“Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go by any rules. They're not like aches or wounds; they're more like splits in the skin that won’t heal because there’s not enough material.” ~F. Scott Fitzgerald
HE’LL COME AROUND
The summerhouse was Wendy Fishman’s greatest disappointment. Resentment scraped beneath her daily routine like sand on a blister. She’d often nagged her husband. “Please, please, please, Dodie,” she begged. He’d promised her again and again, wound her up really. He described it often and in great detail, as if it was finished. What she had to look forward to: a summerhouse big enough to seat four around a small table and one easy chair. A porch with the entrance situated at the back overlooking vast fields of rape beyond their quarter-acre; French doors, flung open in good weather. Its cedar-shingled peaked roof above a pinewood plank floor, Georgian windows all lovingly crafted. Dodie was a magician with a jigsaw. “Tongue-and-groove,” he’d say. It curled his tongue like something dirty and it made her giggle. Or, it did once. Her lifelong dream—that summerhouse—and now it was too late. It was over, done. Wendy dropped a mildewed glove into the plastic pail inside the doorway, kicking aside the clots of damp earth that fell to the flagstone floor of the conservatory. She balled her empty hand into a fist. “Damn you,” she muttered.
Her hip ached. Baxter’s discrete whine had awakened her in the middle of the night. The tiny Bichon Frise bounced from the bed like an illuminated cotton ball, leading Wendy from the smaller bedroom upstairs, their spare room. She felt her way down, skirting the clutter on the carpeted steps, objects with an upward or downward destination long since forgotten. In the conservatory she’d nearly killed herself, stumbling in the dark. The ragged edge of the lino curled back, like the bared teeth of a croc, waiting. It had been half-laid before they moved to the new house and although prospective renters pointed that out, her husband had never got around to finishing it off.
Florence Fishman, Wendy’s mother-in-law, always said, “He’ll come around in his own time, dear. He’s a good boy, our Dominic.” He was Flo’s pride and joy, her youngest. Her slave, more like. Out of all her sons, Dodie jumped when she called, dropped everything, got in the car, and chauffeured her wherever she needed to go: Asda for the day old baked goods, the sale items and monument-size bottles of cola; to the carvery at the Plough Inn, Flo’s local pub, where Dodie always took care of the bill. Then back again for Quiz Night. He drove her to the hairdresser, where no expense was spared as he waited in the car.
Wendy yawned, covering her large teeth with the back of her hand. Despite an interrupted sleep she’d been awake since sunup. It was a habit she’d never been able to break, even as a kid. After he’d left school her brother Neil could sleep until midday, spent from playing late night gigs and early morning carousing with his mates. She thought about her brother every day, about the ‘misunderstanding’ as she had come to refer to her falling out with Neil and his American wife, Brenda. She wondered, sometimes, if he knew she was back in Wigston; that Dominic had passed. Someone—she couldn’t remember—had mentioned that her brother and his wife had been back to Leicester since mum died. Impossible, thought Wendy and immediately dismissed the idea. He wouldn’t leave without seeing her. He’d have come around. Habit caused her to listen for the slam of a car door, the front door bell chime, dogs barking in dizzying paroxysms of warning and joy.
Wendy’s heedless sigh brought Baxter to his feet. He fixed his snowman stare on her. He was Mum’s dog, not the kind of dog Wendy would have chosen. Some well-meaning neighbor had given it as a puppy. Got Mum out of that chair where she had inhaled countless cigarettes since her husband died. A reluctant laugh escaped from Wendy. She recalled Brenda’s first visit, the over eager American urging Mum on hearty jaunts over to Croft Hill. Mum, who never went for a walk in her life. What cheek. When they came to Leicester, Brenda and Neil often sidelined their visit to head off for the Lake District. Brenda had left her hiking stick behind. It was still in the front hall. Mum traveled no further with the dog than the back garden or her local in the village. It was a short distance to the pub where she sipped a brandy and soda, Baxter splayed at her feet. The barman would invariably ask: “Same again Jeannie?” She would always reply: “I’m fine at the moment, thank you.”
