Hello again
The blog/writing mission has been quiet as of late. I was putting my sole focus on the Spring semester of my second year of university, amongst other things.
This story I am going to share with you is called “Lucy’s Afternoon” and was produced as a short story piece for one of my course modules.
Lucy is a quiet, retiring mother, watching her son playing in the garden with his cat, whilst she does the washing up. She is shocked out of her routine by what she witnesses.
Thank you for your time.
Lucy’s Afternoon
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Lucy yawned, flexing her fingers against the softness of the rubber gloves. Hoovering done, ironing done, just the dishes to do now. Lather, rinse, repeat. Another shift at work tomorrow morning too. She looked outside at the brightness of the garden and felt sad at the thought. The yellow of the Marigolds made her arms look pasty. She forgot the last time that she had the chance to do some sunbathing. Possibly, when Harry was a toddler, back when Neal spent more time at home. She recalled sitting on the chequered picnic blanket and enjoying the warmth on her skin, Harry gurgling beside her with his little sun hat. She wished he could stay that way forever, with his chubby legs and toothless grin.
Harry was playing outside with Tiggy, laughing as he trailed a piece of rope through the tall grass. Tiggy, eyes bright and wide like saucers, stalked her prey with the utmost concentration.
“Get the snake, Tiggy, don’t let it bite me!”
Harry raced around the garden, his long legs now a far cry from those doughy little limbs Lucy used to lovingly pinch and squidge. Runner’s legs, his father said. He wasn’t wrong there. It made her swell with pride, to see him first across the finish line at his school’s sports day. She wished Neal had been there to see it, but he was at work and couldn’t get the time off. However, he had smiled proudly as Harry relayed the tale of his victory. Their son certainly had an imagination; she’d given him that. She missed the days when they’d play with his little dressing up box. He’d be the brave police officer; her the despicable burglar. Sometimes, he’d be the rogue dragon, and she’d be the valiant dragon-slayer. Back then, it didn’t matter that the ironing was piled up, as she was spending time in a league of different worlds with her little boy.
Neal didn’t like it when the house was filled with laundry and unwashed dishes. He’d tell her she wasn’t doing enough around the house, and he was probably right. She only worked part-time now, mainly to help with the bills since Neal’s hours had been cut, so there was no excuse really. When he’d had a stressful day at the office, the last thing he wanted to come home to was a messy house, and a messy wife. So, imagination time with Harry had to turn into laundry time by herself, when she wasn’t cleaning hotel rooms to boot. Harry had to learn to amuse himself more than usual. Luckily, Neal had agreed to letting Harry have the cat. When Harry wasn’t at school, Tiggy could always be found draped over his shoulders like an orange scarf.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Lucy lifted the plate and watched the suds rushing back into the water. This was getting tedious now. However, she’d learned a long time ago that it was better to make sure things were done. Neal didn’t mean to get stressed out, not really. But, if he didn’t hit his targets for the week…
She looked outside into the garden again, she wished she could join her son in his snake-chasing escapades. No doubt, at eleven years old now, Harry would be embarrassed at the thought of his mum running around the garden after him.
He seemed to be taking a breather now, watching intently as Tiggy rolled around on the grass like a ginger ball. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to just spend a little time out there with him. The dishes wouldn’t take that long to do; she’d got quicker at it. Resolved, Lucy slipped off her Marigolds and lay them neatly on the side. Yes, she’d come back to that. Putting on a pair of trainers, she stepped outside of the back door and relished the feeling of the warm sun on her skin. The wind gently pulled at her hair, weaving itself through her scalp. A blackbird sang from the boundary fence, and Lucy felt a nice feeling. Peace, perhaps.
Harry was too engrossed in Tiggy’s antics to notice his mum step outside. The cat was battering the life out of one of her toys, front paws gripped tightly whilst the back paws kicked frantically, like an angry mule. Her yellow eyes had a wild appeal to them, making her look like she should be in a jungle rather than a suburban back garden. She tossed it in the air and caught it again, and Lucy couldn’t help but smile to herself. Tiggy threw the toy in the air again, but this time it landed away from her. The cat sprung up into a hunting pose, stomach low, tail lashing the air. Eyes watching intently, as the toy crawled painfully away.
“Tiggy, you wicked cat!” gasped Lucy.
Harry jolted at the sound of her voice. Lucy dashed forward and shooed the cat away with her foot.
“Mum!”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Harry, watching her hurt that poor little thing. Now, take Tiggy inside.”
“But – “
“No excuses, Harry. Go!”
With a grumble, Harry picked up Tiggy, whilst Lucy was left to stare at the victim of all this. It looked like a mouse, possibly even a young rat. It had been bashed around to the point of dying. It lay on its side, taking laboured breaths. Its little black eyes were already beginning to glaze over, and it seemed a congealment of blood was collecting around its mouth. Lucy felt sick. Neal usually dealt with things like this; spiders, dead birds. She’d have to wait until he came home. For now, the best thing to do was to hide the poor thing. She picked up an empty plant pot and covered it. Shuddering, she went back inside, back to the washing up.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Lucy awoke with a start. To her dismay, she realised she must have dozed off. She only wanted to rest her feet, having been on them all day. A knot pulled in her stomach to see there was only ten minutes until Neal got home from work, and she still needed to mop the floor and peel some vegetables for tea. Harry would have to help her.
“Harry, love?” she called up the stairs.
No answer. She tried again, louder this time. Nothing. Grumbling, she took to the stairs, and knocked on his bedroom door. It swung open, but he wasn’t there. She looked out of the window glumly, noticing that the best of the sunshine was long gone. Harry was back in the garden. The plant pot was on its side, and Tiggy was continuing her merciless onslaught against the poor mouse. Sickened, she charged downstairs.
“What on earth is wrong with you, son?” she gasped. “We didn’t bring you up to be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel, Mum. Opposite, actually.”
Tiggy was casually grooming herself now, having lost interest in her quarry. It lay motionless on the grass.
“The poor thing is dead,” sighed Lucy. “I tried to save it, why did you do that?”
Harry looked at her with piercing eyes, his wispy fringe lifted slightly in the breeze.
“It was pretty much dead anyway, Mum.”
Lucy bit her lip, unsure of what to say.
“Its like in them nature programmes I see on YouTube. Better to let them finish it off, otherwise it’s just a slower death. I couldn’t bear to think of it under that pot taking ages to die.”
“It’s still very cruel, Harry. You stood and watched Tiggy do that.”
“What else could I do, Mum? Its nature, that’s what the programmes always say. The smart ones get away. The not so smart ones, they, well…they’re done for really. When they are in danger, they need to escape. If they don’t, they get hurt.”
Lucy looked down at her apron, noticing a crease. She quickly smoothed it down.
“Tiggy didn’t want to eat the mouse though,” Harry continued. “She’s got cat food in the house. She only wanted to knock it about, for fun really.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t fun for the mouse, though.”
“It said online that cats do that, they have sadistic tendencies or something? I’m not sure what it means though.”
“I was going to let your dad deal with it when he got home,” said Lucy, putting her arm around him.
Harry sighed.
“He’ll only get angry at you again, mum. I don’t want that.”
She felt the soft coat of Tiggy brush her legs, and the rumble of a contented purr. Harry picked his cat up, rubbing his face against hers. The little brown mouse lay on the grass, finally still, finally free. Eyes open, but unseeing. She would deal with it tomorrow.
“Will you help me peel the veg, son? Before your father gets home.”
Cover Photo by Nina Mercado on Unsplash.
Lisa Writes 