Dinner in Edinburgh
Euphemia McTaggart laid the oak table for
dinner. She would have nothing common in her house and nothing from Ikea. Ikea
was where Glaswegians went for cheap furniture and cheap fish and chips.
Her end-terraced villa - in what she termed one of Edinburgh’s leafy, genteel
streets - warranted nothing but the best.
She took a deep
breath, anticipating a shiver of pleasure at the scent of the polish she
applied to her antique furniture twice a day. She coughed and spluttered.
Findlay had opened the windows again. She hated open windows. The stench
of curry, chop suey, haggis suppers with salt ‘n’ sauce and the demon alcohol
oozed into her clean air. She reached up and shut out the city.
Euphemia placed
silver cutlery on floral patterned mats and called to her husband.
“Findlay! Dinner
will be served in one moment. Please come to the table.”
Findlay appeared on
cue. Euphemia smiled. He’d insisted she get rid of the tasteful
brass dinner gong and, after a few terse words, she’d acquiesced. The
first time he hadn’t heard her call, she’d put his cold tongue and green salad
in the bin. He’d been punctual ever since.
Findlay sniffed,
wrinkled his nose and puckered his top lip. “What are we having?” He placed a
napkin as flat on his lap as the starch would allow.
“Liver and onions,
pickled cabbage and tinned new potatoes.” She watched him grimace.
“Something wrong?”
“No. It’s just that
I fancied some fresh vegetables for a change and maybe a nice wee piece of
steak.”
“Steak? Are
you mad? Have you seen the price of steak? We’ll have no
extravagances in this house.”
They ate their food
in silence, the way Euphemia liked it. After dinner, she allowed television for
one hour so they could watch the news. Later, she crocheted new
antimacassars for the leather Chesterfield while Findlay assembled extensions
to his model railway village.
At nine o’clock
Euphemia rose, yawned and announced her intention to retire for the night – it
had been an arduous day.
Findlay sidled up to
her, slipped his arm around her waist and whispered into her ear.
Euphemia shrugged
off his hand, placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What date
is it today, Findlay?”
Findlay blushed and
looked at his feet. “July 28th, Euphemia.”
“And did we, or did
we not, have bedroom activity on July 4th?”
“We did, Euphemia.”
“Then you’ll have
had your sex for July.” She turned on her very flat heels and marched out
of the room.
Left alone, Findlay
became aware of the carriage clock’s relentless tick on the marble
mantelpiece. He got up and opened all the windows. If he breathed deeply
enough he was sure he could smell life. People - probably in Glasgow - were
having fun, spending money, dancing, maybe even having sex more than once a
month. He trudged back to his plastic, glue and paint.
Ach, well, it would
be August soon.
* * *
Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her work has appeared in
several print anthologies, in magazines including The New Writer and Writers’
Forum, and in various ezines, most recently in The Waterhouse Review and Up the
Staircase. She was short-listed for the 2007 Asham Award and took third
prize in the 2010 Mslexia short story competition. One of her stories received
an honourable mention in The Spilling Ink Short Story Prize 2011 and another
took second prize in the Flash 500 competition 2012. Three poems (she’s not
sure how that happened) have appeared on Every Day Poets.
A lovely story, Karen. All Edinburghers aren't like that, of course, although most are.
ReplyDelete