The Monday Night Grub Fellowship

Five men, aware they live the good life, meet to complain about their wives.

Before George made the day’s first noteworthy decision, he ate his cornflakes, which he had Monday thru Wednesday, shredded wheat Thursday and Friday. When not going into the office, Saturday and Sunday, Pamela, his wife, made him breakfast, usually a fruit bowl.

Having finished breakfast, George always took a cup of tea to his wife in bed before leaving the house. Then, taking his prepared lunch from the refrigerator, George placed it in his briefcase and headed out the front door to his car.

The weeks, months, and years have flown by as he has gotten older. Nevertheless, this unusually profound thought drifted into George’s weary mind as he slumped into the driver’s seat of his BMW and pulled the seatbelt across. He backed the car out of the drive.

It is a forty-minute drive to the office. George turned on the radio to listen to the news.

George had reached a point in life when everything smacked of conformity and how hastily he had slithered into a smug middle-aged existence.

With the windscreen wipers scratching over the glass, the rain had ceased five minutes earlier; George flicked the wiper arm off.

Still, the thought rumbled on toward one inescapable conclusion: that every day in his well-ordered life came down to the same thing: routine.

Arriving at the office in the town of Kirkby Lonsdale, George parked the car in the same spot where he’d parked the last thirty-seven years.

The beep assured him the car doors were locked.

George had mixed feelings about the coming weekend. Pamela’s birthday is this coming Sunday. He’d promised to take her shopping, and buy a new dress to celebrate, planned for Saturday. There’s nothing George detests more than accompanying his wife to a shopping mall and perusing for several hours. But, in the front of his mind, shopping together had him cringing.

Had it really been four months since the January sales? He squirmed, said good morning to Veronica, his long-time secretary, and once inside his office, removed his jacket.

Two minutes later, the office door opened. “Here’s your tea, George. The mail is in your inbox. Your diary has one appointment this morning, at 11.30 am, with Judge Thornhill.”

George knew Thornhill was a prickly old goat. The meeting is about one of George’s clients, and he would be asking the Judge for a change of plea. However, George saw it more as an opportunity to have a good lunch, a steak, and kidney pie at the Spotted Dog in Sedbergh.

“Thank you, Veronica. Did you have a good weekend?”

“Sadly, we had to put our cat down, George.”

After twenty-seven years working together, George knew better than to sorrowfully enquire further. “Ah, that’s bad luck. Did Jimmy Clapham send in his written permission to a change of plea?”

“He did, George, it’s in his court file.”

“Okay, Veronica, thanks.”

Veronica turned away and pulled the door closed.

George took a sip of the tea. Then sat back in his chair. Still on his mind were the last January sales. He could replay every day in his head, seven hours, word for word.

“What do you think of this one George? Do you think blue suits me? Does it make me look too fat?” Pamela asked, holding the dress against herself and looking in the mirror.

George responded with a sideways glance, then applied a forced display of interest.

“I like it very much, darling,” he said.

“Really? Because you did say you loved the green one.”

“Well, yes, but that was three shops and eleven dresses ago,” he said, immediately regretting the tasteless comment.

“You know, George, I think you tell me anything. All you want is to get home and watch golf on television. So I don’t know why I ask for your opinion.”

“Well, why do you ask?” George said, then batting zero.

“You’re my husband. You could show interest. It should be important to you how I look. Or does it not matter, George?” The sharp edge to Pamala’s voice was accompanied by a reinforced glower.

“It is important, darling,” George said with a measured display of indignity.

Pamala said again, “I really do like this blue dress” Just out of interest, she looked at the price tag. Inspection introduced a further complication into the equation. Pamala, visibly muttering, hung it back onto the rail. “It’s too expensive. We’ll have to go somewhere else.”

“Is there somewhere we haven’t tried?” George asked, looking at his watch. “The Sony Open Golf Tournament is about to start in Hawaii and is being televised.”

