usual
When Duncan came down a little after nine, Mrs Flahertyâs coat was already hanging on the rack beside the back door. His mother was still asleep, and would not descend for some time, but Mrs Flaherty had let herself in very quietly with her own backdoor key.
He looked into the front porch, irritated by the absence of post. He found himself disliking this disruption of normality more each year. Once he was back at work, there would be plenty to do: e-mails and letters that hadnât been replied to, photocopying needing done urgently by disorganised lecturers, and all those troublesome requests with not enough information that were put to one side by less diligent members of Library staff to be dealt with ââwhen thereâs more time.ââ
Not that the week would be empty. He would have to drive Mother into town. He had two book tokens and a gift voucher for Boots the Chemist, but with browsing time strictly limited and the streets and shops even more crowded than usual, he would probably end up choosing things he didnât need or want. Once heâd bought a book he already owned, caught out by a change in jacket design. He made a mental note to buy deodorant as he had almost run out. Heâd once believed that deodorant was unmanly, but had recently begun using it after hearing the female staff discuss the man who looked after the photocopier.
ââGood morning, Mrs Flaherty,ââ he called, giving plenty of warning as he approached the kitchen. She was a woman who responded badly to the unexpected. Not a nervous woman, exactly, but one who was happier with order. She seemed to experience profound delight when scrubbing surfaces, and although he approved of this perfectionism, it concerned him that she went through so much bleach and anti-bacterial cleanser. ââThink of the oceans, Mrs Flaherty,ââ he had said, trying to introduce her to the idea of eco-friendliness, but the oceans were nothing to her compared to the satisfaction of a gleaming sink.
She straightened up from loading the dishwasher. ââOh, thank you for the picture frame, Mr Crawfurd.ââ Her red face beamed. ââIt was very kind of you and Mrs Crawfurd. Iâve put my grandson in it.ââ
He imagined that sturdily built infant with his head stuck in the frame after the manner of the traditional child in the park railings, but merely nodded as he moved towards the coffee machine, repressing as one so frequently had to with Mrs Flaherty the urge to say something which would only confuse her.
ââAnd did your night go well, Mr Crawfurd?ââ
ââYes, thank you, everything went as usual.ââ
This was a lie. He switched on the machine and reached into the cupboard for a fresh packet of beans.
ââAnd yourself?ââ he asked. The sealant strip seemed to resist him deliberately, breaking half way round.
ââOh, just a quiet night. That wild boy of mine was out with his pals, of course. Only came in when I was getting up â¦ââ
In the past he had made the mistake of showing interest in this Ryan, and particularly in his success in getting into Art School. Mrs Flaherty now assumed that he wanted frequent bulletins. Fortunately she seemed happy with short comments on his part, and the occasional prompt kept her going for a while.
ââ⦠and to tell the truth, Mr Crawfurd, Iâm glad when itâs all over. Itâs getting worse every year. It all starts too early â¦ââ
He nodded again, assuming a listening expression while the foam formed on his cappuccino. Then he reproached himself. She was right. In fact, despite being Mrs Flaherty she was often right. It was simply unfortunate that the flat nasal tone made her statements ludicrous when they were perfectly reasonable, and that her lack of mental subtlety made irony a country forever unexplored.
He
When Duncan came down a little after nine, Mrs Flahertyâs coat was already hanging on the rack beside the back door. His mother was still asleep, and would not descend for some time, but Mrs Flaherty had let herself in very quietly with her own backdoor key.
He looked into the front porch, irritated by the absence of post. He found himself disliking this disruption of normality more each year. Once he was back at work, there would be plenty to do: e-mails and letters that hadnât been replied to, photocopying needing done urgently by disorganised lecturers, and all those troublesome requests with not enough information that were put to one side by less diligent members of Library staff to be dealt with ââwhen thereâs more time.ââ
Not that the week would be empty. He would have to drive Mother into town. He had two book tokens and a gift voucher for Boots the Chemist, but with browsing time strictly limited and the streets and shops even more crowded than usual, he would probably end up choosing things he didnât need or want. Once heâd bought a book he already owned, caught out by a change in jacket design. He made a mental note to buy deodorant as he had almost run out. Heâd once believed that deodorant was unmanly, but had recently begun using it after hearing the female staff discuss the man who looked after the photocopier.
ââGood morning, Mrs Flaherty,ââ he called, giving plenty of warning as he approached the kitchen. She was a woman who responded badly to the unexpected. Not a nervous woman, exactly, but one who was happier with order. She seemed to experience profound delight when scrubbing surfaces, and although he approved of this perfectionism, it concerned him that she went through so much bleach and anti-bacterial cleanser. ââThink of the oceans, Mrs Flaherty,ââ he had said, trying to introduce her to the idea of eco-friendliness, but the oceans were nothing to her compared to the satisfaction of a gleaming sink.
She straightened up from loading the dishwasher. ââOh, thank you for the picture frame, Mr Crawfurd.ââ Her red face beamed. ââIt was very kind of you and Mrs Crawfurd. Iâve put my grandson in it.ââ
He imagined that sturdily built infant with his head stuck in the frame after the manner of the traditional child in the park railings, but merely nodded as he moved towards the coffee machine, repressing as one so frequently had to with Mrs Flaherty the urge to say something which would only confuse her.
ââAnd did your night go well, Mr Crawfurd?ââ
ââYes, thank you, everything went as usual.ââ
This was a lie. He switched on the machine and reached into the cupboard for a fresh packet of beans.
ââAnd yourself?ââ he asked. The sealant strip seemed to resist him deliberately, breaking half way round.
ââOh, just a quiet night. That wild boy of mine was out with his pals, of course. Only came in when I was getting up â¦ââ
In the past he had made the mistake of showing interest in this Ryan, and particularly in his success in getting into Art School. Mrs Flaherty now assumed that he wanted frequent bulletins. Fortunately she seemed happy with short comments on his part, and the occasional prompt kept her going for a while.
ââ⦠and to tell the truth, Mr Crawfurd, Iâm glad when itâs all over. Itâs getting worse every year. It all starts too early â¦ââ
He nodded again, assuming a listening expression while the foam formed on his cappuccino. Then he reproached himself. She was right. In fact, despite being Mrs Flaherty she was often right. It was simply unfortunate that the flat nasal tone made her statements ludicrous when they were perfectly reasonable, and that her lack of mental subtlety made irony a country forever unexplored.
He
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