Shirley Golden - The Mad Schemes of Morris
Morris
posed the question a month after he’d retired from the Post Office. ‘If you could transform into to any sort of animal,
which would you choose?’
Karen
was at the sink, Marigolds submerged in dishwater. She gave him a sidelong look, eyebrows
raised, but no, she hadn’t imagined his question; he waited in earnest for her answer. She glanced out of the window and saw Felix, grooming
himself with feline precision on the patio.
‘Oh,
a cat, definitely.’ She often daydreamed
about spending her days strolling around the lawn, sniffing the Geraniums, and snoozing
whenever she felt the urge.
Karen
stacked the last plate on the draining board and pulled free the plug. Retirement seemed to be having a funny effect
on him. ‘Okay, why don’t you tell me?’ She rolled off her gloves and set them
aside.
He
observed her from over the top of his newspaper and cleared his throat before
announcing: ‘A hamster. I’d like to be a
hamster in a cage. And this rag,’ he
shook the paper, ‘could serve as my shredded bed.’
She
shuddered. ‘Oh, I’m not keen on rodents,’
she said.
A
couple of weeks later, Karen heard hammering and other DIY thuds coming from
the spare room. Morris never did much of
anything these days, so the flurry of activity made her squint at the window uneasily
as she watered her roses. She hoped he
was not embarking on another scheme that involved dragging her onto windblown heathland
in makeshift tents.
When
he was on a mission, it was best to leave him be; she decided to pop round to
Marg’s. Marg was recently divorced and
thinking about setting up coffee mornings to get to know the neighbours better. Morris had absorbed that information with his
usual snort, and said it would attract a flock of clucking hens. Karen suspected Marg planned on roping in
some single gentlemen. But she didn’t
tell Morris that.
When
Karen returned, all was quiet. She fed
Felix, who brushed around her legs, and then she went to face whatever Morris
might have in store. The spare room door
was closed and she knocked as she pushed it open.
‘Morris,’
she said.
A
quarter of the room was sectioned off by vertical, wooden slats. She wondered if he was considering buying a
pet. She didn’t want any more fuss over
the impossibility of keeping a dog. She
stepped further into the room. Morris was curled up in the corner, naked, on a
huge bundle of shredded newspaper.
‘Morris?’ She thought he must have collapsed.
He
raised his head. ‘I’m hungry.’
He
looked fine, at least, not physically ill.
‘I’m
sorry I’m later home than I thought…’ She
brought a hand up to cover her mouth and tried to stop laughter from bubbling
out. ‘I’ll get started on some tea,’ she
managed to say. ‘Perhaps you should get
dressed and come downstairs.’
‘I’d
rather eat in here,’ he said.
She
stared at him and thought it must be a joke; except Morris wasn’t one for
jokes.
He
raised his hands to either side of his face and began to lick, smearing saliva
from hands to chin.
‘Would
you like spaghetti bolognaise, or do I need to buy hamster food?’
‘Bolognaise
is fine,’ he muttered into his palms.
‘Funny
diet for a rodent,’ she said.
She
returned to the kitchen as if in a dream.
She wondered if she should call the doctor. She busied herself heating up the sauce and
opened the back door. It was nice to do
so, Morris would never usually allow it; he said the cooking smells would
attract flies. She hummed and smiled to
herself. Felix settled on the threshold,
and looked out into the garden. When she
fed him morsels, he meowed in disbelief and pleasure.
Karen
took charge of the key to the cage door because Morris said he felt safer that
way. She fed him twice-a-day. He liked to eat cereal in the morning and pie
with two veg at night. She ensured fresh
veg was always available as a side dish and he’d cram his cheeks with raw
carrots.
He
said he was sick of clothes but agreed to the golden-furred onesie she sewed
together and referred to as his “coat”.
She bought a treadmill, set up a circular wire frame around it and said
he should exercise. She drew the line at
cleaning up his mess, and insisted he used the chemical toilet and emptied it
when she instructed him. She poked the
tube of a sports bottle through the bars for him to sip water. No, she wouldn’t fill it with whiskey, not
even at the weekend; perhaps at Christmas.
Once
they’d established a routine, he said he’d rather not speak anymore because of
the difficulties with the carrot and cheek situation, and that suited her just
fine. Sometimes she’d sit and watch him
running on his treadmill, and she found it oddly stimulating.
The
coffee mornings proved to be a success, she made many new and interesting
friends. When it was her turn to host, she
didn’t have to worry about Morris causing a disturbance as he’d become
nocturnal. Without him frowning when she
spoke her true opinions, she felt unfettered.
She spent less and less time tied to the house. Her afternoons were peaceful; she’d stretch
out on her new sofa, watching recorded episodes of “QI” or “Autumnwatch” without
his objections. Sometimes she’d curl up
beside the hearth with Felix, splaying her fingers and filing her nails to a
point.
Now
that Morris’s conversion was complete, she felt composed and more inclined to nap
without guilt. When awake, she felt totally
alive, more determined than ever to pursue her desires. And able, at last, to pounce if required.
1 comment:
Congratulations, Shirley, on a fabulous, entertaining story and well-deserved win. x
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