The Vicar's Wife

''Dominic, take me to the cinema tonight, pleeeeease.''  Dominic glanced down to where  his wife Millicent was sitting on the sofa and shook his head.  "Dinner then, that new restaurant has had rave reviews in the Town Cryer.''  This time Millicent didn’t even receive a shake of the head.  Realising that she had now lost what little attention her husband had given her, she decided to batter her way back into his thoughts by shouting, ''DOMINIC!''  Dominic turned slowly on his heel to face her, he was still wearing the puzzled and confused expression he had entered the room with moments earlier, ''Mmm?  Yes dear, you were saying?''  He answered in a distracted way.   Millicent sighed, and in a loud, clear voice, giving every word a fair chance of being registered in Dominic’s brain, she asked, ''Are-you-busy-dear?''   For a moment or two Millicent feared she had lost him again as he had resumed surveying the room in a perplexed manner, but after a false start or two he managed to answer, ''Um, err, busy?  Yes, busy, drafting sermon, oh, must ring Bishop…….Millicent, do you know what I came in here for?''  Millicent gave up, ''No dear, I have no idea,'' she said, picking up a magazine from the coffee table.  Dominic gave a short laugh and said, ''I expect it’ll come to me.''  And with that, not giving his wife a second glance, he left the room.

Giving an impatient and frustrated ‘tut’ Millicent threw the magazine back onto the coffee table, rose from the sofa and followed Dominic out of the room.  Their mutual paths separated at the foot of the stairs, Dominic to continue down the hall to his study, and Millicent up the stairs to her bedroom.  Not expecting any reply, but still feeling she ought to say something, Millicent told her husband, ''I’m just going for a lie down''  She wasn’t disappointed, Dominic, still lost in his own head, didn’t answer.

Her bedroom was in fact one of the Vicarage’s guest rooms.  Since arriving in the new diocese six months ago they hadn’t, as yet, had any staying guests, so what started off as just a place of sanctuary and privacy had become her sleeping quarters too.  Whether Dominic had noticed her absence from the marital bed was a matter of conjecture, he certainly hadn’t made any enquiry over the new sleeping arrangements.

Having her own room suited her needs perfectly, and a couple of those needs were locked away in the bedside cabinet.  Not that Millicent took any particular precautions at hiding her ‘needs.’  Although carefully locking the cabinet after she had finished with them, she would then put the little key on top of the cabinet, the locking away had become a habit, the fear of discovery was non-existent.  Crouching, she unlocked the cabinet, and with a sigh of impending pleasure she withdrew a bottle of gin, an ashtray, and a pack of twenty Marlboro tipped, with her gold plated lighter tucked inside.   Alright, as guilty pleasures go, when compared to what some people indulged in, these were pretty innocuous, but not to a straight laced, by-the-book Vicar, and by reflection, a Vicar's wife should be squeaky clean.  Lecturing to people against smoking and drinking anything but the occasional glass of wine or sherry had to be backed up with exemplary behaviour.  Millicent, except for these few guilty pleasures, considered her behaviour to be exemplary.  She had never stinted on her role as a Vicar’s wife, willing and uncomplainingly she had carried out her duties, it was only in the last few months that the words  ‘more fool me’ had crept into her unspoken thoughts when she ran her job description attributes through her mind.

Millicent took a deep and satisfying drag on her cigarette, keeping the smoke in her lungs for as long as possible before letting it escape slowly, then taking a mouthful of the raw, neat gin she swilled it around her mouth before swallowing.  Her eyes rolled back in sheer unadulterated pleasure as the fluid made its way, warmly and comfortingly, down to her stomach.  She wasn’t bored; she was too busy to be bored.  She knew that the reason for her discontentment lay in the missing of herself.  She was The Vicar’s Wife.  She doubted if any of the parishioners, old or new, were even aware of her first name.  She was Mrs Morgan, the Vicar’s wife, no past, never considered as once having a childhood, never thought of as the blossoming and very attractive young woman she once was, nothing, no self-identity, just the Vicar’s bloody wife. 

She sat up from the bed and took a long look at herself in the dressing-table mirror, when was the last time she had worn make-up?  Her wedding day?  Yes, her wedding day, and then only the merest smidgen.  In the early romantic days of marriage Dominic had flattered her into believing that she didn’t need to wear what he termed as a harlot’s armoury, she was beautiful as she was, and she had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.  Well, bugger that!  Even thinking the expletive gave her a thrill.  She had some errands to run in town tomorrow morning, she was going to make one of those errands hers……she was going to buy some make-up.

There was no need to sneak anything into the house, Dominic had never asked what she may or may not have had in any bag she was carrying.  This time it was different, the sneaking was part of it, part of the excitement.  She had to pass Dominic on his way to his study in the hall and made a show of hiding the bag behind her back, he never even batted an eyelid, but she could pretend he might have noticed, she could pretend that he might find her out.  Millicent was breathless when she reached her room, and feeling like a teenager again she emptied her carrier bag onto the bed.  Make up!!  Even the word made her want to giggle.  Well, she had bought it, now the question was, would she dare to wear it?  OH YES!

Half an hour and several re-starts later she surveyor the final results in the dressing table mirror.  Her smile when it finally came was gentle and sweet, ''I’m me,'' she quietly murmured.  Her self-admiration was abruptly brought to an end by Dominic yelling up the stairs, ‘’Millicent, it’s the err, um, phone, for you dear, it’s err, it’s someone…..for you.’’  Taking one last look in the mirror she hastily grabbed a tissue and wiped herself off her face.

