Janina Matthewson - Of Things Gone Astray

He didn’t feel much like going downstairs. On this day two years ago his mum had made waffles with bacon and banana and syrup for breakfast, with a candle sticking out of one of the waffles.

Jake didn’t think there would be waffles this morning.

He didn’t think there would be waffles any morning.

AFTER A WHILE DELIA GLANCED at her watch and swore. She’d been gone longer than she should have, naturally. Until a few years ago Delia had never been late, not once in her life, now it happened all the time. Not that there ever was anything in particular to be on time for now, but she didn’t like to be so long away.

As she walked down the street, however, her pace slackened. She couldn’t help it. She knew that once she got home, it was unlikely she’d get another chance to go out. There was always so much to do, incidental, unimportant things to do: cups of tea to make, lunch to prepare, washing to fold, all the things your average housewife usually had to do.

She could never go off for too long without worrying that something would go wrong, that her mother would need help and be alone, but being in the house sometimes became intolerable. Resolving that ten extra minutes now would help maintain her equilibrium for the rest of the day, she allowed her pace to slow to a light meander. As she walked, she convinced herself that her mother would probably not get out of bed until she was home in any case.

It was still early enough for the streets to be quiet; there were just a few joggers, the keys in their bum pockets jingling slightly as they ran, and some tired-looking besuited men who probably didn’t need to spend as much time at work as they thought.

Delia breathed deeply as she went, savouring the bright morning air. Again, she paid little attention to her specific route, veering down streets at random, looking at houses she didn’t know. She stopped to look at unusual trees and flowers in people’s gardens, and spent a while trying to get a reluctant cat to approach her.

The sky grew ever brighter, the day was warming, the clouds were moving on.

Delia reached a church she didn’t know and she suddenly felt disconcerted. She should be nearly home by now, there shouldn’t be any churches she didn’t know.

She looked around her. She’d been walking in the right direction, she was sure of it, but she suddenly realised that it wasn’t just the church – she hadn’t recognised anything in ages. She shook her head and pressed on. She must only be a couple of streets away; she’d find herself soon.

MRS FEATHERBY HAD BOILED THE kettle four times whilst waiting for the police constable to arrive. Although she told herself she wanted to be prepared, she also wanted to avoid being the spectacle she knew she’d become. The kitchen was out of sight of the absent wall.

People were beginning to walk along the footpath and, as she had expected, they were staring. Those walking in pairs stopped and muttered to each other. She saw a few take pictures. She wanted to move out of their sight permanently, to live out the rest of her life in the back of the house, but she was afraid of missing the policeman when he arrived. It wasn’t as if he would be able to ring the doorbell, after all. She pursed her lips and moved to the kitchen to boil the kettle once more.

When he did eventually arrive he stood on the footpath for what must have been a full two minutes, staring, saying nothing. He didn’t seem to notice Mrs Featherby at all until she stepped out into the garden and said, ‘Good morning, Constable.’

She supposed constable was still the correct term to use, although, in all honesty, he didn’t look much like her idea of a constable. He was of an age at which, according to Mrs Featherby’s ideas, a policeman ought to be married, but he was not wearing a ring. He seemed to be suffering from hay fever or a severe head cold, but he was neglecting to use a handkerchief. He arrived with a sandwich in one hand and continually took bites from it as he talked, inconsistently remembering to swallow.

He introduced himself as PC Grigson, gave a hearty sniff, whistled towards the general vicinity of Mrs Featherby’s house and said, ‘Not sure what I’m going to be able to do for you, love; it’s a builder you’re going to need.’

Mrs Featherby felt her brow furrow involuntarily at being called ‘love’, but she decided not to comment.

‘Obviously I shall need a builder to fix it, young man. You are here to tell me how it happened. You are here to find out who is responsible and see that the person, or persons, are brought to justice.’

‘Right,’ said Grigson, running a wrist under his streaming nose. ‘So you think we should be looking for a perpetrator?’

‘Naturally I think you should be looking for a perpetrator. There has been a theft. Someone has stolen the front wall of my house. I wish to see that person found and held to account.’

‘Only thing is, pet, I just don’t see how someone can have stolen a whole wall of a house.’

‘No, Constable, I’m sure you do not. No more do I. But I believe part of your job consists of investigating how mysterious occurrences have, in fact, occurred. You must find it out.’

‘Right,’ he sniffed again. ‘Sure. Tell you what, I’m going to give you the name of a builder. He’s my ex-wife’s cousin, as a matter of fact, but he is actually pretty good anyway, and quite reliable, did my bathroom a few months back, and if I give him a call to let him know you’re in need, he’ll bump you up the list.’ He paused and glanced at the gaping hole in the side of the house. ‘And I’ll have a look through recent records, see if any similar, ah, thefts have occurred in the area.’

‘So what am I to do?’

‘Oh, you know. Let us know if you think of any other information. If you remember seeing anyone suspicious hanging around, or if you see someone in the future.’

Mrs Featherby didn’t quite know how to point out that none of this was in any way useful to her or other potential victims. She elected not to offer PC Grigson a cup of tea.

The copper gave a final sniff, said a non-committal goodbye, and headed back to his car. Mrs Featherby stood alone in her fractured home, vainly attempting to disregard the whispers and stares of her passing neighbours.

WHEN HE CAME DOWN TO the kitchen, Robert found Bonny sitting at the table, studiously drawing on one of the bamboo place mats.

‘Dad,’ said Bonny, fixing Robert with a serious gaze. ‘Can I do something different with my cereal today?’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Well, instead of having just one kind of cereal, can I have cornflakes and coco pops mixed all together?’

‘That is an excellent idea, Bonny. I’m going to do the same. Would you like a banana sliced on top of yours?’

‘Um, not so much. Can I have a banana just on its own?’

Mara walked into the kitchen as they were eating. She had dressed, but not yet done anything with her hair, which stood out from her head in a wild mane of tawny brown. Robert stood and walked over to her. He twisted his hands into the mass of hair and kissed her.

‘Nice of you to wait till you’d showered before doing that, my love,’ she said.

‘Anything for you.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ said Mara, concentrating harder than was strictly necessary on the cup of coffee she was pouring. ‘I’ve been asked to go in to see Bonny’s teacher this afternoon. Can you come?’

‘Do they need both of us?’

‘No, they didn’t say that, it’s just that I’m nervous and I’d rather not go alone. It’s the first time I’ve been called in to see a teacher and I don’t know what they want. I’m worried I won’t act like enough of a grown up.’