ETHELBERT'S SUNDAY MORNING: A SHORT STORY COLLECTION
MARCUS FREESTONE
COPYRIGHT MARCUS FREESTONE 2013
MISS CARRIAGE
SPYING
ETHELBERT'S SUNDAY MORNING
BREAKDOWN
I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT ART BUT I KNOW WHAT I LIKE
MICHAEL AND THE BOSS
WHAT'S THAT SMELL?
LIKE FATHER
INTO THE CAVE
GOING HOME
BUDGET
TOO MANY COOKS SPOIL THE GRAVY
MISS CARRIAGE
This is a strange dream. I'm lying in a cat scanner surrounded by beeping noises. Despite working in a hospital for twelve years I've never had a medical dream before.
Oh, I think I'm waking up.
What's happened to the scanner, where's the ceiling going?
Where the hell did this train come from?
Someone switch off that fucking dalek.
Oh brilliant, now I'm having a heart attack as well.
No, what's that on my chest? Oh, it's my phone. How do you open this bloody thing? What does this button do?
Stop beeping you bloody... bleeping bastard.
Hello? Come on, Keith!
Who said that?
Put the phone to your mouth, Keith.
Who are you? What are you doing in my bedroom?
You're on a train, Keith.
Aren't I supposed to say that?
Get it together, Keith, I know she didn't leave you any money but you've got to sort yourself out. You can't spend every Saturday night in a railway sidings. We need you here now.
Where are you?
I'm at the hospital, where you should have been hours ago. Obviously you can't administer the anesthetic but you're the only person in a forty mile radius who knows how to turn the machine on.
What's that noise, it sounds like an exploding bee?
That was me telling you the patients name, the forty seven year old Polish woman who'll probably die if you don't get here soon.
She had loads of money, a few grand isn't much to expect. Not even mentioning my name in the will. Ungrateful bitch.
Bloody hell, I'm thirsty, I wonder if there's a buffet car on this train?
What the fuck? Where did this field come from? How long have I been standing here? What's that light over there? A cafe!
Sorry? How much? Oh, I've had seven coffees and three bacon sarnies, have I? In that case that's quite reasonable. There you go, keep the change.
Right, better phone work now. When did I switch this off? Oh yes, that exploding bee was annoying me.
Hello? Okay, I've sobered up and I'm fighting fit now. Let's deliver this baby.
It's too late now Keith, we don't need you any more.
Hey, the birds are singing, it must be morning.
Goodbye, Keith.
Excuse me – can I have another coffee, please?
SPYING
Matt knocked at the door. Julia opened it after a long pause and looked distinctly displeased to see him. A puzzled look flitted across his face before he gathered his thoughts.
"Hi, I'm back."
"I can see that," she said frostily.
He went to kiss her on the lips but she pulled away and went back into the flat. He shrugged and followed her in. He paused in the living room, looking at some home made rugs which hung over the back of the sofa. He waited for her to speak. She didn't. Nor did she meet his eye.
"I see you've been hard at work again. What's this one - dead man's trousers, old syringes, soiled bandages and catheters?"
"Don't be obtuse, Matt, I use recycled hospital waste but not that. I couldn't make a rug from catheters. Or syringes; trust you."
"Is that another regional stereotype?"
"What?"
"Syringes - I'm from Dundee not Glasgow."
Julia busied herself with tidying the rugs into a slightly neater pile, still avoiding his eye.
"Hmm. This wasn't exactly the welcome home I was expecting. She can't know, can she? Of course not. So why is she being so frosty? I was rather hoping for a shag after a hard week away."
"Coffee?"
"What? Oh. Please."
He followed her into the kitchen where she began a prolonged routine of collecting a tray, mugs and biscuits - anything to avoid talking. He watched her, wondering what on earth was the matter.
"Milk?"
"How long have you known me, Julia?"
"Sorry, I forgot, if you have milk your head falls off and your knees explode."
"It's a dairy intolerance, not a..."
She shot him a sharp look and he lapsed into silence.
