Victoria Sponge

This short story is inspired by Sylvia Plath and my hate towards toxic masculinity... Enjoy

Victoria Sponge

Nothing beats the baldness of a Sunday evening. A monotonous melody playing on the tiny tv set in the corner, probably some ad about how to use Calgon to clean the dishwasher. Drop after drop the sink’s faucet is synchronized with the hands of the clock moving slowly, eternally.

I sit opposite the sink, locking eyes with the dripping water, as if I were waiting for the steady rhythm to hypnotize me. Instead, I feel an oddly tense ambience in the room. Not having consumed a single sip of caffeine since morning, I wonder where this electricity in my nervous system stems from.

Phone rings. The plumber. An emergency came up, he won’t be able to make it today.

I sit again. Twelve o’ clock. Five hours till HE comes home. Eight hours times five makes a good forty euros, which is approximately, if I am calculating right, a quarter of the electricity bill. I was never good at maths, in fact I hardly finished secondary school. I guess it all had to do with the blessing of carrying little Johnny in my tummy. He is now asleep in the bedroom,

Oh I forgot to check if everything is okay.

I make some steps towards the stairs heading to the nursery room, when I get a sudden cut on my left foot.

Oh f**k!

 I can nearly see the shards that made my toe bleed. I thought I had swept the floor multiple times since yesterday, but some glass was still on, as it seems. Poor glass, it was a present for our wedding with Mark by my grandmother. Now the grandmother is dead, and with her, a dozen of broken glasses that, if Mark had not thrown them on the floor, they might as well have broken from his loud voices. I cannot quite recall how it all started, the last couple months it is something like a ritual we do, like going to the church every Sunday. But instead of the church, I spend my Sunday trying to remember the last time I had sex with this roommate of mine,  going around by the name of “husband”, or, in times of acute romanticism, “lover”.

Little Johnny starts crying.

 Maybe he needs a diaper change or something, but-guess what little Johnny!- we ran out. The store is closed. Maybe we’ll have to make do with some other cloth to replace such a loss. Think brain, think! Well, actually, Johnny’s cry rings up some bell about yesterday’s quarrel.

It was after Mark had returned from work and was about to get to the WC for a quick shower. Little Johhny was crying and Martha, the housekeeper, was singing him some lullaby to make him calm. I asked Mark to wait before he enters the shower, as poor Johnny was having a fever and I wanted to bathe him to lower the temperature. Mark turned an ironic look towards me and suggested that I go outside in the garden and use the faucet hose and, while doing this, to wet my face so that my brain starts working and realize he had just come back from “some seriously heavy work”.

Maybe wetting my face was not enough to get my mind working, because I still cannot understand how heavy it must have been to be f*****g your secretary.

I cannot really blame him. When was the last time we spent time as an actual couple? Try “never”. I do not even know how to manipulate those crayons that make women beautiful, not to mention try buying them. Even if I wanted to buy that stuff, it would not be a surprise to my man, as he was the one that kept the money so I had to ask him first, explain what I wanted to buy and have him give me a lift. I already feel exhaustion even considering such actions, especially in so hot weather. Luckily Johnny stopped crying, and I decided to go outside to collect the laundry.

Door locked. Sunday, right, I almost forgot. Mark locked the doors from the outside on weekends, so that I don’t get any unwanted visitors. It was for the safety of the family. My toe was now dripping blood on the floor from the cuts. I have to clean.

I wonder whether other families take the safety measure of locking inside the house a woman and a baby, so that uninvited guests are discouraged. I would like to ask some other girl in the neighbourhood, but I don’t have any friends around here. In fact, I don’t have any friends at all. I was raised in a village, but when I got pregnant, Mark tapped on my window  on a windy night, helped me get out silently, never to see any of my relatives or school friends.

I was so in love! I remember watching the night sky with Mark and make plans about travelling Europe, and then Asia and end in China, where I would sell my cloth designs and earn so much money that we could feed children in Africa. Mark would expand his car business and provide for me. I was so fascinated back then, I could spend the rest of my life with him and his kids. Now I cannot see the night sky. Mostly because I don’t go out at night, it is dangerous for a woman Mark says.

But what if I wanted danger?

I grab the broom and get on my knees, in search of glass remnants under the sink. The dripping faucet has really started to get on my nerves. Surprisingly, I drag a big shard. I take it in my right hand. My eyes start shining. For a moment I think that I can see inside the glass. I can see Mark and me fighting, him punching me in the face, my nose swelling, my eyes as well, from crying. Little Johnny also starts crying, I can see his eyes get red from inside the glass, Martha running here and there, shouting about the dirt in the house, the disorder, my dress, my hair, my parents not loving me since I left them, Mark cheating on me..-

“And now, back to ‘Mary Berry’s baking Bible!’ Hold on to your seats fellas, this is gonna get your friends and family higher than LSD!-just kidding do’t do drugs kids- Ellen, show us what you got for us today-“

For a moment I thought I was hearing background bubbling from a deep well inside my thoughts, but it was actually someone talking. I turned around and took some minutes to come back from this odd journey, that had definitely given me jet lag. It seems that during this paranormal journey I had squeezed hard the glass on my left wrist. I was bleeding. I took a towel and found it funny how quickly the blood spread from one end of the towel to the other. I pressed it hard on the cut to stop the bleeding. I wanted to listen what that Ellen had to say.

“Hi sweeeeetiiieeess!!! So, today we are going to make Victoria Sponge! So, the ingredients I have with me are eggs, sugar…”

A f*****g cake! Of course! I looked on the calendar. It was my birthday!

I took it as a sign of God . Ellen wanted to save me. I put a clean towel on my wrist and wrapped it up with adhesive tape. Then I grabbed a notepad from the fridge and started writing down the ingredients.