Pamala, with challenging eyes, said nothing. George blinked and mindfully reviewed his options. He could weaken, and let the afternoon stretch out into the late evening, buy her the damn dress, matching shoes, a hat, and a handbag, or he can remain firm but pleasant and get home in good time to watch the golf highlights.

Allowing himself a thin smile, he peered blandly over his spectacles and observed that Pamala’s reaction was equally ambiguous. Then, finally, she spun around and swept out of the store. George grinned sheepishly at the shop assistant.

“We’ll try somewhere else. Thank you,” George told the young assistant.

George and Pam had raised two children while living in their home for thirty of their forty-three-year marriage. Two single bedrooms, now empty, no longer with floors covered in paper party hats, discarded candy wrappers, or spilled soda stains. A couple of dolls remained on a shelf in one bedroom, a buckled wheeled bogey sat in the rafters inside the garage, but mostly the house was silent.

Pamala enjoyed keeping up appearances. Weekly visits to the gym, keeping to a six-week cycle between visits to the hair salon and two weeks between appointments to have her nails done. George had given up asking Pamala about the frequency of her colorful visits. “Do you want me to have old lady hands?”

On Sunday, Pamala is going to be sixty-five. So ‘yes,’ he would mumble under his breath.

George convinced himself that there were irritating battles between the couple; it’s only natural. Pamala is 5'5" tall, has a blue tint in her hair, and spends time volunteering at the Brightside Care Home for the elderly. Yet, George copes well with his wife’s disciplined nature for all their years together. In fact, he often asks himself why she had not pinned a medal on his chest, noting his forbearance.

George never made a habit of lying to Pamala for the first thirty years. But there had been the occasion, after closely supervised weekly weigh-ins, for a few years now, when Pam’s queries about his eating habits were not always truthfully disclosed. In fact, hardly ever. George had a master’s degree being economical with the truth. So once a week, standing reluctantly on the weighing scales, Pamala had become familiar with his little dodges. The scale’s pointer was adjusted to zero for each weigh-in and positioned in the center of the room, denying George an opportunity to lean or alleviate his impact upon the machine.

“These digital scales never lie, George. Despite dieting you are still overweight,” she pronounced, shaking her head in disbelief, “I simply don’t understand it, these scales are always right.”

However, George came up with innovative explanations to challenge Pam’s unshakeable faith in modern technology.

“It’s all about body metabolism, darling. I was born lucky in that department,” George argued, taking a deep breath, drawing in his stomach as if to magically reduce his weight.

Pamala had never been one to give up easily; she wanted facts. “Sit down, George,” she ordered, pointing at the toilet.

George, a defendant, took his seat on the potty in his own courtroom.

Not having a bible to hand, Pamala relied on four decades of marriage to get at the truth. Then, finally, she looked at him and began a cross-examination. Never having been questioned by a QC wearing only bra and panties, George naturally found it difficult to give the matter his undivided attention. His wife, at least, had kept herself trim. No muffin top in sight.

At that moment, being in the law profession, George noted how Pamala tucked both thumbs into her bra strap before beginning her questioning.

“You only have cereal with skimmed milk for breakfast, don’t you?” She asked.

George nodded vigorously.

“And you eat the salad I prepare for your lunch, don’t you?” she continued.

George hadn’t stopped nodding from the previous question but added, “of course, darling.”

The QC then began her summing up.

“So, you have the low-calorie breakfast, and a low-calorie lunch, and the meal I prepare for you in the evening, and yet you remain overweight. I do not understand.”

An experienced defense lawyer, George deduced the reason. “Love, I don’t think the scales are all they are cracked up to be.”

“You think so, George?” she said, “look,” she argued, stepping onto the scales and pointing at the display. “I’ve been between 125 and 126 lbs. for thirty years. You, on the other hand, have put on weight, George. Look at you,” she said, “220 lbs., George,” then looked upon him disdainfully slumped on the toilet in his underpants.

“Don’t you understand, George? That is heart attack territory. I want you to be with me, do you understand?” Pamala stood down off the scales and took a moment to decide how to proceed further.

