Read Online Blue Skies by Helen Hodgman - Free Book Online Page B

make the place look decent and then some drongos come and pull a stunt like this. They coulduv done some damage, you know. Got sharp edges, these things. Coulduv got trodden in. Damaged the roots. Lucky for them they didn’t, or they’d have had me after them pretty quick, I can tell you. Come to think about it, I’ll bet it was that paperboy that did it. He’d better watch out for himself, that’s all.’
    I looked sympathetic. ‘Oh well. No harm done, I suppose.’
    â€˜No. Suppose not. Still, it’s not right, is it? I mean to say. It’s an uphill battle as it is. What with the poor soil and all them old tree roots I couldn’t shift up out of it. Now people are chucking litter on it.’
    â€˜Why don’t you put covers on it at night like they do on cricket pitches?’ I suggested: it was about the same size. I said goodbye and went inside. Looking through the sitting-room blinds, I saw her thinking it over—pacing it out and making notes.
    I washed up the bits of used crockery dotted round the house. I hung the washing on the rotary clothes hoist out at the back, noting as I did so the subliminal whine of the electric lawnmower drifting round from the front, and phoned James. He wasn’t there—wasn’t in this afternoon, be back later, someone thought he had said. I left my message, found all the remaining food in the house and stuffed it between two slices of faintly stale bread, and took it to bed with a book. The book and the sandwich lasted the same length of time and then I was asleep, at first half-thinking, half-dreaming about phoning Jonathan back and finding out how things were going; but then sleep was deepening all around and I couldn’t. James was there, standing in half-dark by the bed. I recognised his knees. The waist of his trousers appeared to be below them. He seemed to be undressing. Thinking very slowly but logically, I moved across the bed. He wriggled in and lay facing me.
    â€˜Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. It just seemed such a good idea. You looked nice curled up in here. You feel nice too. Except for the crumbs.’
    â€˜What’s the time? Did you get my message? We’d better get up. I haven’t made a shopping list. What are you doing?’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter about the time. Yes, I got your message. Which is why I came home early. We don’t need a list, and you know what I’m doing. I’ll do it some more. That’s if you don’t mind.’ James was a gentleman. It was a result of his perfect upbringing.
    Rising to these high standards, we showed each other quantities of style and finesse over the next hour or two. It might have been the result of good breeding, but most likely it was practice. It set the mood of the weekend, which passed quickly and well. We made the supermarket just in time and so avoided lingering and arguments. Afterwards we had dinner at an Italian restaurant in a new suburban shopping arcade. It had red-and-white check tablecloths and a black-and-white tiled floor and candles, and smelled of paint and pasta.

    We managed rather well in our role of happy young marrieds and sustained it through Saturday and into Sunday. On Saturday I thought often of phoning Jonathan and seeing how things were. I even thought of going up on Saturday night and helping out, as James was at home. But I did neither.
    On Sunday night thoughts of phoning him nagged harder. James was asleep, the house quiet: there was nothing to prevent me. But remnants of the weekend mood kept me in another dimension, suspended above my own action. As I sat at the large pine table in the living room I tried to conjure up Ben and Gloria. But they came to me only as blurred and faded shades. Usually they flitted somewhere in my head accessible to my thoughts, a subconscious shadow-play which sent bubbles of action without detail up into my mind, but now they wouldn’t come into