Her make up session became one more secret pleasure.  The more she practised, the more expert she became.  ‘This time,’ she said to herself, ‘This time I am going to go down those stairs, fully made up to the nines and he will have to grin and bear it….this is something, this is part of me, he is not taking away.’   Well, that is what she told herself, the reality never happened, and as the days passed her disappointment in herself grew, as did her consumption of gin, until one mid-morning found her sitting in front of her mirror, beautifully made up but still in her dressing gown and stinking drunk.  Dominic was out, somewhere, she was past caring what he had told her through her bedroom door,  so when the front doorbell rang tottering downstairs to answer it was done in that automatic, non-thinking way that the inebriated often employ.

The young man that stood on her doorstep was….at first glance Millicent thought he was twins, but a hard blink of her eyes re-scrambled the information into solo and handsome.  He was saying something about vacuum cleaners, and would she like to purchase one, she stood to one side and waved him in.  Once she had managed to convey the idea of him sitting and had shut him up about bloody vacuum cleaners, she tried  desperately to put her ‘Vicar’s wife's hat’ on and offer him a drink.  She meant tea, but he had looked towards the drinks cabinet, on top of which a solitary bottle of ten year malt whisky (for the Bishop, should he ever deem to visit) resided on an ornate brass tray alongside an upside down cut glass tumbler.  ‘’Oh, alright then, a little drinky poo.’’  She said, and staggered over to the cabinet.  Deciding to join him, (as much as she preferred gin, she knew that part of being a Vicar’s wife was putting people at their ease) she reached down to take another tumbler out of the cabinet.  It suddenly seemed to Millicent that the cabinet was rushing up to meet her when she felt a firm hand on her ribcage and another on her waist.  ‘’I think you better sit down,’’ said the handsome young man.  Millicent looked down toward where his hand still rested on her now naked flesh, ‘’Ahh, I appear to have come undone,’’  she murmured, referring to her dressing gown.  Strangely she felt neither anger nor embarrassment, what she felt was more like the anticipatory feeling she had before unlocking her bedside cabinet.

The man’s hand slid up and encompassed her breast, his voice, a heavy whisper, came from somewhere close to her left ear,  ‘’Perhaps you would be happier if you were to sit down upstairs.’’  The best Millicent could managed through her dry throat was a croaked, ‘’Yes.’’  Even this short single word barely left her before his lips found hers and his tongue made its first wet exploration of her mouth.  He pulled her body into his and an almost forgotten hardness pressed against her, Millicent gave his chest a gentle push and whispered, ‘’You’ll have to help me upstairs.’’  ‘’Yes, of course,’’ he replied, his voice now as thick as syrup, or something.

Even in later years Millicent could never explain to herself why she directed him to the master bedroom, Dominic’s bedroom, and not her own private domain, but she did.  After ten minutes of enjoying his expertise Millicent started to sober up.  Now she felt anger, at herself, now she felt embarrassment, this man, this strange man, might not be young enough to be her son, but was certainly of an age to be a much younger brother.  As an afterthought she remembered she was married, and adultery was frowned upon.  It also occurred to her that although her lust was spent, his was not, he was still bouncing up and down on top of her, ‘Dear Gods,’ she thought, 'the man doesn't even know my name?’  She decided enough was enough, they had had their fun, she had broken all the rules, she had, without doubt, re-discovered herself, (although she wasn’t at all sure if she did like this side of her re-discovered her, it was all a bit messy in a slippery kind of way)  it was now time to get back to her usual day to day life as a discontented Vicar’s wife.

 Millicent was about to deliver her busy lover a hard, emphatic whack across the side of his head when the bedroom door opened.  Millicent looked up and saw Dominic standing just in front of the doorway.   He didn’t look angry, or hurt, he just looked confused, but as he always looked confused what he was actually looking now was normal.  He cleared his throat and said, ''There’s a err, um, a strange vacuum cleaner in the living room dear, and err, could you ask your friend to leave…..oh, I say, could you ask your friend to get dressed and leave.''  As Dominic had started talking the  man had ceased his activity and made a move to leap from the bed.  Something in Millicent’s mind snapped.  If Dominic had burst in, if he had slapped her and shouted at her, calling her a disgrace, a harlot, a whore, if he had punched her lover and physically thrown him down the stairs…….if he had shown that he cared in any way, shape, or form, then maybe her actions would have been different.

The anger that had been building up, not just that day, but over many months, finally burst out.  Millicent grabbed the man’s arm and hoisted him back onto the bed.  She then, to keep the man pinned down, knelt on him.  Naked, and trembling with rage, she faced her husband, her words were not shouted, but they were forceful, ''No Dominic, it isn’t my friend that will be leaving.’’  Then casting her eyes down to the man laying prone beneath her knees she turned her forceful words on him, ‘’And you, you will stay exactly where you are, if you move a muscle I will personally tear your balls off and feed them to the dog.’’  They didn’t actually have a dog, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Millicent rushed out of the room, leaving the two men staring at each other in shared horror.  Dominic shuffled his feet in embarrassment before saying, ‘’Erm, we haven’t actually been introduced, I’m er, I’m the Reverend Dominic Morgan, um, Millicent’s husband, and you…..are?’’  ''Scared out of my fucking wits, excuse me if I don’t shake hands……is she mad?’’  Came the near hysterical reply.  Dominic gave a worried frown and looked towards the door before answering, ‘’Um, no, I’m not sure, a little miffed perhaps.’’  His eyes then went to the window where a couple of sheets of paper drifted past on the breeze,  ''Ah,’’ Dominic continued, ''Maybe very miffed.’’  It was Dominic’s turn to race out of the room.  The man decided that his best course of action in this house of insanity would be to remain still, very still, until he thought he was forgotten about, and then to make his escape, they could keep the bloody vacuum cleaner.