Baxter was a small, sedentary dog, plumped from foraging leftover take-away and that was fine with Wendy. A broad shouldered spaniel and a hyperactive border collie were too much for her. Nowhere to run them as they did when their heady panting filled the back of the car after a day at Bradgate Park or some farmer’s muddy field up in Derbyshire. She’d finished picking up the dog shit in the back garden, regretting her laxity. Ugh. When did she start using that word? It was something her sister-in-law, Brenda, would say: “Dog shit.” She would know. Picking up the dog business in New York City, walking them since she’d lost her job. Not so high and mighty now. Well, things turned out like they should sometimes. The front garden was another story. Her neighbors would complain about that; reticent, as they were, to interfere, they would complain about that.
She was done. The floor would have to wait until later to be hosed down. Right then. Tea. Her kitchen glowed dully at the flick of the wall switch. Got used to lights off in rooms she was not actually in. When her brother and his wife visited from New York they made her feel prehistoric somehow. Everything was too small, too dark for them even when Wendy wasn’t penny pinching. Brenda was especially vocal as she crashed around the unfamiliar and poorly outfitted kitchen attempting to make them a home-cooked meal, at once cheerful and disturbed.
Wendy filled the kettle from the tap. In a moment, the steadying thrust of steam. She poked into a large cardboard box, popped a round Red Label tea bag into a chipped brown mug, pleased with her last trip to Aldi. Cheap, but still made a good cuppa. She should use her blue and white china cups. What was she waiting for? Wendy couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a home-cooked meal. Not that she ever cooked, nor did her mother-in-law. But they used to eat out at the pubs. Even on holiday they always found a carvery. Once, Neil and Brenda had joined them. That time in Polperro her sister-in-law turned down a Yorkshire pudding and all-you-can-eat roast meat on ‘Classic Lamb Nite.’ Brenda expressed amazement that they weren’t into seafood; scallops still in the shell—attached—and a bloody fortune at that. “We’re in Cornwall!” she blurted. Like they didn’t know that.
Cheaper took longer to brew. She had time. “I need a biscuit,” Wendy mumbled. She tucked into an engorged shelf; mega-sized cereal boxes, dog treats, and dried pasta jumbled in the cupboard. She pushed aside two unopened packages of HobNobs, debated whether to throw away the opened bag of granola, which had found its way into their shopping cart when her brother was here last. She hadn’t touched the other cereals either. She insisted Dodie get some in, not really knowing what vegetarians ate. She knew they didn’t eat bacon. He fried up a large pan full of the stuff every morning of their stay, bacon buttys for him and Wendy. Dodie’s scorn had to be constantly monitored while they visited. Brenda got up his nose. Though Wendy suspected he was a little awed by her, had even made a few drunken passes at her. “He only does that when he likes you,” she assured an indignant Brenda. She frowned and bit into a HobNob, catching the oaty crumbs. Her fingers flew involuntarily to her neck, her chin. She felt thick, like she had a neck brace of flesh. Her jeans strained. Baxter sniffed wetly at her ankles, meeting her gaze when, resigned, she cooed: “Want a treat Bax?”
Wendy crossed the front hall and stood in the doorway to the sitting room. She no longer needed to cover the furniture. Baxter’s imprint was negligible compared to the rough and tumble of her old dogs Jess and Barney. The room begged for a good dusting though. Velvet drapes—originally the color of ripe pomegranate and now ribbed pink along the outer folds like dried skin—remained closed. She sought her precious collection of blue-and-white in the odd gloom of repressed sunlight. Every shelf in the modest semi-detached, every corner and cupboard adorned with the ghostly blue and white pastorals of Wendy’s collection. “Things,” her sister-in-law had once said, in a pique.
Those long drives to Stoke-On-Trent were eagerly anticipated. What treasure she would find in The Potteries, especially if her husband was in an apologetic mood, unless her mother-in-law was along. Then they couldn’t take the dogs. And they had to stop for cream tea. It was worse when mum was alive. Flo never liked Jeannie, who sat unmatched alongside her sturdier, well-coiffed counterpart in the back seat passively chain-smoking.
