Sweet Home by Carys Bray

Author:Carys Bray
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Random House

Under covers

Carol’s bra is spread-eagled in the hedge like a monstrous, albino bat. The wind has blown it off the washing line and tossed it onto the wispy fingertips of the leylandii, where it reclines in a sprawl of wire, hooks and corralling lace. Despite her best efforts, she can’t reach it. Her washing basket is full of dry laundry. She has removed the pegs from the line and placed them in their little bag. But she can’t go back indoors until she has retrieved the fugitive bra. People might see it.

Earlier on, she hung the little peg bag from the washing line and listened to the pegs crackle as she slid it along. Some people place washing on their lines in an untidy jumble, without even pairing the socks, but Carol hangs things out in an orderly manner, beginning at the far end of the washing line with undergarments and tights. These are followed by blouses, skirts and cardigans, and finally larger items, such as sheets. Sheets are her favourite. They wriggle and flap, squirm and wave until they are marinated in the season. Summer sheets are best. Their dusty warmth reminds Carol of sandy beaches and she brims with nostalgia, recalling the selected highlights of seaside trips with her sons. Sandy sandwiches, sun burn and fear of death by drowning have been consigned to the dustbin of memory.

Carol looks around the garden for something to help her reach and dislodge the bra. The tools are locked in the shed, and she doesn’t want to go back into the house while her bra is exposing itself to the neighbours. Her happiness is stacked in slender, ordered discs, like a packet of Rich Tea biscuits. Unexpected events upset her. Every day she does a wash. There is always plenty to fill the machine because almost everything in her house is covered in washable fabric. The toilet roll is masked by a knitted pig, the toilet lid is embraced by a cross-stitched cover and the bottom of the bath is concealed by an antibacterial, machine-washable, anti-slip mat. The carpet in the lounge is hidden by a beige rug, the dining table lurks under a daily rotated cloth and the sofa is veiled by a patchwork throw. Hot-water bottles are wrapped in furry animal cases, hard-boiled eggs wear knitted warmers and even her occasional bottle of wine must get dressed in a seasonal sweater before standing on the table. Plates are buried under lacy doilies and the teapot is insulated by a cosy, while Carol’s arms and legs are consistently wrapped in cardigans and flesh-coloured tights. Today’s wash is white, full of underwear and table cloths. It has dried quickly in the wafting breeze, a fact that would usually make her happy.

Next door, Sophie and Louisa lie on parallel beds, Swiss-rolled by duvets and yawning like lions. They’ve slept through breakfast and lunch, and landed somewhere in the middle of the afternoon. Louisa unravels herself and kicks her duvet away. She knuckles her eyes and remembers the whispered conversation that kept them awake so long.

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