Something is Cooking in the Kitchen
Brendan Martin
Mary almost choked when Tom O’Rourke walked into the White Rose Restaurant with Nancy Phillips. She didn’t know where to look. Tom seemed all giddy and appeared slightly drunk. He wore a three-piece suit with a gold watch chain curving from his waistcoat pocket to his trousers. Eye candy, she thought.
Mary was Tom’s housekeeper; she took care of everything from laundry to visitors. She hadn’t expected to see him out this evening, having edited his entertainment diary that very morning. And today, of all days, her birthday!
She sat in a dark corner, at a table for one. She raised a napkin to hide her face while pretending to wipe her mouth, as they were escorted out of her line of sight. She asked for the bill, paid it promptly and headed for the door.
‘Yoo-hoo!’
‘Mary,’ a voice from behind her called.
Mary pretended she didn’t hear, but the next shout was louder, and much closer.
‘Yoo-hoo, Mary? Mary Prendergast, is that you?’
Mary froze, and turned to see Nancy smiling, readying herself for a full-on embrace.
‘It is you! How are you, darling? You’ll never guess who is with me, and why!’
And before Mary could draw breath, Nancy blurted,
‘Tom! Tom O’Rourke! And we just got engaged! Look!’ as she raised her left hand for Mary to see a shiny sparkling diamond ring.
‘Congratulations,’ stuttered Mary, her world reddening around her. ‘Gosh,’ she almost grunted, ‘that’s wonderful Nancy. What a tremendous surprise.’
She grasped a silver hatpin in her right hand but calmed herself instantly, slipping the hatpin back up her sleeve into the wrist pin-cushion she had concealed there.
Nancy zoned in for the embrace.
Mary gasped for air, as Nancy dragged her into a bear hug of life squeezing proportions. Mary took a slight step backwards, at which point Nancy released her grip.
‘Eh. I must go Nancy,’ mumbled Mary, ‘I’m sorry. It was really great to see you. I do look forward to catching up with you both, very, very soon. I’m sorry I have to hurry away. Congratulations again,’ she panted, edging towards the door.
She talked out loud to herself as she walked in the cold Halloween air. ‘Eight years. Eight years. And he never once noticed.’
She squeezed the handkerchief in her pocket, took it out, then sniffed it, and gazed longingly at the letters TOR embroidered in gold italic lettering. She had kept it for years, along with a pair of boxers, knowing he wouldn’t notice because he had dozens of them. She felt close to him whenever she touched them, but found the boxers most uncomfortable when she tried them on.
In the early hours of the following morning, she sat sipping tea, staring at a biscuit tin. She opened it slowly and lightly touched the boxers inside and then threw in a burning match.
‘I wish you both a happy life together,’ she muttered, ‘till death do thee part.’
As the boxers burned, she added the handkerchief, then tipped the box over, spreading sparks, flame and smoke around the table legs.
She locked the rear doors as usual, then left.
Flames licked around the housekeeper’s room, the pantry walls and stretched towards the ceiling.
Mary smiled at the very idea of a whole new future.
As early dawn sneaked into the hedgerows, she never heard their screams.
Brendan Martin is a member of Inklings Writing Group, a fun writing group which embraces both poetry and prose, light and dark, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel.