled her ankles while she crossed the lawn to put the bucket of ashes in the shed for the gardener. Mrs Scholes’s cat miaowed and rubbed her body over Kat’s legs.

‘Are you keeping out of her way too?’ Kat tickled the cat’s chin, ‘Can’t say I blame you.’

The cat purred.

In the hallway, the ticking of the grandfather clock soothed Kat’s nerves. Tick. Tock.

As she opened the hall cupboard, the pleasant aroma of shoe leather escaped. Mrs Scholes’s collection of boots leaned against each other; dominoes set to fall.

'Oh!' She squealed as a spider wriggled its way out from inside a brown lace-up shoe. She grabbed a glass from the bathroom, placed it over the spider, slid an advertisement card for a chimney sweep underneath before releasing the creature outside. ‘There you go.’

When the clock chimed eleven, Kat flicked the switch on the kettle.

‘Tea-time.’ Mrs Scholes wandered into the kitchen at the precise moment that Kat was putting the teapot on the table.

Startled, Kat tried not to spill the tea on the lace tablecloth. The hot liquid seeped out of the spout, scalding her hand. 'Ouch!'

'No, no! Not that teapot,' Mrs Scholes shook her head. 'The blue one.'

Kat went to get the other teapot, muttering under her breath.

‘No, no! Never mind, you’ve used this one now.’ Mrs Scholes clicked her tongue. 'Well, carry on then.' Mrs Scholes waved Kat away.

I’m going to murder this poisoned dwarf, Kat thought. I can’t take much more of this. Last week she had me scrubbing the grouting between the bathroom tiles with an old toothbrush. The tiles are fifty years old. A fat lot of good that did. Has she no respect? If she weren't so lonely, I'd give the job up. But she's no visitors, and her husband died seven years ago; she's lived alone since. No children, just a distant nephew somewhere in the North-East who sends a card at Christmas.

Kat moved on to the bedroom and started changing the sheets, when suddenly,

‘Katherine! Katherine!’ Mrs Scholes’ shouted.

Kat jumped up, sheets still over her arm and rushed into the kitchen, fearing the worst.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Is that a scratch I see on the dining table?’ Chin raised and eyebrows arched, Mrs Scholes peered over tortoiseshell spectacles at the offending mark.

‘No,’ Kat sighed.

Mrs Scholes looked away and sipped her tea.

Kat returned to the bedroom, opened the windows to allow the fresh air to chase away the smell of mothballs. Bed made; she shoved the sheets into the laundry bin to wash tomorrow.

The grandfather clock chiming its melody on the hour, followed by a single boom, reminded Kat that it was time to leave.

In the living room, the old lady cut a diminutive figure, shrouded by the wings of her Queen Anne chair, staring out the garden.

‘Bye, Mrs Scholes, see you tomorrow,’ Kat said.

'Oh, can you get me a few things from the shop?' The old lady gave Kat an envelope. 'I've made a list, and here are fifty pounds.'

‘Er… ok,’ Kat took the envelope.

 'Goodbye, dear,' Mrs Scholes said.

'Dear?' Kat thought, entirely out of character. Very odd. I’ve worked for her for three years, and not once has she called me ‘dear.’

Later, during her afternoon shift at the supermarket, Kat scanned items at the till. Beep, beep, the monotonous sound of the scanner lulled her into zombie land. She dreamed of owning her own house, something small but hers, with a garden for Duncan to play football. That's what she thought she was getting when she married John. Only he was a gambler.

'Hey up, love, you've scanned that twice!' The angry customer yelled. 'Mind what you're doing.'

‘Sorry,’ Kat removed the extra item.

The next day, Kat walked around the corner from her council flat to the old lady’s bungalow. A tiny, crinkled face stared out of the window at Kat. As soon as the key turned in the lock, Mrs Scholes was behind the door, waiting.

'Morning, Mrs Scholes, I managed to get everything on the list,’ Kat smiled. ‘The supermarket was giving out daffodils for Mother’s Day, so I got you some.’

‘Morning,’ the old lady replied. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll put them in a vase,’ Kat said.

‘I want you to empty the kitchen cupboards and give them a good clean today.’

‘Yes,’ Kat hung her jacket up in the hall.

'Don't cut any corners, mind,' Mrs Scholes retreated to her study.

Kat switched the radio on for a bit of background noise while she worked. She hummed along to the music. Suddenly, it went quiet.

‘I’m trying to write!’ Mrs Scholes frowned and switched the radio off.

'Sorry,' Kat replied. 'Look, there's a pile of tins that are past their sell-by date. Can I throw them out?'

‘Yes,’ Mrs Scholes said and snapped the study door shut.

The grandfather clock chimed eleven. Kat made tea. Mrs Scholes didn’t come. Kat knocked on the study door. No reply. She turned the knob and edged the door open; the old lady was napping in her chair. Kat coughed. Mrs Scholes shuddered awake.

‘I-I-I was just resting my eyes,’ she said blinking.

‘Here’s a cup of tea,’ Kat placed the teacup on a coaster on the desk. ‘One sugar and a smidgen of milk, as you like it.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

There it was again: ’dear.’ How odd.

‘Can you post this letter for me?’ Mrs Scholes handed an A4 size buff envelope and a fiver to Kat.

‘Right you are, I’ll go on my way to work,’ Kat replied.

Back in the kitchen, the store cupboards echoed with emptiness - some of the tins dated from the 1980s.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour, ding dong, ding dong, followed by one boom.

‘I’ll put the wheelie bin out,’ Kat shouted as she left. ‘See you tomorrow.’ She looked back at the house and waved at the small, wrinkled woman in the window. Mrs Scholes waved back.

The following morning, Kat walked up the garden path. The curtains were closed. There was no little face staring through the glass at her. Her heart skipped a beat. Her fingers struggled with the keys, missing the lock. Finally, the door opened. She listened to the ticking of the grandfather clock. Tick, tock. She shouted, hello. No reply.

A neat pile of papers lay on the kitchen table.

Kat sighed. Yes, she complained about the old lady, but she never wished ill on anybody.

Tick, tock.

Kat swallowed hard. She pushed her tongue against the back of her front teeth to salivate her dry mouth.

The door to the bedroom was ajar. Kat’s handbag dropped to the floor, and she shrieked. The duvet buried Mrs Scholes frail form. She lay serene, with eyelids half-open, eyes set in a fixed, vacant gaze.  Kat felt a stab at her heart. The old lady's face appeared yellow against the whiteness of the sheets. She was gone.

Kat rested in the kitchen chair, tears trickling down her face. She waited for the doctor. Strange that. It's too late for a doctor, but she hadn't known who else to call. She missed the old lady. They had come to an understanding despite themselves. Then she noticed the envelope: ‘To Katherine,’ in the old lady’s spidery scrawl.

 

‘Dear Katherine,

By the time you read this note, I will be gone.

I may not have been the most charming employer, but I always appreciated

 your help and kind manner. You have been a comfort to me in my latter days.

Upon my death, please contact my solicitor, Mr Ferris, in the village, for you are

my primary beneficiary.  The house and the car are yours. Mr Ferris will explain all.

Take care, my dear and Godspeed,

Edith Scholes’

 

Well, well, well. Kat's eyes filled up. 

About the author 

Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw inspiration from her Irish upbringing. Blessed with abundant natural curiosity, Sheila lures the reader into a shrewdly observed world via imagery and comedy.

Sheila graduated with an MA in Creative Writing (Distance Learning) from Lancaster University in the United Kingdom in 2017.

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19660897.Sheila_Kinsella