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NOTES:

OPEN SHORT STORY: SPRING 2008 - THIRD PLACE WINNER

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"Sugar and Spice and Lilac Wallpaper"

by Margaret Skipworth - Hull, East Yorkshire, UK

THIRD PLACE IN THE "OPEN" CATEGORY, SPRING 2008

I hate pink and lemon, and anything fussy and flowery and frilly. But I particularly despise lilac. Lilac wallpaper. Such a silly thing to break up a marriage. I have this thought in my mind as I stomp along the aisle of the railway carriage.

I grab the first available seat with a table. It's not my reserved place. No one takes any notice of reserved seats these days.

I shuffle along the seat to the window, then toss my coat and bag down next to me. I wouldn't take a train for pleasure. The coffee is too hot and weak, the scenery bores me and I am irritated by the company of the mobile-phone brigade.

I drag an ancient Agatha Christie from my coat pocket and drop it on to the table. I won't open it, unless I need to hide behind its pages.

As the train gathers speed I try to chant a tune to myself. The type of ditty I used to sing when I was a child. 'I'm travelling by train...l'm travelling by train.' But trains don't have rhythms any more. Like my life, I think sulkily, abandoning the song. The harmony has disappeared.

Robert, my husband—soon to become my ex-husband—loves trains. He travels by train from the village where we live into the city to work every day. He was a conscientious train spotter when he was a child. He boasts that he had the neatest train-spotting book of any boy in his street. He never ticked off the numbers of engines he hadn't seen. Robert has never cheated at anything.

A man is hovering at the end of the table. He is wearing a grey pinstriped suit and a sort of half-smile that does little to cheer me. I would rather be left alone with my thoughts.

The man's expensive aftershave fills the carriage. On another occasion I might consider the sensation seductive. Today, I swallow hard to rid myself of its taste. He gestures to the seat opposite mine. I nod.

He brushes the upholstery with his hand so the well-travelled sandwich crumbs don't stick to his perfectly tailored trousers. He is immaculately dressed. A starched shirt and gold cuff-links peep out from the end of his jacket sleeves.

I sneak a look at my green cotton shirt and notice a stain from last night's sweet and sour. I feel a stab of sympathy for my well-worn polyester trousers. I presume they will have lumps of bread and 'sell-by yesterday' fillings clinging on to them.

My only pieces of jewellery are my wedding ring and a locket Robert bought me two birthdays ago. I am twisting it nervously between my fingers. I snatch my hands down to conceal my unmanicured nails under the table. I fleetingly wonder if I should have taken more care with my appearance. Does it matter any more?

I try to unwind, stretching out my legs and folding them carelessly at the ankles, but my feet brush against the man's trousers and he raises a questioning eyebrow. I open my mouth to mutter an apology, imagining a ragged line of dirt across his sharply pressed turn-ups. But he has already turned his attention away from me and is examining the contents of his briefcase.

He produces a flawless copy of The Times. I watch as he smoothes it down on the table with his long fingers and then turns each page slowly. I glance at my dog-eared book, the cover of which is heavily stained with coffee mug rings. It has a tooth-print where my Jack Russell dragged it from the side of the chair to play 'fetch: I experience a flicker of embarrassment and contemplate shoving it back into my pocket.

I decide not to bother as the man is now engrossed in the crossword puzzle. He is working his way meticulously through all the Across clues in order. I notice with a stab of delight he has newsprint on his fingers. His hands will be dirty when he eats his lunch.

I stare out of the window and wonder if he will ask if I have a Wet Wipe. I hope not. Robert used my last Wet Wipe a month ago. We took a picnic hamper and drove into the country. We had decided we needed to talk about our marriage. Instead, we drank a bottle of red wine and ate too much and cleaned our fingers with Wet Wipes. Then we went home and agreed to divorce. After twenty-two years of marriage, we realised we had nothing left in common, apart from the remains of the mortgage.

We always were so different, Robert and l. Opposites do attract. He was—still is—reliable and steady, with a good job that has provided well for us. I am a live-for-today person. 'A creative free soul' is how I describe myself. I stole the phrase from a paperback romance I bought at Charles de Gaulle airport. I never finished that book and it ended up in a charity bag on the doorstep.

Robert's mother once accused me of being wild and untamed. It was the day she tried to teach me how to make Yorkshire puddings. We sat in her magnolia-painted lounge after dinner. She tutted and peered at me over her strawberry-coloured reading glasses as I sat, cross-legged, on her fluffy cerise hearth rug.

I too had prospects before we married. I was a painter—a talented one, I believe. But my painstakingly created landscapes couldn't pay the bills, while Robert's job brought home an excellent salary. So I stayed in our detached house, with its double garage, all mod cons and landscaped gardens. I tried my best to turn it into some sort of home for Robert and our three children, who have now left us. I painted in my spare time. Then, not at all.

I worked diligently at being a good mother. I made sure the children were well-educated and followed in their father's footsteps, finding careers with pension schemes and company cars, all the while secretly wishing one of them would rebel. None of them did.