The Fishman family looked down on the Howes, a small family of artist types without means. Wendy’s father had been a piano teacher and played around the neighboring villages until he got sick. Mum painted when she was younger but gave it up, she said, when children came along. Neil played in many bands until he met Brenda and decided to write his own songs. Even Wendy had a shot at the stage once. When she was a girl, maybe ten, or so, she’d made the last round for a part in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat at the Haymarket in Leicester. Final auditions were in London, everyone too busy to take her. Brenda was the only one who encouraged Wendy’s thwarted ambition, albeit much later in life. Her sister-in-law researched some amateur theater groups in Leicester but Wendy’s excitement was short-lived when Flo and the others chided her. It wasn’t for her. She’d be more the fool. Dominic needed her. “You’re one of us,” they said and drew her further and further from her side of the family. Until he married the American, her brother was a stranger to her.
The Fishman family business had done quite well and that meant a new car for Dominic every year, free petrol, and generous handouts from Flo. Some of the objects she gazed upon were presents from her mother-in-law, garish blown glass, and statuettes of porcelain dancers. Not Wendy’s taste—she had a theme in mind—but at Flo’s insistence. A chink of daylight between the drapes speared the distance between two blue-and-white china objects on the mantle—originally tea caddies—that contained her parents’ ashes. Dominic was buried beside his mother, too far for Wendy who did not drive. He was the first to go, his mother soon after. Everyone said that’s what killed her. Alongside the urns sat an elaborately framed photograph of Wendy’s mum and dad, taken on their 40th wedding anniversary. The only other framed photos around the room were of the dogs. Jess and Barney were buried behind the house in Drayton. She dared not tell the new owners.
There was hell to pay when Dodie and Wendy bought the bungalow in Drayton, where a summerhouse was meant to be. They succeeded only once in getting her mother-in-law out for the annual bottle-kicking in nearby Hallaton. Flo was unimpressed with the charming village, declaring thatch to be a hazard and ivy-covered trellis to be overkill. Quaint red brick cottages with names like Rose and Ivy hugging curved roads were deemed pretentious. An enchanting topiary garden elicited scorn. She hated the carnival atmosphere at the Bewicke Arms and sat obstinate and silent at the quieter Fox Inn where Dodie was known among the village residents for his carpentry skills. She lived in an unfussy terrace house on a busy road in Wigston, behind the family business. Hallaton was too rich for her. They wanted to ban fox hunting, a time-honored English tradition. “Too big for their boots,” she complained, “and too far.”
Rain, which fell lightly but steadily all morning, gave way and afternoon brought fresh sunlight, which sliced across her garden. Wendy slipped into clogs and dragged a small heap of wet laundry from the washer. There was so little to do now. Dodie was a big guy, huge really. He ate like a horse and he liked his drink. But he worked hard when he had work and often changed clothes two or three times a day, creating endless loads of washing. She pinched a frayed bra strap into a peg on the line. The garden was overgrown. After Drayton, the eight-foot high panel fencing was confining. Had to be though because hers was the first house in from the street, visible from the top deck of busses along her road.
The garden looked like the afterthought of an archeological dig. What was left behind, objects of no real value, peered at her, like the plaster gnome Baxter was eyeing. A nautical theme she had going once was now a jumble of cracked seashells and frayed coils of rope. A carved seagull tipped from the wind was covered with lichens, barely discernible from scavenged driftwood. The plastic anchor had long since slipped from the fence and was nearly invisible behind tall grass. Baxter raised his leg against the scowling gnome. She should walk Baxter more. There was a field nearby, but now there were cell phone towers along the edge of that field. Something she remembered her sister-in-law urging them to protest when the flyers appeared. Dodie hated that, hated her prodding, her information, her assurance. Wendy had expected they would be long gone before it was an issue.
She righted an overturned plastic chair, rubbed her hip, and dropped heavily into the dry seat. She couldn’t drive. The 47 stopped right outside the house so she got into Leicester when she wanted, which was not very often. Leicester had changed. The Shires were too expensive for her now. She’d got used to being homebound in Drayton, only venturing out for drives with Dodie for shopping or with the dogs. Sometimes she accompanied him to homes in Hallaton when he’d finished a job. On weekdays the village was tranquil and empty. They offered her tea, sometimes a coffee. They were always gracious, too gracious in well-appointed homes where Wendy drank from bone china cups and noticed discrete positioning of Minton and Spode, not a ‘second’ in sight. Dodie bemoaned the newcomers who wanted done with ornamental interiors. It was all uncluttered granite counter tops and naked wood flooring in airy modern rooms. She feared every time he was offered a drink that he would accept.
