Mark Haddon: A Spot Of Bother

“Yes,” said Katie. “You’re probably right.”

“You go,” said George. “I’ll do the washing up.”

Half an hour later Jean finally woke. She seemed bruised and exhausted, like someone recovering from a hospital operation. She said very little. He asked if she was OK. She said that she was. He decided not to interrogate her any further.

Mid-morning they gathered in the front hall to say their goodbyes. Katie, Ray and Jacob were heading off to Heathrow and Jamie and Tony were driving back to London. It was a slightly somber occasion, and the house seemed unnaturally silent when they had gone.

Thankfully the caterers came to retrieve their equipment ten minutes later, followed by Mrs. Jackson and a young woman with an earring in her lip, who set about cleaning the house.

When the living room had been vacuumed, he and Jean retired to the sofa with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches while the kitchen was scoured. George apologized once more for his behavior, and Jean informed him that she would not be seeing David again.

George said, “Thank you.” It seemed like the gracious thing to say.

Jean started to cry. George was not sure how to deal with this. He put his hand on her arm. It seemed to have no effect whatsoever, so he took it away again.

He said, “I’m not going to leave you.”

Jean blew her nose on a tissue.

“And I’m not going to ask you to leave,” George added, so that she knew precisely where she stood.

It was a ridiculous idea in any case. What would he do if he moved out? Or if Jean moved out? He was too old to begin a new life. They both were.

“Good,” said Jean.

He offered her another sandwich.

The tent was taken down during the afternoon and George was able to do a couple of hours’ work on the studio before supper. He realized that he was going to be disappointed when the building was finished. Obviously, he would then have a place in which he could draw and paint. But he would need other projects to fill his time, and if his encounter with the rubber plant was anything to go by, it would be several months before drawing and painting became wholly fulfilling.

He could start swimming at the local pool a couple of times a week. That seemed like a sensible idea. It would keep him fit and help him sleep.

Now that he came to think of it, perhaps Jean would like to join him. It might help cheer her up a little. She had always been rather fond of pools on family holidays. Obviously it had been a good few years now, and she might feel self-conscious about wearing a swimming costume in public. Women, he knew, worried about these things more than men. But he would run the idea past her and see what she thought.

Or a long weekend in Bruges. That was another possibility. He had read something about it in the newspaper recently. It was in Belgium, if his memory served him correctly, which meant that they could get there without leaving the ground.

He shivered. It was cold and getting dark. So he packed the building materials neatly away and headed back into the house. He changed into clean clothes and came back down to the kitchen.

Jean was preparing lasagna. He made himself a mug of coffee, sat at the table and began browsing through the TV Guide .

“Could you give me the aluminum saucepan from the drawer?” asked Jean.

George leant backward, retrieved the saucepan and handed it to her. As he did so, he caught a faint whiff of that flowery perfume Jean used. Or perhaps it was the orange shampoo from Sainsbury’s. It was quite pleasant.

She thanked him and he glanced down at the TV Guide . He found himself looking at a photograph of two young women who were joined at the head. It was not a pleasant picture and it did not make him feel very good. He began reading. The women were going to be featured in a documentary on Channel Four. The documentary would end with footage of an operation in which they were surgically separated. The operation was risky, apparently, and one or both of the girls might die as a result. The article did not reveal the outcome of the operation.

The kitchen floor tilted very slightly.

“What would you like with your lasagna?” asked Jean. “Peas or broccoli?”

“Sorry?” said George.

“Peas or broccoli?” asked Jean.

“Broccoli,” said George. “And perhaps we should open a bottle of wine.”

“Broccoli and wine it is,” said Jean.

George looked down at the TV Guide .

It was time to stop all this nonsense.

He turned the page and stood up to find a corkscrew.