The couple of sheets of paper were correctly recognised by Dominic as his Sunday Sermon draft.  Millicent had gone into his study and snatched them up, taken them outside, and thrown them into the air where the breeze had collected them, Millicent’s nakedness had collected a crowd.  To the various shouts of encouragement and jeers from the onlookers Dominic came and stood beside his naked wife on the front lawn.  He looked in abject despair at his sermon dancing playfully on the breeze…he could never remember what to say off by heart, and he had a feeling that this was a particularly good sermon.  One of the pages drifted toward him and he grabbed it.  Maybe he could collect the rest, and all would be well.  He set off in pursuit of the others.  This was exactly what Millicent knew he would do.   Giving a theatrical bow to her audience she went back into the Vicarage and locked and bolted the door.

 Before returning to the master bedroom Millicent went to her own and showered, (en suite was the blessing that prevented the curse of bumping into Dominic along the corridor at night).  She then dressed in her most respectable outfit.  Examining herself in the mirror she smiled.  She didn’t need make-up, or lovers or fags or booze to know who she was.  She was Millicent Morgan, the Vicars wife, a mainstay of the community, someone to be looked up to, a shoulder to cry on, a helping hand to those who had fallen from grace, because now she had empathy, understanding, she knew what falling from grace meant.  Hopefully Dominic, when she let him back in, would see it that way too.  ‘Now,’ she thought, with a new air of confidence, ‘What are we going to do with Mr Vacuum Cleaner Salesman?’

Mr Vacuum Cleaner Salesman on perceiving that everything seemed to be calm in the house had dared to arise and dress.  As Millicent entered the room he turned and in an almost ingratiating voice said, ''Ah, Mrs Morgan, I’ll be off then.’’  ''No,’’ replied Millicent in a voice that brooked no argument, ‘’You won’t, you’ll stay put until I tell you differently.’’  The salesman looked around him wildly and shook his head, ''No, no, you see, you can’t hold me here against my will, that’s breaking the law that is.’’  Millicent gave him her sweetest smile and replied, ‘’So’s rape Mr Man.’’  The salesman’s legs buckled and he collapsed in anguish on the bed.  Millicent, remembering her resolve to be a better Vicar’s wife tried to comfort this sad, fallen soul by telling him, ‘’Look, it’s not forever, I don’t actually want you around for any longer then necessary, it’s just until I’ve sorted out what to do with my husband.’’  The salesman felt a lot of things at her words, comfort was not one of them.

Dominic, with the help of some sympathetic bystanders, had collected what he felt sure was all the pages of his sermon, he was now puzzling over why he couldn’t unlock his front door.  Some helpful soul had suggesting trying the back door, but he couldn’t for the life of him think why, to his knowledge he had never had a back door key.  In desperation he raised the knocker and gave a timorous rap, ''Um. Millicent, dear, I er, I seemed to be locked out.'' He called with his head close up to the door.  Millicent's reply of, ''I know,'' came from his waist level, making him jump.  Looking down he saw the letter box partially open, realising that Millicent was talking through it he dropped to his knees to better continue their conversation.  ''Can you er, let me in dear?'' he asked,  ''No!'' Came her reply.  Dominic stood up to have a little think about this.  Nodding to himself he resumed his kneeling position in front of the letter box, ''Is er, something wrong dear?'' he inquired.  There was a seconds silence from the other side before, ''What? You come home, find me in bed with a complete stranger and then have the effrontery to ask me if something is wrong, just what planet do you live on Dominic?''  ''Ahh,'' Dominic replied, believing that he had now got to the root of her problem, ''That, well dear, um, er, forgiveness....''  ''Don't you bloody dare Dominic, don't you dare give me.....and don't you bloody dare either...come back here!!''  The last part was shouted so loudly that Dominic toppled back from his knees and onto his backside.  From inside the Vicarage came more shouting, some of it a masculine, but falsetto ''NO, NO, NOOOOO!!''  This was followed by a crash and then a disturbing silence.  Dominic scrambled back to his knees and called through the letter box, ''Millicent, Millicent, are you alright dear, please talk to me.''   From the other side came a breathless panting, and then Millicent's voice, soft and full of awe, ''Dominic, did you just ask if I was alright?''  Dominic, his confusion growing, answered, ''Yes dear, there was an awful shouting and crashing and um, you are unharmed, aren't you dear.''  This was followed by the noise of bolts being slid back and locks being unlocked, the door was flung open and Millicent leapt out and wrapped her arms around her husband's head, (he was still kneeling.)  ''Oh my darling Dominic, you do care!'' She sobbed into the top of his head.  Somewhere from her midriff came the muffled reply, ''Well yes, of course dear.''

The wanna-be escapee salesman was just coming round on the kitchen floor, where Millicent's new found forcefulness, aided by a frying pan, had rended him unconscious.  He wasn't seriously hurt and waved the proffered medical check-over away.  It had been the Verger, curious as to why a large crowd had formed outside the Vicarage, who had called an ambulance and the police.  The police had listened patiently to all sides and decided that no action was to be taken.  As the salesman walked away, heading for his car and the shortest route out of town, one of the policemen asked him, ''You're not local then?''  ''No, no, I live in Brailton, two hundred miles away, I promised the missus I'd be home tonight, I'd best be on my way.''  ''You're married?''  asked the policeman in astonishment.  ''Yeh, yeh, I know, I've always been weak in that way, if the Missus ever found out......''  The salesman paused, contemplating the horror of his wife discovering his indiscretions, being thumped with a frying pan was nothing in comparison to the pain his woman would dole out.