My travelling companion has finished his Acrosses and is now working methodically on the Downs. Am I too on the Downs of my existence?

The man realises I am watching him and grins at me. He has strong, white, straight teeth. His private dentist has certainly earned his fee. I promise myself I'll make a dental appointment when I get home.

"Would you like a piece of chocolate?" he asks me, holding out a bar of carefully unwrapped milk chocolate. His voice is as smooth as a freshly polished dining table. It is a well-rehearsed voice, designed to put business clients at their ease.

I force my mouth into a smile and shake my head. I don't like sweet things. I'm a savoury person.

My best friend once described Robert as sweet. So obliging, such a dear. 'Sugar and spice and all things nice, with a dollop of meringue on top,' I think unkindly.

I fix my gaze on the fields flashing past outside, trying my best to ignore the figure sitting opposite me. He is beginning to unnerve me. When did I become so bitter? When did I stop liking Robert's sweetness?

I used to need Robert's stability and he often said he thrived on my flightiness and unreliability. We were perfect for each other. I dig into my memory and ask myself if it was really us. A young Robert, before he became overworked at his office, forever busy entertaining his associates. Working ridiculous hours to finance our children's futures and then our exotic holidays with other couples we call friends. It's never just the two of us any more.

As I'm confronted with my reflection in the grime-smeared window, I try to recognise the vivacious, ambitious artist who has now carved a life for herself without Robert. Weekend rambles in the countryside, visits to concerts, art exhibitions. Tickets for one, not two.

I sigh deeply, feeling middle-aged and flushed. It angers me. Robert doesn't sweat. My trousers are sticking to my legs. I yearn to be walking barefoot through the damp grass outside, to allow the soothing moisture to caress my toes. I long for the soft coolness of a flowing viscose wrapover skirt flapping against my shins. I should have worn a skirt. Something pretty. Something Robert would choose and then tease me about. The thought surprises me and I feel my cheeks burning.

I take a peek at my companion. He has loosened his tie and his jacket is slung irresponsibly over the seat, dust and crumbs gnawing into the pinstripes. His shirt sleeves are folded up to his elbows. His cuff-links. I can sense the panic rising inside me. What has he done with his cuff-links?

He is studying me. Deep brown eyes probing mine. He's quite handsome. My stomach lurches and I turn my attention back to the fields.

Damn the lilac wallpaper! The thought pounds so violently in my head I sheepishly look around the carriage to see if I have actually muttered the words aloud.

It was our final argument. One rare Sunday afternoon, when Robert was not away from home on business.

"I think I'll decorate the bedroom," I said over Sunday lunch because I was bored.

"Good idea," Robert smiled. "Lilac wallpaper will be lovely in the bedroom. Lilac's so peaceful and calm. Restful."

"Since when have I wanted peace and calm?" I hurled at him. "I enjoy noise and life and making a statement. Navy blue - that's what we'll have. It's bold and vibrant and expressive."

"Blue?" Robert said placidly, shaking his head as ifhe had always pitied me. "You can't be serious, love. Navy blue for a bedroom? It's too cold. Frigid."

My companion is staring at me now, a bemused expression on his face. He looks tired and has dark rings round his eyes, as if he hasn't slept much in the past few days. I'm surprised at how sad I feel.

"The scenery's nice, isn't it?" he states simply. "It would make a beautiful picture." He pauses. "If there was someone to paint it." His top lip has lifted up slightly in a crooked, comical fashion that's so typical of Robert.  "Fancy some lunch before we go to the solicitor's?" His tone has become less businesslike, almost pleading. Almost the old Robert.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand.

"Let's just not go at all," 1whisper eventually and then I giggle.

"Can we do that? Really?" he asks, knitting his thick distinguished brows, and frowning. "Can we play hooky from divorce proceedings?"

"It's only a preliminary discussion. Nothing binding," I remind him. I sigh. "I have an urge to run barefoot through the fields."

Robert shakes his head. "You always were a bit mad." He grasps my hand tighter now, as if he is afraid I will slip away.

"Lunch and hooky it is then," he says with a chuckle. The sound is so unfamiliar that it startles me.

We finish our journey in silence, occasionally exchanging a smile.

"Lilac wallpaper will be fine," I manage to say, as the train pulls into the station.

Copyright (c) 2008 by Margaret Skipworth - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
 

COMMENTS FROM OUR COMMISSIONING EDITOR, Jo Holloway:
I thoroughly enjoyed this story. Well thought out, well written and plotted, well structured, it proceeds carefully from start to finish in the experience of two strangers on a train. It draws us on through the sadness and reflection, disclosing more and more as we gradually realise the truth and the sadness turns into an upswing in the tail that makes me want to wag it!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

A former newspaper journalist, Margaret Skipworth started to write fiction in 1995. Since then, her short stories have been published in magazines in the UK and Australia and on the internet.

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