George reckoned the QC had returned a guilty verdict. But instead, she gave him a quick, unprovoked poke in his stomach and walked out of the bathroom.

“Ouch…that hurt”, he yelled, “what was that for?”

“To show how unfit you are; you need exercise. You’re up to something, George. You know I’ll find out.”

George, gingerly rose to his feet.

Pamala was not satisfied with his argument; she would take the matter to a higher authority.

“I’m going to bring your case up at the next meeting of Weight Watchers, there’s something about your metabolism I don’t understand.”

Pamala returned to the bathroom, peered into George’s eyes, probing his conscience, and then tightened her lips. This was a sign, George knew, and not an attempt at a smile. Instead, she turned her attention to brushing her teeth. George let out a heavy sigh, almost a whistle.

George came out of the Monday morning daydream, went into his briefcase, and removed the lunch Pamala had prepared. He dumped the silver foil package into the trash can. Next, he picked up the folder lying on his desk, marked Clapham, flipped it open, read the handwritten letter pinned to the top of a substantial pile of documents, quickly browsed, closed the folder, and put it aside for later in the day.

The buzzer buzzed on the intercom. George responded with a press of his finger.

“There’s a Mrs. Thackery on line 2 for you. It’s regarding a matter about probate.”

George raised his eyebrows; he knew nothing about probate matters. “Put her through, Veronica,” there was a slight pause. “Mrs. Thackery, this is George Cameron. How can I help you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Cameron. I requested an appointment to discuss a probate matter with you. However, your assistant said you do not deal with probate matters.”

“That’s correct, Mrs. Thackery. I’m a criminal lawyer. I deal with criminals. That said, I can sugg….”

The voice down the line interrupted him. “This is a criminal matter, Mr. Cameron. My sister is stealing my mother’s things left to me.”

“Is there a Will? Mrs. Thackery.”

“Yes, mother was very articulate about telling the family where she wanted her things to go. Her jewelry was to come to me. She said so quite plainly. My sister is disputing the authenticity of the Will.”

“As she has a right to do. However, a competent probate judge will make the appropriate decision. Perhaps your dear departed mother knew you and your sibling did not get along. I will have my secretary give you the number of Mr. Bosley, on the other side of town. He specializes in matters of probate. You’ll find him excellent to deal with.”

“Mr. Cameron, my sister is a criminal and a drug addict,” she fired back.

George cut her short. “That may be so, Mrs. Thackery. However, I assure you; Mr. Bosley is the right man for the job. My secretary will give you the number to call. I’m sorry I cannot be more helpful in the matter….”

I would remind you that you chose Lancelot & Thackery to handle the funeral of your wife’s mother. Surely…”

George did remember that Mrs. Thackery is a partner in the firm Lancelot & Thackery, reputable undertakers. George pressed the intercom button for Veronica. “Please give Mrs. Thackery the number for Boswell, Keen & Klein.”

“Yes, George.”

Pondering the call, George felt distinctly worse. Two reasons. The first that two years back, Lancelot & Thackery carried out all the funeral arrangements to bury his mother-in-law. George recalled it as an exercise in grief diplomacy on a level never before experienced.

George was convinced that his wife’s mother had died due to Port’s quickly diminished secret stockpile. Rotgut caused the end of her, but that was hardly a medical explanation for the old girl’s demise. George had tried every way to be sympathetic toward Pamala.

He was secretly gratified that Pamala’s mother could no longer give instructions from beyond the grave.

George, however, was unaware that Pamala would take a course in pursuing the benefit of paranormal conversations. Nor would he have Pamala telling him to look for mum’s thick pebble glasses every time she came for dinner.

The second reason is that…

The intercom buzz released him from such daunting recollections.

“George, Detective Reynolds is here.”

“Really? Send him in, Veronica.”

The door opened.

“George,” Detective Reyolds said in greeting, “thanks for making time.”

George stood up and showed the palm of his right hand to a chair on the other side of the desk.