The following weeks saw an increase in congregation numbers, they were the curious who had come to gawp at the Vicar and his wife, the word had got around that she had danced naked on her front lawn, that was a witchy thing to do, next it would be up the Common with no drawers on, it was a disgrace.  The Bishop who, thanks to the garrulous Verger, was well acquainted with what had happened.  He knew that after the rise in church-goers would be the empty pews, the devouts' way of protesting.  He came to the decision that the Reverend Morgan must be moved to a new diocese.  There was one he had in mind, in sore need of spiritual guidance, and more importantly, far enough away not to have heard any gossip.  Where was it again, Brailton?  Yes that was it, Brailton, Morgan and his dreadful wife could make a new start where no-one knew them.                      

       

                                                                              

     

The Trouble with Mushrooms

Part One - A Passing Thought

Marion sat at the kitchen table, her hand wrapped around her cup of coffee taking in its comforting heat.  She was slightly skewed in her chair so she could rest her poor weary feet on another.  She couldn't believe that standing around could make your feet ache so much!  Previously, it had been a slow day at the bakers where she worked a couple of times a week.  Her boss had looked pointedly at her a number of times before finally saying, "You looked whacked out Marion, go home and put your feet up."  
She hadn't argued, she had simply nodded, gave a brief smile, grabbed her coat and left.  She was now doing exactly as her boss had suggested.  It was true, she had been feeling tired just lately, not physically tired, just fed up tired.  She returned her attention to her coffee, and taking a sip, wondered when the last time she took a couple of unscheduled hours for herself was.  Her husband Brian was at work and wouldn't be home for another two hours, she looked up at the clock to check, four o'clock now; he would be in through the back kitchen door at six on the dot.  She gave a little chuckle to herself at the irony, here she was with a little time on her hands, but her feet ached too much to take advantage of them. 

Heaving a large sigh and leaning forward to rub her toes she mused over her life. She was forty seven years old and had married Brian Matthews twenty five years ago, their anniversary had been just last week.  They had never had any children, it just hadn't happened.  Brian always believed that it was 'one-of-those-things-that-wasn't-meant-to-happen' and so would never agree to any fertility tests.  He never even considered the possibility that their childless state could be his fault, saying to her in his patronising way, "Never mind love, not every woman can have kids, besides you'll always have me, ha, ha."  
Brian, in his opinion, is always right.

Everything about their home life is routine.  Wake up at the same time, eat at the same time, she washes the dishes he dries, always in time to catch his favourite soap opera on the telly.  They have their routine cup of cocoa at nine and go to bed at ten.  They holiday on the same two weeks every year, and go to the same location - Sidmouth in Devon.  They have visited the Donkey Sanctuary there so many times that she had developed a secret loathing for the beasts.  They make love on a Friday night, unless she has a period, then they sit in bed and read instead.  Love making is pretty much a 'roll-on, roll-off' experience.  Brian has never heard of fore-play, or, what is more likely, would find that part of love making too much of a stretch for his routine imagination.  Brian never thinks outside the box.

Brian is not a bad man, he is not violent, nor is he a drunkard, he is not a womaniser.  He had been in the same job since leaving school at 18.  He reached the heady heights of his profession by being promoted to foreman from stock room attendant ten years ago, and he has never had any ambitions to go further up the ladder to Manager, the hours for that particular position being too erratic for his way of thinking.  No, Brian is not a bad man; he is a bloody BORING man.  So, by reflection, her life is one safe, day to day 'by the book' sameness.

Her part time job at the bakers is a god-send, she actually gets to meet people who experience life outside the regime of clock and calender watching. They actually sit down and ARGUE about where to spend their holidays.  She is stunned at this, Brian and she have never argued about what to do or where to go.  It's already set in stone what they are going to do, that day, that week, that month, that year.  It's all there in The Diary.  A direct copy of last years, and the year before, a precise facsimile for the past twenty five years.  Brian likes it that way, "There's no confusion with routine" he's always telling her. Even his bloody bowels are spot-on-to-the-minute regular.  It occurs to her whether or not he has a precise date in his little Collins Diary for his death!  Highly likely, she can see it clearly, "Sorry dear," he would say, "No Coronation Street for us tonight, I'm scheduled to die at 19.00 hours on the dot, and you know I hate to be late."  Oh!  If only he would!  She hates Coronation Street and would dearly love to watch Nigella's cookery programme on BBC2 instead.

Just lately her thoughts seem to be full of the phrase, '...would dearly love to...'  If only she could do one defiant thing, something that would set her free to take up the reins of her own life. to do exactly what she pleased, but more importantly, when she pleased.  Leave Brian?  No, he would come after her with his whining and reasonable debating voice.  The only way to shut him up would be to trot obediently back home after him.  Or, of course, she could always kill him, do him in.  The beauty of that would be she would get, for once in their marriage, to set the time, date and place.  Or maybe she would do it on the spur of the moment, what an irony for a man like Brian, hah!  The look on his face as she sweetly informed him, "I know this isn't in The Diary dear, but..."  
Her smile became a giggle, and then, with the realisation of how dark her ponderings had become, her hand flew to her mouth.  What an awful, dreadful thought.  How could she even play with the idea?  Brian wasn't a bad man, and he didn't deserve being thought of in those terms.  But then, did she deserve this mind-numbingly boring existence?  Besides which, violence wasn't part of her character, the mere thought of taking a kitchen knife and......no, never!  As for shooting him, well, just where did one purchase a gun, certainly not at the local Pound Saver in the High Street.  Realising her thoughts were once again taking a dark turn she shook her head to clear them.