Wendy ran her hand through thick, unruly hair, burnished to a dull copper. The waistband of her jeans pinched uncomfortably. She was better off in the long run. There were no direct bus lines in and out of Drayton. She put the unused pegs into the pail at her feet and contemplated another cup of tea. The couple that bought their bungalow worked in London, in some kind of insurance or finance. Wendy had been recently widowed and she saw through their polite concern to barely disguised glee at such a deal. She wondered if the new owners had finished the summerhouse; were they sitting in it right now? She imagined them drinking expensive, exotic tea, nibbling delicate slices of bread, crusts removed; smoked salmon, cucumber and butter, or egg salad and watercress sandwiches. Maybe they were enjoying scones with clotted cream and jam as they took in the view from the back garden. And then she remembered the woman’s look of disapproval, stepping around piles of lumber heaped as if for a bonfire on the unfinished foundation.
She was determined to have that bungalow in Drayton. She never imagined mum’s shabby semi-detached would go for as much as it did but the village was close to Leicester on the rail line and a rather substantial sum was brokered quite quickly. She had not counted on her brother finding out. When he did, it was too late. They’d bought the place in Drayton. “Sell your old one,” her brother advised still calmly assuming she had made an honest mistake. “You have to make it right.” But she’d dug in, unearthed past slights, escalating the argument until she tearfully accused Neil of deserting her for America. Though she never had said anything untoward Wendy imagined Brenda looked down on them and she lashed out at her sister-in-law. Muddled by grief, she reasoned afterward.
They were unable to rent their old place in Wigston. Dodie had not attended to necessary repairs. Prospective tenants wore headscarves and Wendy was reluctant to have strangers in her house. Two mortgages and the recession killed them, literally killed her husband, she believed. He thought he’d been controlling it, but in fact, the drinking escalated, and with that the nightmares. Married as teenagers, he’d unburdened a dark family secret. She’d risen to his anguish and for some time she had been his angel.
Now the women in the family next door and others in their Close wore headscarves.
She had to be careful. She had the Bereavement Allowance. Dodie’s private pension proved very nearly worthless. Added to the shock of her husband’s death was the news that he had stopped paying in at some point. She prided herself on insisting they keep the Wigston address and now she had a fully paid off mortgage.
Dark clouds bruised the sky. Wendy shivered and started back to the house for her fleece. She locked up behind her. Gazing up the hall stairs she sensed a small panic at the closed door to the master bedroom. The room was filled to the rafters with odds and ends; rolls of new carpet, lamps still in boxes, economy packs of loo roll, and cartons of shampoo. Their old king-sized bed was covered with sale items, price tags still attached to sleeves and neckbands. Every drawer was bursting with the incomprehensible paperwork of her husband’s business. Hundreds of greeting cards, and postcards, some from New York and wherever else her brother had traveled, made them impossible to open. Brenda used to kid Wendy, laughingly calling her a shopaholic. Somewhere in the shadows was her collection of gemstones. An apology from her husband resulted in an evening before the telly, forgoing the Simpson’s and instead letting her snatch a gem from a popular shopping site.
She peered into the dark sitting room, glancing at the mantle. Her brother’s American Dream was bound to collapse. Maybe he’d move back. She could give up the spare room, even live with her sister-in-law if she had to and relocate a collection of teddy bears that Brenda complained had unnerved her. The master bedroom could be cleared out and the stuff in it removed to the shed once she got rid of Dodie’s tools.
The summerhouse was her greatest disappointment. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’ll just go and put the kettle on. He’ll come around. She’ll make her brother a nice meal; serve them both with the blue and white.
HE’LL COME AROUND is an original short story by Linda Danz.
STORIES ON THE AMERICAN FRIEND Writers Guild of America, East #R28299
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The use of names of actual persons, places, and events is incidental to the plot, and is not intended to change the entirely fictional character of the work. © October 2010
Photograph courtesy : http://www.blueandwhite.com/products.asp?p=WADE43722
Many thanks for generous returns on my endless questions: Diana Traill, Kate Howey, Susan Wilson, Simon Gilroy and Carole Jasilek.
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