Disappointment. Only had eggs. Called immediately the closest store. Closed. Yeah, Sunday.

I have to find a way. Now I had a purpose. There was some meaning.

I came up with the phone number of an A&P some blocks away, run by a poor old man that never left the place, because he was a widower, no kids, and could not stand his own flesh at home. I didn’t like him, he was really mean, but that can happen to sad people. I called him and ordered butter, sugar, vanilla extract, some fruits and raspberry jams.

I needed money.

I started searching like a maniac. I began toppling any box I saw in the kitchen, in the living room , in the bedroom. All kinds of things were inside the boxes, but I was able to find just enough money to pay the delivery man.

I asked him to come to the window, because I couldn’t unlock the door and he crossed our lawn till he reached the kitchen window. While giving me the shopping bags, he gave me a worried glance.

“Are you alright ma’am?”. He looked at my hand.

“Yes, of course!! It’s the best day ever!!’’ I laughed at his childish reaction.

He made some tentative movements to give me the bags and I tipped him for his kindness. Now let the games begin!

Now, a lot of time had passed. I am not sure how much and did not wish to distract myself from the making of the cake, but I am pretty sure it was before the sunset, because the rays of the sun on the white oven danced around and created an orange-like, Picasso-inspired painting. That means that at least seven hours have passed. Or so I think.

During this time, I made up my mind that I needed more than one cake. After all it was my birthday and since I wasn’t receiving any presents anyways or any surprise party in a beach resort, I had all the time in the world to cook. I had also drugged the phone with me, taking special care so as not to make any wire damage. If one cake was finished, I immediately called the store and ordered ingredients for the next. At some point I felt sorry for the delivery man, doing the same route over and over, and told him to bring as many ingredients as he could find inside the storage. As for the cost, I gave Mark’s name and told him he would pay by check on Monday.

You might not get it now, considering the circumstances, but I like trying new stuff, so I decided to give a shot to multiple flavors, like tiramisu, red velvet, banoffee, tarts of every kind, especially blueberry. At some point I felt my knees hurting, because I must have been standing for over 8 hours, but I could not care less.

 I heard the keys at the door. Must be Mark. He will definitely love my cakes! He will come in the kitchen, drawn by the lingering smell of vanilla, grab me from the waist and kiss me on the neck. Maybe he will bring me a present, or talk me into dancing Bachata till midnight. He might even stop locking me on Sundays, or start touching me by night! Yeah, everything will be perfect!

I hear his footsteps entering the kitchen.

“What’s all this mess for?”

Oh, my lovey dovey, this mess is all for you, all for us! I want to offer you some cake, but I can’t. I must stay focused on stirring the eggs. We don’t want our meringue to be a complete disaster, do we?

Mark approaches. “ There are 15 cakes on the kitchen counter, what is all that about?” His voice has a sense of irritation, I cannot see why. I hadn’t realized the cakes were 15. In other cases I might consider this an exaggeration on my part, but given the fact that I had not had any cake for my birthday for years now, it was the time to compensate myself.

“I am talking to YOU young lady! Do not ignore me!”

But I cannot take my eyes off the meringue. It is almost ready. We just need our last ingredient. Our fairy dust.

And voilá!

He grabs my wrist and presses it in his palm.

“What do you think you’re doing? Look at you!”

The moment he says this, I catch a glimpse of me in the mirror opposite the counter. My apron is a chocolate mess, my hair preventing me from seeing the rest of my body, because they are falling in front of my eyes. Only my swollen toe can be seen, and some drops of sweat on my forehead.

He looks at me in disgust. I look at him with love.

“Mark, it is my birthday today! Come celebrate with me! Bring little Johnny, too, he’s upstairs!”

Mark hesitates, but thinks for a while.

“What is all this for?”

“Oh, I didn’t know what cake you might like, so I made as many as I could. Hey, try this, it’s blueberry, your favourite!”, I put a wide smile on my face and take a teaspoon to get a spoonful of  my work of art. I bring the teaspoon in front of Mark’s face.

“Try this my love! Come on, it is my birthday!” I press the cake against his lips.

He succumbs. He swallows. I cannot stop myself from grinning.

I give him another spoonful. Then another. My grin gets wider again. My eyes are shining.

“It is actually really good, thank you, but I think you should go and have some rest now.”

I look at him my eyes shining again. “ I don’t need no rest. You’re the one coming back from heavy work, remember?” I cannot hold back a sudden laugh.

Now, Mark is a man of rationale. That’s why I fell in love with him in the first place. So you might think he took me by my bloody hand to help me get to bed after all these hours of cooking. Unfortunately, he never got the chance to take care of me. Some minutes later, he fell on the floor out of nowhere. Maybe due to fatigue. Maybe it was the fairy dust I put in the cake. No, it can’t be. He was a really hard-working person, his heart could not take such pressure. At least that was the conclusion the police officers came to. In the meantime, I had gotten rid of the cakes and presented myself as an elegant housewife of prestige. I was, actually.

I am sitting again in the kitchen. Got a pack of Camel out of a pocket in Mark’s suit. It had the taste of freedom. Mark never mentioned how much money he had, so when I found out, I decided me and little Johnny could move away from this stupid city. I packed Johnny’s suitcase and put some last items in mine. Then I wrote my name on the label.

“Victoria”.

THE END

Reviews

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

amazing. i loved how information was slowly revealed in the begining, exposition mixed-in neatly with a very vivid scene of our heroine in the kitchen cleaning up broken glass. the intriguing turn in the middle as she frantically makes multiple cakes really had me wondering. had she lost her mind? but the final twist was a great, satisfying shock. a thrilling read from start to finish.

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Amaaaaaazing write
Please write more
Love it
You are talented

[Lyra]

That was very well written! It very much drew me in!