She glanced up at the clock, and gasped out, "Oh for goodness sake!"  
She had sat far too long in thought, if she did not get a move on dinner would be late.  Brian would be sat at the table, knife and fork expectantly in hand, and that disapproving, pitying look on his face, 
"Organisation, my sweet, applies in the kitchen as well as to life" he would say, and she would have to resist the urge to bash him over the head with a saucepan.  
Letting out another sigh she heaved herself to her feet and set about the task of preparing dinner.

Part Two - A Shocking Idea

Friday night and it was that time of the month. Marion didn't know whether to feel happy or sad about it as she climbed into bed next to Brian.  Something always had to be better than nothing she supposed, then again, 'can't miss what you never had' sprung to mind.  Excitement in the bedroom was something she had definitely never had.

Brian was already deeply engrossed in his book, 'The A-Z of British Birds,' as she picked up her magazine.  There was such interesting real-life stories in this particular issue, as well as homely recipes for high-calorie, high-fat country cooking.  These were closely followed, usually on the next page, by the latest exercise regimes and slimming tips.  The recipe for 'Wild Mushroom Omelette' caught her eye.  My, it looked tasty, and both Brian and herself were partial to mushrooms, and especially mushrooms in omelets.  It was pretty much the same recipe she already used, except for the wildness of the mushrooms.  She was about to turn the page when a footnote at the bottom of the recipe intrigued her, 'When sourcing mushrooms from the wild the reader is strongly advised to make a proper identification of them. some mushroom, whilst having the appearance of the edible variety, are highly poisonous.'  
Her initial thought was, "Then why bother getting up at silly o'clock in the morning to pick them.  Then run the risk of harming yourself, when you could quite safely buy tame ones from the green grocers, and at a more reasonable hour of the day."  Her second thought was, "Getting up at silly o'clock would be preferable, and easier, than a kitchen knife."  
The shock went through her like a bolt of electricity making her sit upright and look directly at Brian.  He in return glanced up from his book and remarked, "Sleepy already dear."   He glanced at the clock on the bed side table, 
"Yes, it's time for lights out....... nighty-night, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite."
With that he gave her a perfunctionary peck on the cheek, turned out the double head board reading light, lay down, laced his fingers across his chest, and fell into a deep, self-satisfied slumber.

In the darkened room Marion remained where she was, sitting straight upright.  Her head was full of chaos.   She didn't want to kill her husband, he was.....her husband.  Although she was no longer convinced that what she felt for him was 'love,' she certainly didn't hate him.  True, he wore her out with his precise regimes and the by-the-clock way he organised their lives.  She needed a holiday, a break away from Brian, that was all.  These preposterous thoughts were the result of twenty five years of marching to the steadily timed beat of Brian's drum.  "Fat chance," she thought as she punched her pillow into a more acceptable shape and rolled on to her side, her back to Brian. 

But why, why was it so out of the question?  Connie, who she worked with at the bakery, her husband frequently went away at weekends, playing golf, Marion remembered her saying, leaving Connie to do pretty much as she pleased, shopping mainly.  Marion had NEVER been on a big 'retail therapy' shopping expedition.  Ohhhh it sounded fun!  
"I don't know though," she suddenly thought to herself.  She remembered that there was that time when Brian was in bed with the flu' and she had popped out for an hour, taking the opportunity to buy herself some new undies.  She let out a huge sigh, it wasn't the same, it didn't even sound the same as full blown 'retail therapy.'  
"What a wasted chance" she muttered.  Next time Brian was laid up ill, she decided, she would take full advantage.  Knowing her luck he would probably remain hale and hearty for a further twenty five years, unless of course, he had eaten something that disagreed with him, something like wild mushrooms for instance.  NO, nooo...........but yes!  Not enough to do any real damage, just enough to give him a tummy upset.  Maybe, he would think it was his appendix.  Maybe, he would have to go to hospital for tests.  Maybe, it would take a whole week to do them, (she would settle for a weekend though), and with this list of ever plausible 'maybes' she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Part Three - Spoiled Plans Aid A Wicked Plot 

She knew what to do now, and she knew she was going to do it.  Getting up at silly o'clock would never be a problem, especially on a Sunday.  Brian's ability to sleep soundly, almost coma like, was astounding, however, Marion knew that once the alarm went off at eight o'clock he would be wide awake and fully compos mentis.

Except on Sunday, on Sunday the alarm clock was always set for nine, Sunday was their 'lay-in' morning.  So, Sunday morning mushroom picking it was then.  This would give Marion today, Saturday, to borrow a book from the library....It suddenly occurred to Marion that borrowing a book from the library might not be such a good idea.  After all, if it was ever discovered what Brian had eaten then all fingers would be pointed in her direction, and rightly so, all borrowed books were carefully logged in and out, and thus traceable.  This posed a problem, it would mean she would have to purchase a book on mushrooms, but not locally, for almost the same reason as borrowing one from the Library, she was just too well known in her village High Street.  They were going into town later that day, but how to slip the leash and get away from Brian's supervisory gaze long enough to find a book shop and make her purchase?  He regarded the weekends as 'their time,' everything must be done as a couple, well almost everything.

She gave the morning break coffees she was preparing a final stir and was about to carry the tray through to the living room when Brian stepped through the kitchen door,
"For goodness sake Marion, you were supposed to pop by the garage in the week and  fill the jerry can, gardening tomorrow afternoon, how can I possibly mow the lawn with no petrol for the mower?"  
"Oh bugger" thought Marion, what with one thing and another she had quite forgot.  
"Well give me time to do my hair, put my shoes and coat on and we can go and get some now," she replied, trying to make some amends.  Brian frowned and shook his head, "No, no, no.  We are supposed to be going to Trownbury this afternoon to pick a video up for tonight, the garage is in the totally opposite direction.  For goodness sake Marion, see how one little forgotten detail can upset all our plans?  Saturday evening is our movie at home evening.  This is SO unscheduled."  
"Poor Brian" Marion thought, he really couldn't handled 'unscheduled.'  
Marion spread her hands in a consolatory manner, "I am so sorry dear, I don't know what to suggest."  
The truth of the matter was that Marion really couldn't be bothered to suggest anything, she had tried suggestions in the past and had met with the response, "Oh you sweet funny girl, I know you are only trying to help, but leave the thinking to me."  
From that day, as far as offering up her helpful suggestions went, he could take his problems and stick them in a pipe and smoke them! 