"Is it her period? I'd better not ask, not when she has access to cutlery."
As the kettle boiled and punctured the awkward silence she fastidiously rearranged her fridge magnets. Turning back to the kettle she caught him watching her.
"Stop looking at my arse!"
"It's hard not to, those jeans are tighter than an Edinburgh accountant. Anyway, I've seen your arse, and your..."
"Don't you dare!"
She looked flustered and turned away to pour the coffee.
"I was going to use an artistic term, not a gynecological one! Anyway you can't regret posing for 'naked primary school teacher by moonlight'? It was big hit at my art school."
"That was years ago. Anyway, that's not what it was called."
"In my head it is!"
"You can forget any thoughts like that tonight."
"I see," thought Matt, "that's how things are. But why, for fuck's sake, what's the matter with her? Everything was fine a week ago."
Julia finished arranging a mountain of biscuits on a tray and took it into the other room, leaving Matt's coffee by the kettle. He sighed inwardly and picked up the mug, following her into the living room. She stood by the sofa as if looking for something else to do to further avoid conversation.
He sat down. This seemed to annoy her.
"So, how was Ghent?"
"Oh, you know, like Brouge only more... Dutch."
"Did your group manage to focus on anything in particular?"
"Not after a crate of elephant beer - it's 11%! I felt like Keith Richards after an epidural. Besides it was just boring art stuff, nothing to interest you."
"What was the name of the hotel?"
"I can't remember, the... Phlegmingberg Hoidergurder Hotel, why?"
"Oh, no reason." There was no mistaking the venom in her voice.
"There's clearly a reason but what the hell is it?" he thought irritably. "Maybe I'll just finish my coffee, say nothing and leave, try again tomorrow."
Julia, who was still standing with the tray in her hand, put it down and went through to the bedroom. Matt watched in confusion through the open door as she opened the wardrobe and took out the hoover, followed by an ironing board."
"Is she going to iron the hoover?" he thought.
"Do you want a hand?"
"I can manage perfectly fine, thank you," she bristled.
"Pardon me for breathing. What the fuck is wrong with her?"
She unfolded the ironing board with great difficulty, almost trapping her fingers. She then marched back into the kitchen, filled the iron and strode back into the bedroom with a single tea-towel which she proceeded to iron vigorously for more than a minute.
"I bet that's a poor substitute for my face. Okay, Sherlock, she's pissed off at me for some reason. There's no way she can know where I've really been, so why is she interrogating me about Ghent? I didn't think I needed a cover story for my girlfriend."
Julia finished scorching the tea towel, folding it up and putting it on top of the wardrobe, before folding up the board with equa
l anger and placing it back in the wardrobe. She reluctantly came back into the living room, sat down and took a sip of coffee.
"Yuk, it's lukewarm."
"You should have ironed it."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"So, what have you been up to lately?" he asked in a final act of desperation.
"Oh, not much - keeping up with your meanderings via a private detective."
“Oh fucking arsing fuckballs! You stupid, stupid bitch. If he's found anything then we're in the shit up to our scalps."
He picked up his coffee absentmindedly and grimaced.
"God, that's stone cold."
"You should have blown some of your hot air on it then!"
He stood up, all humour gone from his demeanour.
"What was the name of this detective and where did you find him?"
"Ken Prenderghast. I found him online."
"Did you go to an office to see him?"
"Of course, I'm not stupid enough to give someone money without meeting them face to face."
"If he's really been following me then this is the stupidest thing you've ever done, not to mention him. I have to make a phone call."
He went into the bedroom and shut the door. Julia shrugged petulantly and stormed off to the kitchen.
A few minutes later Matt was sitting on the bed talking on his mobile.
"I don't know what he found, I thought you'd want to pick him up A.S.A.P. I've just found his website and emailed you the link, you should be able to find his home address in a few seconds from that. Of course I won't let her leave. Flat C, 52 Partridge Road, but don't come in mob-handed. He
Ethelbert's Sunday Morning Page 1