“No problem, Paul. In fact, it’s quite fortuitous,” George said, sitting down.

“It is?”

“Yes, Clapham has changed his plea to guilty.”

Detective Reynolds unbuttoned his jacket. “Ah, is that so? Now it makes sense,” he said as if knowing something George did not.

“Makes sense?” George questioned with a furrowed brow.

Detective Reynolds let out a sigh and brought one leg over the other. “Yes, George. Clapham was found dead in his cell this morning, hung himself using a bedsheet,” and brought a photo from his inside jacket pocket, which he lay in front of George on the desk.

“Good Lord,” George muttered.

Detective Reynolds added. “He was facing life in prison without parole if found guilty by a jury. The lad was going to be twenty-seven tomorrow.”

George pulled the folder toward him that sat on the desk and removed the change of plea letter, handing it across the desk. “I advised him that a change of plea might lead to a sentence of twenty-five years. That he would chance to see the outside again.”

The Detective read the short letter. “Well, there’s nothing in here suggesting he was suicidal. Straightforward change of plea.”

“What time did he hang himself?”

“Between 2 am, and 3.30 am. At 2 am, he was responsive to questions. This letter, according to the prison records, was personally handed into the prison mail office at 9:30 am, on Friday.”

George sat back in his chair.

Detective Reynold’s concluded. “He shot two cops, George. One, a guy not thirty years old, just a year on the force. I had to tell his wife.” Without a hint of empathy, he concluded, “for me, well, he’s saved the taxpayer a lot of money.”

George wasn’t thinking about that; he was thinking about the meeting with Judge Thornhill and the steak and kidney lunch at the Spotted Dog following that meeting. He glanced down at the trash can.

George leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “Who is going to handle the funeral arrangements?”

Detective Reynolds said, “that will be up to the family, Clapham wasn’t married. I suppose it will be up to his mother. His old man is dead, fell off a factory roof carrying out a robbery seven years back. Daresay the job will go to Lancelot & Thackery.”

George smiled ruefully. “Okay, Paul. I better let the Judge know.”

Detective Reynolds got to his feet. “Of course, I’ll be in touch with a report. Have a good day, George.”

“You, too, Paul.”

George pressed the button on the intercom. “Veronica, please bring me the file on the Clapham case, will you?”

“Right away, George.”

Shortly the door opened with Veronica carrying several folders in her left arm.

“Here’s Clapham, George,” and she neatly sat the folders on the desk.

“Thank you. Can you call Judge Thornhill and cancel our meeting?” George asked. “Right now, I’m bursting for a pee,” he said, coming from around the desk.

“Certainly.”

“Oh, Veronica,” he called before going through the office door, “I dropped my lunch in the trash can, can you retrieve it. I’ll have it around noon.”

Veronica looked at George with dismay. “George! Pam is going to find you out, and when she does, she’s going to slice you up in front of the Weightwatchers Hall.”

“She’ll have to catch me first, Veronica,” he said, smiled, and disappeared.

Eighteen months’ work was piled on the desk.

But at least there’s tonight, George reminded himself. The regular Monday evening get-together with a few pals at Joe’s Greasy Bar, a burger van outside the town limits. It was something to look forward to and genuinely enjoyed. So, when 5 pm came around, George was ready for some proper food.

Joe would be gone by this time on any other night of the week. But Monday, he stayed late for his regulars. There was never anyone else around.

The new silver Toyota Prius in the parking area, a rough, unmade place behind giant trees, making the site invisible from the road during the summer months, belongs to Malcolm. The Prius is decorated with stickers: Global Warming, Forest Conservation, Save the Whale, and Jesus Saves. George smiled. Malcolm had apparently toned down his ecological message. His first Prius Malcolm ran on different messages: Equal Rights for Aborigines, Keep Britain Farming, Abolish Blood Sports, Nuclear Free Zone, Child on Board, and Meat Eaters Suck!

George drove in and acknowledged Malcolm, already sitting at the bench. Malcolm raised an arm.