Brian's voice broke her out of her sulky reverie, 
"Here's what we will do, and you only have yourself to blame dear, you must get into the habit of writing reminders down," "Oh bloody get on with it" thought Marion in response.  
As if hearing her thoughts Brian continued, "I shall have to fill the jerry can up, and whilst I am in that direction I can pop into the Garden Centre, and you dear, can take the bus into Trownbury and collect the video, you know the one we wanted to watch tonight, you do remember don't you dear?  It just spoils our Saturday afternoon together this change of plans, but," and here he waved his index finger in her direction and heaved one of his martyred sighs, "It's the price we both have to pay for your absent mindedness."

Part Four - Shopping Completed............

If Marion had been in any doubt about the wisdom, or even the moral implication of her plan, then that last conversation with Brian had dispelled any such worries.  She sat on the bus to Trownbury feeling happy and relaxed, and she just loved feeling that way.  Her plans to find an excuse to slip away from Brian in Trownbury had been handed to her on a plate, by Brian, oh the delicious, joyful irony of it!  Unusually the bus made good time, and arriving at her destination she headed straight for the video hire shop, she would see to that task first, she didn't dare risk forgetting yet another chore.  Her luck held, 'Murder on the Orient Express,' starring Peter Ustinov, was available.  (She was very hard put to think why it wouldn't be.)  Next stop, the second hand book shop. 

It was a dark, dusty, musty place.  She had, of course, expected books, but not everywhere.  They were crammed onto shelves, piled up on chairs and the counter, and they teetered in uneven towers on the floor.  There appeared to be no categorizing, no way of telling where in the mayhem her particular book of interest might be.  Whoever owned this shop was the exact opposite mind-set of Brian.  For the first time since her arrival in Trownbury Marion felt that things might not be quite as straightforward as she had hoped.  She simply did not have the time to trawl through all these books, and yet she had chosen this particular shop for its out of the way location and air of antiquity.  (For some reason Marion felt that a book containing information on poisonous mushrooms would only be found in a much older, long established book shop, she couldn't for one moment imagine being able to find such a book in W H Smiths.) 

She was about to desolately turn on her heel and walk out when a voice said, "Yes?"  
The owner of the voice was as dusty and musty as his books, which is why she had not at first noticed him, he just sort of blended in.  
"Oh.......Yes" said Marion, caught off guard, "Mushrooms, do you have a book on mushrooms, wild ones, and um...those that might possibly not be good for you, that might, you know..."  
Realising that she might be in danger of rambling she stopped and squinted through the gloom in the vain hope of being able to gauge a reaction.  
"Fungi, wait there" was the vocal reaction she received, and with that the shop keeper disappeared into the even more gloomier depths of the shop.  Marion really did think she was in for a long wait, but very soon she heard the slow heavy footfall of him returning.  
"Fungi," he grunted dropping several books down on to the counter in front of her, causing a cloud of dust to poof up.  "Err yes, thank you" said Marion, the shop keeper gave a perfunctory nod, turned and was swallowed up once more by the gloom. 

Marion assumed that she now had to sift through the offerings, make her choice and buy it.  Trying to ignore the muck and grime that the books were encrusted in she picked them up one by one. Seeing what gems of information lay within was impossible, even with her reading glasses, the shop was just too poorly lit, she wondered if the shopkeeper would let her take them outside, she was on the point of clearing her dusty throat to voice her request, (she knew he must be somewhere close by, even though she couldn't actually see him,) when the last book she turned and picked up had the title emblazoned in faded gold lettering on the front, 'The Observer's Book of British Fungi. ' Marion hadn't seen an 'Observer's' book since childhood.  She knew that it would have a comprehensive listing with both photos, drawings and a written description, what sort of location they could be found growing in, and, equally importantly, which ones would be edible.....or not.  If there was one thing you could trust in a book from the 'Observer' series, it would be its thoroughness.  She had made her choice.  
Reaching into her handbag for her purse the disembodied voice once more cut through the gloom, "That'd be two quid then."

Part Five - .........and Plotting Finalised

Marion had more than enough time before catching her bus home for a cup of tea.  As she sat in the cafe she looked through her purchase.  God bless 'Observer's,' they had put all the harmful mushrooms in one section, she would not have to thumb through the whole book to find what she was looking for, and exactly what she was looking for was staring right back at her.  Armillaria species, or more commonly known as the Honey Fungus, or even more commonly known as 'that filthy muck growing at the bottom of the tree' by Brian.  The mushroom she was searching for was growing in her own back yard!  Despite Brian's disparaging remarks she found it quite beautiful in its ugly way.  

In her own particular 'home grown' variety the colour honey would be pushing the description a bit far, hers were more a dark, dirty yellowy brown, but there was no doubt they were the same closely clustered, flat tatty capped ones as she was seeing in the picture.  What she hadn't known, and was more suited to her purpose, was that the immature ones were very much like small brown button mushrooms.  She had always assumed that they were a completely different species, and so, she knew, had Brian.  The symptoms of ingesting them were:  a severe stomach cramp and copious diarrhoea and vomiting, especially after taking alcohol twelve hours before and twenty four hours after eating them.  The only strict warning it gave was that they were likely to prove fatal to anyone who had a heart condition.  Brian's heart, unlike her own feeble ticker, was as sound as a bell, but she had absolutely no intention of eating any. 

