It is the morning after
Evensong and also after the curry.
Richard is swallowing the indigestion remedies he keeps in a cupboard in
the kitchen, next to his range of red hot sauces: Thai and West Indian, Chinese
chilli, and the newest bottle, the contents vermilion as the geraniums before
they withered, with its label, ‘Insanity Sauce’: a jolly gift from a friend. Ranked behind are more red sauces with names
like Steaming Momma and Texan Big Bastard.
I am sitting in the
garden in a fine rain, huddled in my coat and considering my options as the
marble angel sneers at the ugly line of conifers against the dull sky. I am conjuring up a favourite image of Richard
as a vampire waiting for me behind the end conifer, a line of red sauce
dribbling from his mouth. Evensong at St
Agnes’ has not dispelled my fears or put me in possession of myself, so as a distraction
from thoughts of my husband I make some bullet points:
·
Holiday
·
Painting
·
Visit
…I suppose I could just
go away for a while, to think, as they say.
I could explain to Richard that I must go, that it will benefit all of
us: perhaps to somewhere with a high winding cliff path and raging seas where I
could walk with my cold face taut against the spray, collar up and my hair windswept. The seas must be raging at this time of year.
Perhaps I won’t tell
Richard; or anyone.
Shall I go on a
retreat? Or just catch a train
somewhere?
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