As George walked toward the burger van to join Malcolm, Jim Thackery drove into the woodland space and tapped on the horn of his Mercedes. George and Malcolm raised their arms. Dicky Grubb, the owner of Grubb Sportswear, followed in, driving his Range Rover.

The four sat together, waiting for one more.

They call themselves the Monday Night Grub Fellowship.

And at that very moment, Bob Leggatt arrived, his old Bedford truck clunking and rattling across the uneven ground.

“And here’s the man himself,” Dick says. “Bloody hell, is he ever going to get rid of that truck? It must be sixty years old. I’ve never seen wipers on it in five years, the tires are shot, it has no lights, and when the ignition is turned off, the engine rattles on for two more minutes. I don’t understand how he’s never been arrested by the police. It’s not bloody scrap worthy.” The boys laugh.

Bob slammed the door of his truck, which dislodged the rear-view mirror, and walked over to the bench to meet with the guys.

Bob owns the local scrapyard and is far and away the wealthiest member of the group. His wife, Olive, is chairperson of the St. Martin’s Church Sunday Ladies Group.

The five men have a combined BMI of 185, and each points to genetics, stress, and other emotional factors, such as their bullying wives, for their obesity.

Together, they stand at the burger van, “bang on time, as always, lads. Here are your orders. You’ve all got large fries. Help yourself to ketchup.”

In turn, each collected a box with his name on it. George walked over to a rickety table on which sat the condiments, chasing away pesky squirrel, and tipped ketchup onto this burger.

Malcolm Squires owns the newsagent, also a liquor store. Mal is the eldest of the group but had chosen not to retire. “Living with Mavis every hour of the day, I’d be dead in a week, he admitted two years ago. It was a remark that gave him immediate admittance to the club.

Before Mal took his place at the bench, he bent down and pulled a bag from under.

“I brought us all a new beer to try. It’s Belgian.”

“You spoil us, Mal,” George said.

“There’s no fun in drinking alone,” Mal cracked. “The rep left a dozen samples. Thought we’d try them and see what we think. Here’s the opener,” Mal said, throwing it to George. With all the beers distributed, Jim raised a toast.

“To Mal.” The boys pushed the neck of the beer bottles to clink their appreciation “To Mal.” They said in unison.

“Did you hear about my bit of trouble in the week?” Dick asked.

George nodded while the others were left hanging.

“What trouble is that?” Mal queried.

“That Johnny Dean, and his twin brother, Dixie. They got nabbed trying to rob my shop.”

“Jesus, really?” Bob said. “They’re still on probation from trying to turn me over.”

“Get away,” Jim said. “Well, I guess I’m not surprised. They’re a couple of useless idiots. A bit of time away will do them no harm.”

George sat quiet, enjoying his burger.

“Did you hear about it, George?” Bob asked.

George took a swig of beer before he answered. “I received the report from the arresting officers,” he said. “I’ll be taking the case. They were caught in the act, so it’s not a complicated procedure.”

Mal voiced an opinion. “If they were my lads, I’d thrash them within a half inch of their lives. That’s the only language them sort understand, and if that didn’t work, I’d tell the police to lock ’em up and throw away the bloody key.”

Johnny and Dixie Dean had been in trouble since they were thirteen, having been raised by their mother after her husband left town with Gracie Roberts, who worked at the launderette when the boys were ten. The two were fifteen when sneaking into Bob’s scrapyard. The dog, Mary, had them pinned against the fence. Mary is an Alsatian who barks at people, wanting to have a ball thrown. However, she doesn’t have an aggressive bone in her body.

“Fortunately, the twins didn’t think to bring a ball,” Bob laughed. “The two boys were standing against the fence, terrified of my Mary.”

“Well this is fucking brilliant,” Dixie said, voice trembling.

“Shut up, Dixie,” Jonny instructed.

Bob called the police before grabbing the ball between Mary’s front legs and tossing it for her to chase. The lights on the police car flashed, bouncing off the boy’s terrified faces.