So, that was it then, the plan was all set to put into operation tomorrow.  She would rise early and pick the mushrooms, and store them out of sight.  The rest of Sunday morning would be spent breakfasting, reading the papers, and pre-preparing their evening full Sunday roast.  Then they would go for their customary pre-luncheon drink at the local pub, a shandy for her and a couple of glasses of white wine for Brian.  Home for lunch, consisting of a beautiful wild mushroom omelette cooked in garlic, only her omelette would be cooked in a different pan and her mushrooms would have been picked off of the supermarket shelf and not the garden lawn!  After lunch, if Brian was feeling a bit poorly, she could always encourage him to take a large glass of medicational whisky, a well-known cure-all for most ills including boring husbands.  
With a broad grin Marion went to catch her bus, depositing the 'Observer's Book of British Fungi' in the trash bin on the way.

Part Six - It All Falls Apart

Everything went spot on.  From rising whilst Brian remained fast asleep to returning home from the pub after their pre-luncheon drink, not one hitch.  

As she busied herself in the kitchen, getting out all the utensils she would use to cook Brian's omelette, which she would do first, (the ensuing sickness and diarrhoea the omelette would produce was something she would rather face on an empty tummy anyway,) Brian popped his head round the kitchen door and said, "Just going to fill the lawn mower up for this afternoon, I left the jerry can in the car, won't be a tick,"  
"Alright dear" she replied noting that he had 'left' the jerry can in the car, not 'forgotten' to take it to the shed as she would have been accused of doing had the circumstances been reversed.  God, she had never gotten so much pleasure out of cooking an omelette in all her life!  She knew it wouldn't be just a case of Brian opening the boot to retrieve the jerry can, he would also have to open the car to have a look around to make sure it was perfectly clean and tidy, it would, of course, be perfectly clean and tidy, it always was, but the routine of performing this 'quick check' was beyond Brian's powers to resist.  She slammed the omelette pan down on the hob in frustration, why, oh why did he have to dilly-dally, the sooner she could get the omelette down him the better, for her. 

She was about to pour a trickle of olive oil in the pan, thinking to herself, 'While he's out of the way I can get the little Honeys out of their hidey-hole,' when a crunching crash, followed by the piercing wail of a car alarm made her drop the bottle of olive oil into the pan.  

It was pure instinct that gave her the feeling that somehow this dreadful noise was something to do with Brian, and feeling as though a hand had grasped her by the throat trapping her last breath in her chest, she ran, from the kitchen, down the hallway, out the front door and into the front garden.  

Coming up the garden path toward her was her neighbour Mr Peter, he caught her round her waist and pulled her back toward the house. 
"No Marion no, you don't want to see, come back inside, an ambulance is on its way."  
She couldn't see much anyway as she strained against Mr Peter's arm, just a group of people standing on the other side of Brian's car which was parked kerbside in front of their house, just as it always was.  
One of the group looked toward them and waving his arm shouted, "Get her back inside, for pities sake!"  
This time Marion didn't resist the pressure around her waist, and allowed herself to be half supported and half led back into the house. 

Once on the sofa she managed to draw a breath, and trembling she asked Mr Peter, who was crouched down in front of her holding both her hands, 
"What.....Where's Brian?"  
Mr Peter patted her hands and replied as he rose and sat beside her, once again taking her hands in his, 
"Marion, there's been an accident, Brian's been hurt, when the ambulance arrives I'll take you in my car to the hospital, we can find out more there, can I make you a cup of tea?"......
Cup of tea!?  Marion shook her head to clear it, she wanted to tell Mr Peter that Brian couldn't possibly have been in an accident because she was preparing his lunch, his mushroom omelette, but, before she could say anything she heard the ambulance sirens.  She stood up and shook Mr Peter's hands off her own, 
"I have to go to him, I have to be with him, it's the weekend, we are always together at the weekend."  
She felt the first fat tear run down her cheek.  After a pause, as if to deliberately delay her, Mr Peter answered, 
"OK, come on then, I'll take you to the hospital, where's your coat?"  
He helped her into her coat and, seeming to cause further delay, made sure she had her handbag along with her house keys and purse.  Placing his arm, gently but firmly, around her shoulders he escorted her out of the house.  The paramedic  was just closing the door of the ambulance when he turned and saw them, 
"Follow us in," he said, he looked as though he was about to say something more, but instead went to the driver's side and got behind the wheel.  By this time the police had arrived and were interviewing people on the street.  They made no attempt to stop Mr Peter  and Marion as they got into his car and drove off after the ambulance.

Part Seven - The Horrible Reality

"Can't be serious, not really serious," mumbled Marion screwing the tissue paper, that had somehow miraculously appeared in her hands.  "They'll fix him up, won't they?  Just a....., just a week in hospital, that's all," her voice was rising in tempo as she looked at Mr Peter, "It CAN'T be serious, I mean, surely they would have the sirens blasting, wouldn't they?"  
Mr Peter gave a brief shake of his head, the tears already forming in his pale blue eyes, 
"I don't know Marion, let's hope so, wait till we get to the hospital and we can find out" he whispered.  
Marion didn't have to wait till they got to the hospital, deep inside her she already knew, you don't have sirens for the dead.  
It was so unfair, why did Brian have to check the bloody car?  Why for once in his clockwork life couldn't he just leave it?  She didn't want him to be dead, she had just wanted him to be, to be, out of the way for a while.  The guilt and remorse flooded in, totally overwhelming her.  The selfish cruelty of what she had been about to do. What had she been thinking of?  Her poor, poor husband, he hadn't deserved any of this.  Then as the realisation that she did love him, not in a passionate way, more in an 'off the boil' way, sank in, the first true sobs shook her shoulders.  She felt Mr Peter's hand on her arm, 
"We're here now Marion, let me help you out."  
Looking up she was confused, Mr Peter was beside the open passenger door leaning in to undo her seat belt, she hadn't even noticed their arrival, or Mr Peter getting out of the car.

