Falkirk
Writers' Circle

Oor Brian, the bitch, and the wardrobe

01/2009

by Franz Grimley

 

The sound of restful snoring could be heard coming from the couch in the livingroom.
‘Get up off your arse ya lazy sod! Two bloody weeks you’ve been lying there like a walrus wae an overall and not one stroke of work have you done.’
The lady doing the shouting was named Maggie and she had the misfortune, as she put it, to be handcuffed to the ghost that was her husband, Brian. 
Her face was within an inch of the figure sleeping on the couch and her breath could have cut through steel. Mother’s Ruin does not come without its own halitosis.
In spite of the withering effect of the blast the figure continued to repose as if drugged but if you were to look closely you would almost swear that his eyebrows had begun to singe and smoulder.
‘Can_you_hear_me?’ she shouted, once more. ‘Is there oany life in there?’ She poked the figure with a bony finger, then, getting little by way of a response, she let loose a stinging slap with her right hand, across the top of her victim’s bald pate. At that he sat bolt upright as if shot and let out a yelp.
‘What the he…!’
‘It lives! It moves! It Speaks!’ she said, with grim satisfaction. ‘So you’re no deid at a’. It wiz just an unfortunate figment of ma imagination?’
‘Aw, whit is it noo? Said the Brian, as he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. ‘Has the place went on fire again? Can ye no leave that chip pan alane for wan minute?’
‘It’s no the chip pan that needs sorted,’ she retorted, ‘it’s that bloody wardrobe.’ She continued her tirade before the unfortunate Brian could respond. ‘How long have A been asking you tae fix that thing? Go on, huv a guess?’
Brian swung his legs from the couch onto the floor and hung his head. ‘No again,’ he said. ‘Please, no the wardrobe again. For two years a’ ye huv ever talked aboot is that bloody wardrobe.’
Maggie drew herself up to her full height of four-feet-eight inches and grabbed the collar of his shirt with both hands. ‘And it still husnae dawned on you that in two years you’ve done bugger-all aboot it! Well, enough is enough. You will fix the wardrobe or there will be a death in this hoose tonight.’
‘But A’ve tried tae tell you wummin,’ Brian responded without much hope of sympathy, ‘it’s far too heavy for me tae dae ma’sel. The bloody thing weighs a ton.’
Maggie had already considered this fact and, this time, she was ready for him. 
‘Right,’ she said with relish, ‘A’ll help ye. But we’re gonny dae it noo! No next week. No next month. Noo!’ By the time she had finished her nose was within an inch of her husband’s nose and he knew the game was, finally, up.
He tried one last pathetic gambit. ‘But you’re too wee Maggie. Ye might get hurt.’
‘And if you don’t get up aff that big fat arse o’ yours this minute,’ she replied, ‘you will get hurt.’
Five minutes later saw the pair standing in front of a very large Victorian-style, mahogany wardrobe in an otherwise empty room. 
‘Okay,’ said Brian, stifling a yawn, ‘whit exactly dae you want me to dae?’
Maggie replied rather more quietly now. ‘The doors; can you no see the doors are hingin’ aff?’ She pointed at the loose hinges and continued. ‘So I want you to take aff the doors and put new hinges oan. Dae ye think you can manage that?’
Brian just nodded.
Maggie was on a roll now and had seized the moment. 
‘And,’ she continued, ‘I want it moved away fae the wall so A can paint behind it. You get started, I’ll be back in half an oor and you had better huv thae doors aff or A’ll want tae know why.’
With no other choice Brian found a screwdriver from his minuscule collection of tools in a kitchen drawer and, with some difficulty, managed to remove the two full-length doors before standing them against the wall, next to the window. Only just in time.
The room door flew open and there stood Maggie, arms folded, with a face that could turn butter.
‘See!’ she said, in a triumphant voice, ‘wiz that so hard?’
Brian knew there was nothing he could say in his defence but responded as a matter of principle. ‘Can A go back to sleep noo?’
‘No ye can not ya big lazy get. A told ye, we need tae move it away fae the wall so A can paint behind it. Are ye deaf as well as stupid?’
Brian looked up to heaven, bit his tongue and moved around to the side of the wardrobe.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s get the bloody thing moved. You get tae the other side.’
Maggie took up her position and after a ‘one, two, three!’ from Brian, managed to move the huge piece of furniture a full six inches away from the wall.
‘That’s nae use.’ Said Maggie, rolling up her sleeves. ‘How the hell am A supposed tae get in that space tae paint the wall? A’m wee, but A’m no that wee.’
Brian muttered something about the size of Maggie’s rear end but, luckily for him, it fell on deaf ears.
Maggie strode round to the front of the wardrobe to study the problem.
‘Maybe if A pulled it fae the front and you pushed fae the back, that would work?’
Brian was on the verge of replying that this was a stupid and dangerous tactic to adopt but stopped short, and smiled to himself.
‘Aye,’ he replied, trying to sound defeated. ‘A think you might be right.’
‘Okay then, ya big eedjit,’ said Maggie, standing in front of the empty door space and grabbing the sides that the newly-removed doors had just vacated. ‘When I say push, you push…PUSH!
An hour later the sound of restful snoring could be heard coming from the couch in the livingroom…The muffled banging and vile swearing that had issued from the distant spare room had finally ceased.



1,040 words.

Jan. 2009