Living On Three Continents: In The Cut
Sonia phones to confirm the order. One truckload of cement to be poured into the trench along the front of the house... Ah, but what will lie hidden beneath that cement? Susan Siddeley tells a deliciously dark tale.
Patrick lies on his back, two metres down, his usual smirk quite gone. His tall frame fits perfectly into the narrow, straight-sided cut. He looks stiff, yet rested. His favourite green sweater, which is so difficult to dry, shows just a just a series of muddy streaks on the sleeves. The creases she never fails to put in the jeans still hold. There’s no doubt about it, Patrick has come to a final rest in the wall-drying, draining moat he’s excavated right around their house.
Sonia feels a smile creep across her face. She found him an hour ago, stared at him for five minutes, then made her decision. Two suitcases wait by the door. Now, pulling out the scrap of paper with three numbers scribbled on, she walks stiffly to the phone in the kitchen. Her leg hurts, but the wound is healing nicely.
The first two calls are easy.
“Ola, si, buenas días. Necesito un taxi al aeropuerto por favor. Twenty minutes perfect. The address is .... ” Sonia repeats their address automatically, and without regret, for the last time.
Then, “Hi Jenny, it’s me. Just calling to say we’ve managed to get a much earlier flight - still at the sale price, so we’re off. Yes, sooner than planned, but why not? Say ‘hi’ to the others. Enjoy your game. You too. Bye.”
Before tackling the third call, Sonia takes a deep breath, coughs to clear her throat and lowers her voice a register.
“Hola. Buenos Días.... Sonia Edwards here. I have a message for don Roberto. No, no I don’t need to speak to him. Just tell him that Senor Edwards called to confirm the order. One truckload of cement to be poured into the trench along the front of the house, as requested. No, unfortunately he got called away, but he says the trench is ready and don Roberto knows what to do...Gracias.”
Now, all that’s required is the topping. The icing on the cake, Sonia thinks patting her hair - the two wheelbarrows full of gravel that Patrick had readied that morning.
Sonia has just finished tippling them on top of Patrick - ever so carefully - so as not to disturb his peaceful look, or leave any bits exposed, when the taxi swings into the drive. She pushes the barrows aside and pulls her suitcases carefully over the little bridge Patrick fixed up yesterday - the day after she herself fell into the drain.
She’d managed to overstep its gaping maw for a week, carefully striding long, every time she went out of the front door. Until, two days ago that is, when, carrying a vase of flowers she’d spent half an hour arranging, she quite forgot.
As he had known she would, she thought in that fraction of a second when it was too late and the mildewed sides engulfed her. She’d lain there, bleeding and trembling for an hour before Patrick, claiming an urgent errand had taken him to the DIY shop, arrived and pulled her out.
Various bruises and twenty stitches in the gash on her leg, was the not too horrendous result, but still, he should never have dug the thing, and so deep. The house wasn’t that damp.
And, for that matter, he shouldn’t have got so very angry about her shrinking his best golf shirt last week, or her losing her cell phone. And he shouldn’t have spent so long hovering over that flighty receptionist at the office party at Christmas.
Silly Patrick.