Marion's feeling of confusion remained, along with a dazed, almost detached perspective, of the events that ensued at the hospital's ER Department.  The paramedic that had brought Brian in was leaning on the Nurse's Station desk as Marion and Mr Peter came through the entrance doors.  He turned and looked at them, and turning back to a nurse he nodded and said, "I'll be off then, OK."  
"Yes Bertie," she replied, "I'll hand......I'll catch you later, thanks."   
The paramedic said nothing as he passed Marion, he just gave her arm a gentle squeeze.  The nurse approached them and said, 
"Mrs Matthews, if you and your friend would like to come with me," and led them into a small side room. 

Once they were all seated, the nurse leaned toward Marion and said, 
"Mrs Matthews, I am so sorry, but your husband's injuries were very severe, I am afraid he had already passed away by the time the ambulance had arrived."  
"But, I don't understand, he had just popped out to the car, how?  How?"  
The tears once more flooded into Marion's eyes, part of her wanted to understand, and part of her didn't want to know, if she didn't know then maybe it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be true and she would find herself in the middle of a horrible nightmare, she would wake up, and everything would be as normal.  The nurse gently touched her hand to gain her attention,  
"Mrs Matthews, as far as I can gather your husband was leaning into his car when another car, speeding, slammed into your husband.....and the open car door, he would have passed away immediately, he would not have suffered in any way."  
"Can I see him?" whispered Marion, 
"No, no his injuries were very severe, you wouldn't want to remember him like that." Said the nurse.   
It was true, Marion didn't even want to imagine Brian's injuries let alone see them.  A few more consolatory words were uttered in Marion's direction, she was handed a plastic bag containing Brian's 'personal items' and that was it.  Twenty five years of marriage gone, ended.

Part Eight - Mother Knows Best

Back in her living room, which had somehow become alien to her, like a stranger's room, Marion sipped her tea whilst Mr Peter phoned her mother.  She heard him replace the receiver and come back into the room, hovering over her he said, 
"Your mother should be here in twenty minutes, I'll stay with you till she arrives."  
"No, no, Mr Peter please, you have been so kind, I don't know what I would have done without you, please I ......."  it felt as though she was reading words off a script, she didn't really want to be alone, so she finished, 
"Only if you are sure,"  
"I'm sure," Mr Peter replied, then sat in the chair opposite her to drink his tea.

Marion's mother Hazel came in the front door like a whirlwind, taking Marion in her arms, she looked toward Mr Peter and said, 
"Mr Peter, I can't thank you enough, but I'll take over from here, you must have a home and a life to get back to."  
Had Marion the willpower she would have reprimanded her mother for her ungracious dismissal of Mr Peter, instead she just nodded in his direction  and whispered, 
"Thank you."  
As he left Mr Peter said, "If you need me for anything Marion, just give me a shout, I'm only next door." 
"Yes, yes of course, and thank you again"  she replied.  
The feeling of nausea and dizziness made Marion plonk herself back down in the chair.  Hazel cupped her daughters face in her hands, and gently kissing her on the forehead whispered, 
"Oh darling, I am so, so sorry.  I will get you something to eat, but first try and drink a brandy, you must be exhausted and wrung out, it will help you relax, and perhaps later if you feel up to it, we can talk.  You mustn't worry about a thing; I'm here for as long as you need me." 

The brandy spread its warmth as it slowly made its way down from throat to stomach, it did feel, without a doubt, comforting.  The bottle had been left over from last Christmas, literally Brian's last Christmas............
"Oh please, no more" thought Marion.... 
she didn't want to think anymore, she just wanted...., quite honestly she didn't know what she wanted.  She rose and poured herself another large glass of brandy, and as she swallowed the last of it in one large gulp her mother re-entered the room from the kitchen carrying a plate.  
"Mum, thanks, you're not having any?"  
"No dear, I ate earlier but you, I suspect, haven't eaten at all since breakfast."  
Marion realised as she at first slowly picked at her food, and then really tucked into it that part of the reason she felt so sickly and faint was that she was indeed hungry.  

A wave of guilt once more washed over her, how could she enjoy such basic needs as eating when poor Brian was laying in the hospital morgue, he would have thoroughly enjoyed what she was eating now, he did so love a mushroom omelette.  Placing her knife and fork on the now empty plate she looked up at Hazel, 
"That was lovely Mum, I didn't realise I was so hungry, you know there were plenty of mushrooms in the fridge, you could always make yourself one later."  
As Hazel reached to take the empty plate she replied, 
"Oh I didn't realise there were any in the fridge dear, I found those in a brown paper bag tucked under the sink, I always used to store mine under the sink, dark and damp, I think they keep better there than in the fridge.  Unfortunately there wasn't enough for two omelettes, but if you say you have plenty in the fridge, then I might just make one for my supper,....Marion?  Are you all right dear?  Marion?  Come, lay down on the sofa, I'm going to call for an ambulance."

Marion heard very little of the last part of what her mother said as the pain in her chest spread to her left arm, and as the pressure on her heart grew she slipped into oblivion and then on to a final darkness and then back to spending an eternity with Brian.