“They got a year’s probation. They’re harmless brats really. Trouble is they’ve got no-one at home to keep them straight. Sandra’s keeping up two jobs to make ends meet,” George said.

George remembered the phone call from the arresting officer, PC Rupert McDowell.

“I’m sending over my report, George. It’s the Dean brothers again, they’d forced an entry into Grubb’s Sports. Both were carrying empty backpacks, obviously with the intent to rob the store. They’re still on probation for trespassing on Bob’s scrapyard six months ago.”

The chatter turned to their browbeaten lives. Over the years, it’s been a way to release the tension built up during the past week. The only rule: no talk about food. Everything else is fair game.

The men looked at each other, waiting for one to start the proceedings. It’s been agreed that stories can involve killing their wives any way they want, but it stays at the table. Such an evening was freeing for the sake of sanity.

Mal said, “Bob, you didn’t get a go last week, how about you begin?”

“It’s not like you haven’t heard this complaint before, but after twenty-five years married to the odious creature I call my wife, you’d think she’d become used to the mess the house was left while she’s at her bloody church meetings. Bloody woman says to me, Thursday morning, it was, I’m having breakfast, understand, she looks me straight in the eye, full-on, you know what I mean, the glare from hell, and asks if I lived in a shed before I met her?

I come home, I’ve been down at the yard all day, and as I’m getting home, she’s off to another church meeting. Feed yourself, love, and wash your feet before you get into bed, for heaven’s sake. I’m telling you, lads, I’m plagued relentlessly about my feet. If it’s not how rough my feet are, it’s that I leave the house looking like a hovel, or I smell of gearbox oil. Three million quid, that house she’s living in. All those lovely church clothes, fucking fortune. I get home, and lads, before I can sit down, I already don’t know the difference between my arse or elbows.

Last night, listen to this; I was feeling a bit randy. When she got home from the church, she’d been to set up the flower display for the service on Sunday. I asked about a little, you know, slap and tickle. Her voice suddenly got really high-pitched, and I swear her head went all the way around. I have a headache, love; I’ll let you watch television in bed. Two minutes later, she got into bed, still tied into a towel robe. She hadn’t showered; that’s always a clue. I lay there, frustrated, thinking I was sleeping in a bed of Hyacinth!”

The boys were rocking; no matter how much Bob complained about Audrey, he would never leave her. Yet, somehow, they were still profoundly in love.

“Your Audrey is right enough, Jim,” George says in Audrey’s defense, “my Pam saw you picking Audrey up after the church outing. You were in that rusted-up bone rattler over there. I don’t get it, Bob, last year you bought a brand-new Rolls Royce.”

Bob argued back. “And I explained to her that it was impractical, George. The bus dropped her off two miles from home. No sense in starting the Roller up for that short trip.”

“How did she take that, Jim?” Mal asked.

“She walked.”

To a man, the boys collapsed around the table.

Jim, wiping his mouth of grease, jumped in. “In a thousand ways, Muriel resents my creativity. I’d always wanted to write a novel, and when I retired early, because of the pandemic, and my tailor business was suffering, I decided I finally had the time to fulfill that dream. My biggest mistake was to share my work with Muriel. She didn’t like the character in the story. She said he was uncouth. No one would read about him after the first page.”

“Why not, Jim. You’ve always had a flair with words,” Mal said.

“Thanks, Mal, but you all know that Muriel is a bit of a clean freak. The character in my story is quite the opposite. She thinks I invented him to deliberately antagonize her.”

“Did you?” Dick asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. The character’s name is Bart. He’s shown himself as a bit of an artist, in fact, he’s more a likable, vulgarian, pissing in every lane. In one chapter, it’s a winter day, the stars were bright and sharp, and the wind howled hard. Bart discovered many new and interesting things, a fabulous cobweb hanging in the corner of the living room, and when Bart pushed through it, he entered a land full of beautiful hidden places, palaces and castles, churches, and little secreted streets full of romance and age and it was all so sad.”

