Open Writing

Thunder rumbled like an empty stomach. Snowdrops shivered in the rain-scented breeze. Annabelle steered her bulk indoors, away from the approaching storm.

Would spring ever come? She dropped the basket of eggs on the kitchen table and flopped down on a chair, kicking off her shoes. Her swollen legs stretched in front of her, making her wonder if she’d ever see her ankles again. Ben used to admire her ankles; hadn’t said anything about them for a while. Come to think of it he hadn’t said much of anything for a while. Hadn’t even touched her, not even a friendly pat on her bottom. Well, she had to allow that she did appear a bit like a bloated heifer. Not sexy. Not enticing. Certainly not romantic.

She smiled grimly as a ridiculous picture flooded her thoughts. A table for two, candle-light, wine, a single rose—and herself clumsily dishing up his favourite dinner of beef stroganoff. But, hold on to that thought. Why not?

She used to prepare little surprises for him. Why not now? Maybe she wouldn’t look quite so bad in the soft glow of candlelight. Anyway, with spring making such a hash of shaking off winter, and the worries of losing most of their lambs in the late snowfall, it might smooth out Ben’s puckered brow for a little while.

With an effort, Annabelle hauled herself from the chair and waddled to the freezer. The phone rang, just as she reached for the package of rump, naturally of course, near the bottom of the chest freezer. Damn! With difficulty, she raised herself up, ice-crusted package in hand, dropped the freezer lid and waddled out of the kitchen into the hallway. It’ll stop ringing before I get there—I know it will. It did.

She puffed her way back into the kitchen, waiting for a moment in the doorway, in case the cursed thing started ringing again. It would be her mother-in-law, Beryl, she guessed. That woman had perfect timing.

Better put the steak into the microwave to defrost, she thought, and as she began to set the timer, the phone rang again. An image of Ken’s mother presented itself, a bitter, big- bosomed woman with a face like a ferret, she’d be tapping her foot impatiently, and staring across the paddocks towards the old homestead. Annabelle and Ben’s home now. Ben’s father died just after he’d finished building a more modern home nearer the main road, and Ken and Annabelle moved into the Homestead after they‘d married four years before. Beryl never missed an opportunity to remark sniffily on any changes Annabelle made, her beady ferret’s eyes searching greedily to confirm her daughter-in-law’s inadequacies.

‘Samantha’—Beryl’s saint of a daughter— ‘Samantha’s got her pantry full of bottling,’ She’d say, eyeing Annabelle’s shelves stacked with tinned goods. And, ‘Samantha has made all new curtains, winter clothes for her children and knitted a fairisle sweater for Doug, all while she was pregnant with her last one.’ It didn’t help that “her last one” was number six.

The damn phone was still ringing. Well, let it ring! Back to the microwave. Annabelle heaved herself around too quickly, and began to topple over. While reaching for the table to steady herself, her arm caught the basket of eggs, which took flight in slow motion, sliding to the very edge of the table, teetering for a long moment, then, eggs spewing forth and exploding like grenades on the walls, on the floor, on the chairs, even as high as the ceiling and splattering Annabelle as she sprawled on her back beside the now empty basket which settled defiantly upright beside her on the floor.

The phone kept ringing.

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ bellowed Annabelle, spitting slimy, broken egg yolk in a spray over the mess. She attempted to roll herself over, but found she was cast like a pregnant, heavy-fleeced, ewe. Helpless, in a puddle of scrambled eggs and crunchy shells.

The ringing didn’t stop.

Annabelle stretched for the leg of a chair, started pulling it towards her and swore mightily as it toppled on top of her. Then—then the pains started.

Oh God! Oh God, not now! The baby wasn’t due for another two weeks. From where she lay, she could see the clock on the wall, ticking away the relentless minutes. With an effort she managed to push the chair from her, leaving it lying as helpless as she.

Exactly ten minutes later, another contraction gripped her, leaving her gasping and frightened. She tried again, to raise herself, but the floor was too slippery and she worried she might do more harm to her baby.

There was a blinding flash of lightening followed by an almighty crash of thunder, the power went off and thankfully, the phone stopped ringing. Annabelle heard heavy raindrops begin to fall on the iron roof. Puffin, the tabby, always petrified of thunder, came flying through the door from the hallway and slithered wildly towards Annabelle, before crashing clumsily into the fallen chair which slid with cat entwined, under the table.

Gingerly, Puffin extricated herself, and tried to creep across to her fallen mistress; but her paws were unable to gain any purchase on the egg-mix, her eyes, huge, her ears flattened, she chose to stay right where she was as another flash of lightening signalled more thunder crashing overhead.

The rain turned to hail. ‘O-o-oh, E-e-e-e-wee!’ Gasped Annabelle. She didn’t hear the back-door open, the hurried steps, Ben’s cry as he slipped on the treacherous floor, a casserole dish leaping from his hands and spilling it’s contents to join the glorious melee. She only became aware that he was lying beside her as the pain faded away.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she managed to gasp. ‘Are you alright? I think the baby’s coming.’

‘Ohmygod!’ Beryl stood in the doorway.

‘Don’t come in,’ screamed Ben.

‘O-o-oooh,’ cried Annabelle.

‘I think I’ve broken something,’ Ben whimpered.

‘I’ll get the cell-phone, call the ambulance,’ offered Beryl. ‘Never mind the lovely surprise dinner Ben and I’ve prepared for you. Kept trying to phone you not to prepare anything for tonight.’ And throwing a chilling look at the chaos, she retreated outside through the hailstones, to the safety of her car.

Ben reached for Annabelle’s hand. ‘I love you, Belle.’

‘I love you too, Ben. Maybe we should name our baby “Egbert”.’

They were both still laughing an hour later when, under clearing skies, the ambulance arrived to take them both to hospital..