Sipping her fourth cup of tasteless airport coffee, Jane reflected gloomily on the probable effect the delay would have on her husband’s temper.
The scowl on Mark’s face as he emerged into the Arrivals Lounge confirmed her fears. He was in a foul mood. Nothing new there then, she thought grimly but gave him a bright smile anyway.
“Two bloody hours I had to kick my heels at that airport,” he said not bothering to greet her. She could smell the whisky on his breath which ruled out the possibility that he might drive home.
“I’ve been waiting too,” Jane said but it cut no ice. Nor had she expected it to.
“And not a word of explanation or apology,” he said. “Come on, let’s find the luggage and get home”.
Depression settled over her like a heavy grey blanket. She realised how much more relaxed she had been during the two weeks that he had been away. No wondering each evening what sort of mood he would be in when he got home. No interminable complaints about the traffic or lengthy diatribes about the back stabbing which was, apparently, a daily feature of his working life.
There was the usual scrum to retrieve his luggage, which did nothing for Mark’s temper. When they finally left the airport building and he saw the torrential rain he said, “Oh marvellous. I take it the car is a day’s march away. No chance you parked nearby?”
Jane longed to scream at him, to point out that it was four hours since she had left home and that she still had a difficult two hour drive ahead of her but over the years she had found it easier to keep the peace at all costs so she simply said, “No. Sorry. You know what it’s like. But I’ve brought a couple of umbrellas.”
“Well that’s all right then,” he said with heavy sarcasm.
It was now dusk, the rain had not eased and she needed all her concentration for the difficult driving conditions. She tried to block out Mark’s continuing complaints until she realised that he had said something that called for a response.
“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked.
Emphasising each word as though speaking to a particularly obtuse child, he said, “Stop at the next lay-by. I need a pee.”
This was too much. “Can’t you wait until we get to a service station,” she said.
“If I could wait, I wouldn’t be telling you to stop in a lay-by would I. I don’t choose to walk about in the rain looking for a tree to hide behind.”
They pulled off the road and Mark cursed when he realised he would have to clamber down a bank to get some privacy. Jane looked at the dreary surroundings. The refuse bins had been vandalised and the motoring public had quite obviously ignored the sign which said Take Your Rubbish Home. Chocolate wrappers, cigarette packets and worse littered the lay-by. She was close to tears.
Mark’s head appeared above the bank but further back than before. “Back the bloody car up then,” he shouted. “I’m getting soaked here.” He was still zipping his flies.
Quite suddenly Jane felt a surge of pure rage flood through her, washing away the depression. How dare he speak to her like that. Keeping the peace at all costs would no longer do. She had had enough. Her eyes rested again on the sign by the litter bins. It seemed to stand out, giving her a personal message.
TAKE YOUR RUBBISH HOME. Softly she said to herself, “I’m damned if I will,” then, turning on the ignition, she stuck her head out of the window and yelled, “I’m damned if I will.”
The car shot out of the lay-by and on to the dual carriageway. Mark stared in disbelief as his wife, his luggage and the tail lights of the car gradually disappeared into the murky gloom of a wet November evening.
© Ivy Finch 2003
Ivy has completed her Writing Life® course and is now determined to continue writing and offering her work for publication. This story was first published in The Muse, June ’03 Ezine and on the New Writing page (where it prompted many great comments) and she has several more ‘under consideration’ with various print magazines.
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