“Wow sounds like that guy’s story, you know, where they go through the wardrobe,” Bob interrupted.

George spoke up. “C.S. Lewis. Narnia.”

“Yeh, that’s the one, George,” Dick acknowledged.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Jim said.

“Well go on, Jim, what’s the rest?” Dick said.

“Muriel isn’t very romantic, she’s loving, you know, kiss on the cheek loving. My story is filled with golden weather, and everything is touched with magic, people lining the banks of rivers, sitting in parks, walking in gardens, eating under the trees and listening to Grieg. But it was the sadness, it was overwhelmingly romantic. Muriel thought it was dumb. That’s not life, she says, that’s a child’s fairytale.”

“Is it?” George asked.

“No, George. The story is about a man, Bart, as I said, a bit of a rogue, a character who lets his sanity slip for the sake of creativity. He’s kind of disgusting, farts in public, drinks too much, mutters, stuff like that. He doesn’t mean it, just a twit after a drink. He was an amateur boxer, not very good, and knocked out several times. But he has a good heart.”

“Like Rocky, mean but loves his family,” Bob jumped in. “I can understand your Muriel not wanting to be wed to a Rocky, Jim. Getting kissed through his mouth guard,” he said, chuckling.

Jim chuckled along with him. “Not quite, Bob. Bart’s wife doesn’t understand him, but how she loves him. Early in the story, she meets him when he’s brought to the emergency room, having been knocked out, to have a checkup. Blood from his nose, mouth, and eyes blackened and bloodshot. The nurse, her name is Angela, tends to his needs. He tells her he is the son of a fisherman, a titan, and now he is shaming his family name. Each week vomiting onto canvas, their ears bleeding, and people screaming at the ringside, Angela recognizes there is agony in his voice. She learns that Bart was thrown away, as if rubbish, when a baby.”

“Jesus, Jim, you have an imagination, that’s for sure,” George said.

“Yeh, well it isn’t the opinion of my Muriel, thinks I’ve got too little to do since I retired.”

“Well, Jim. I couldn’t write my home address, so good for you,” Bob praised.

“I can’t write at home; drives Muriel crazy. You need exercise, not sitting in that chair all day long, she whines. I tell her I’m at a crucial part of the story. You’ll be dead before it’s finished if you don’t move, Jim, she says. So I go down to Maggie’s tearoom and write on my iPhone,” he admitted.

“Well, lads, we better be getting off home, or we’ll be missed!” George joked.

The boys get up and take their garbage to the can.

George always enjoyed heading home up the valley. There was never much traffic, and after thirty years of living in the area, he remained awe-struck by the beauty of the scenery.

The river meandered lazily from one side of the valley bottom to the other. On the banks, long stretches of deciduous woodlands. Fingers of trees reached crookedly towards the higher ground, where small streams tumbled down and fed the river.

The meadowland in the pasture was rich, and black and white Friesian cows lazily swished their tails in the late evening sunlight. The narrow road followed the course of the river through the valley.

The speeding ambulance, and the growing pitch of its siren, certainly woke him from admiring the scenery, pulling his car to the verge, and letting the ambulance scream by.

Frank started to think about the coming weekend again. He Remembered back to Pam giving birth to their first son; it was the middle of summer. Their daughter arrived two years later, a January child. He smiled to himself. He’s had a fine career, his family well taken care of, and he knew Pam’s concerns were legitimate. He had not taken care of himself.

She was the best woman he’d ever known. He was going to take her to the mall and spoil her. Not a single moan, no rushing home to watch tv. He was going to give her the attention she deserved. This birthday would be she would remember, their children and grandchildren, seeing his wife sparkle.

Frank arrived home, parked the car in the driveway, grabbed his briefcase, and spent a couple of minutes looking over the garden before entering through the front door.

“I’m home, Pamala,” he called out. Frank removed his jacket, “Pam, I’m home!” There was no response. When he entered the kitchen, the teapot was on the floor smashed. The doorbell rang. It was Veronica, their neighbor. She was crying.