the clearing

suburban nights

Home again. Another satisfactory day of double-entry book-keeping.

Maurice paused for a moment by the full-length mirror in the hall. He ran a gaunt finger across a carefully cropped moustache, chased an errant speck of dandruff from the lapels of a thin grey suit and made a minor, but necessary, adjustment to a black and white striped tie.  It was one of several hung in neat rows in his half of the wardrobe.

Well, not exactly a half, more a quarter.  There had been certain 'advances' from her side. A messy phalanx of expensive footwear, exotically heeled and bejeweled. It reached out in a haphazard pincer movement of riotous colour laying siege to his side of the wardrobe.  Even now, it threatened to cut off Maurice in his very prime. He felt ... hemmed in.

A familiar cheery chuckle from the kitchen, accompanied by the whistle of a kettle.

Maurice made his way upstairs to the pink-papered boudoir that served as their marital bedroom and opened the wardrobe.  The phalanx had advanced yet further during the day, augmented by the latest recruit to the burgeoning boot-camp.  A tacky confectionery in lurid lemon clad with two frivolous, fluffy bows. Maurice winced involuntarily and sighed. A profound heart-felt sigh. A sigh that rose from the very depths of Maurice's soul to fill the room like some grey, sunless autumn sky, extinguishing all light as it spread. He reached down into this Stygian gloom to untie his own immaculately polished shoes.

How had it come to this? He dreamed of happier times. His unexpected triumph in 'O' Level Woodwork, the hard-won accounting qualification from a minor red-brick on the fringes of suburbia. Maurice's rise to fame as Junior Accounts Manager at Pocket & Dockery might not have been the stuff of legends. It did, however, bear witness to a certain dogged determination and a keen eye for carelessly misplaced ledger entries. He was content with his achievements. But not with the contents of the wardrobe.

Maurice reached into the darkest inner recess and fetched out a neatly wrapped box.  He laid it down on the bed, kicked off his shoes and opened it. He would dream again. He would, he would, he would.

Claudette hummed happily to herself. Another joyous day topped by her latest purchase, an exquisite froth of twin-bowed beauty.  She giggled as she recalled hugging the shoes to her ample bosom. The wispy feathers had tickled her fancies!

Claudette's thoughts turned to dance. A spinning popinjay. He would whirl her across the ballroom, scoop her into muscled, glistening arms and bear her off triumphant to the bridal suite. It was a scene that occupied much of her fevered imagination. Just as Maurice's daily existence was measured by the methodical tap, tap, tap of a pocket calculator so Claudette lived her dream each morning after breakfast beneath the covers of a pink candlewick bed-spread. She longed for him.

The shrill whistle of the kettle brought Claudette back to the gaudy cacophony of clashing chintz crockery. She poured fresh-boiled water into a readied teapot and drew deep on the steamy jasmine-infused delights issuing from its spout.  A plate of nice biscuits, she thought. Ginger ones. Maurice's favourite.

The tea-tray loaded she made her way upstairs. Maurice was laid out on the bed in just his underwear, his grey suit-trousers now safe in the Corby press and an empty box by his side.

'Here you are my love ...'

Claudette's cups jiggled cheekily as she handed Maurice his tea.

'How's your day been?'

"Quite splendid, my dear .. another new audit. And yours?'

'Good too, I bought some ....'

'New shoes.'

Maurice finished her sentence.  He winced once more as he looked across at the wardrobe.  Claudette's eyes followed to the phalanx of footwear now marshaled with military precision in smart well-ordered ranks. There was a brand new platoon leader, a pair she failed to recognise.  Black patent-leather with sharp stiletto heels.

Claudette looked quizzically at the arriviste.

'But they're not my size ...'

'Oh ... but they are mine!'

Eyes met and pink floral curtains were drawn discretely as yet another night in suburbia began in earnest.

memories

aston villa v fulham