No Fourth River by Christine Clayfield

Author:Christine Clayfield [Clayfield, Christine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RASC Publishing KDP
Published: 2017-11-22T06:00:00+00:00

Your loving Harry

The letter was clearly written so people would think it was all my fault. Harry told the hospital psychiatrist that I ignored him, that I stayed out all night and that he was miserable, lonely and very unhappy.

He wanted to tell the world that it was my fault that we were not happily married. He was the one who was suffering, so he said.

He faked the entire thing shortly after I was released from the hospital, after he pounded my head so badly that I required stitches. And of course, he shared the entire phony story with everyone at the pub. He constantly joked around the house and in the pub about how good he was at faking his death, he found it incredibly funny that I fell for it.

A few weeks later, I arrived home from my evening computer classes to find him sitting in the lounge with blood dripping from his wrists. I called the ambulance and when the medics arrived, they cleaned his wrists up and bandaged them. They were annoyed and told me he was in no danger at all from such minor cuts. He told his newest tale with the same gusto with which he had shared the previous one, and it was all because I was so terrible.

One evening, Harry decided to have Sammy and David over for dinner, a couple that he regularly hung out with at the pub. They owned a big garage in the village and would talk “shop” all day if they could—Harry loved his cars. He drove his second hand sports car, whilst I drove an old banger.

I arrived home from work to a frustrated husband, who was tidying some stuff away for once.

“You better start cooking, and make it good. I like these people,” Harry said to me coldly, shunting me into the kitchen.

I did the best I could, but we had almost no ingredients and I had never learned how to cook. I had little reason to cook. I usually had my warm lunch at work, which was free in the company’s staff restaurant.

We rarely sat down to dinner together like a happy couple would. Harry was usually at the pub and I had my evening classes.

I thought I could manage a roast chicken, and they arrived while I was making a salad. I heard them chatting and laughing in the lounge as I struggled on in the kitchen.

We had no herbs or spices and I knew very little about oven times. In the end, the chicken was slightly burnt, the potatoes were undercooked and the salad was dry. Nevertheless, I was pleased with myself.

It wasn’t that bad really, especially considering I had no chance to plan ahead. I set the roast chicken on the table, Harry stopped talking and glared at it.

“What sort of food is this?” he asked, horrified.

“It’s a roast chicken,” I said to him, feeling the heat rise in my face.

“I can’t eat this. No one can eat this!” he said. “Please excuse my wife.

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