Toby Part III

Mr Brooks loved his clock.  He loved to refer to it as a ‘long case clock’ and sulked when someone referred to it as a grandfather.  His father had bought it when he was a child.  Mr Brooks had only been vaguely aware of its presence in the house when young and it was only after his father died that he began to pay it any attention.  Now, sat at the dining room table, his eyes swept up the mahogany inlay until they came to rest on its big white face.  The boiled egg in front of him waited for the hovering spoon to cave its perfect head in.  Mr Brooks was waiting for nine o clock.  The time was less than the chime that he knew was imminent. 

 

Mrs Brooks seemed to sneak into the dining room and sat at the far end of the table from her husband.  She placed a plate of toast between them and contemplated her own intact egg.  Her head remained bowed to the expectant oval below her as the clock chimed the hour.  On the ninth bell, Mr Brooks whipped his spoon down onto his egg and Mrs Brooks recoiled slightly, as if fearing that she might be next.

 

Soon, the eggs were efficiently disembowelled and Mrs Brooks cleared the plates with the earnestness of a priest at communion.  Mr Brooks sat upright in his chair and unfolded the paper.   The clock kept a steady beat over the room.  Mr Brooks squinted at the columns of print as if looking for a clue that would enlighten the beginning of his day.

 

Mr Brooks carried on interrogating the words in front of him as his wife silently circled, flicking ornaments with a duster and polishing imagined blemishes on the vast dining table.

 

‘I suppose he’s still in bed?’ Mr Brook’s eyes stayed focused on the page as he spoke.

‘Yes.’ Mrs Brooks stopped waving the duster for a beat as she answered.

Mr Brooks pursed his lips as if to speak.  Instead he shook his head and turned to an inside page.

‘Shall I wake him?’ Mrs Brooks asked.

‘No. He’s missed breakfast. He knows full well what time we eat in this house.’

‘I’m not sure he eats much in the morning-doesn’t agree with him.’

Mr Brooks took his eyes from the paper and looked at his wife.

‘That’s really not the point Cecilia.  We provide him with the option of a breakfast; he should at least have the decency to come to the table, even if it is only to decline the offer.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so’ replied Mrs Brooks.  She knew her husband had had breakfast at the same time every day since is retirement (an hour earlier when he had been working).  She knew that any remonstration on behalf of her son was futile.  She withdrew to the kitchen, folded the duster neatly and put it under the sink.

 

Mrs Brooks tapped gently on the bedroom door.  She pushed it gently open.  Her son was lying on his side facing her.  He was fully dressed and the collar of his shirt had ridden up to engulf the sides of his sleeping face.  Mrs Brooks stepped into the room and stood a few feet from the bed. 

‘Darling.’ She whispered, stooping slightly as if to direct the word directly into his ear.  There was no reaction, so she stepped a stride closer.  She rested her hand on his upper arm and spoke again.

‘Alistair, darling’

Her son’s head retreated an inch deeper into his shirt and one eyelid fluttered before coming to rest again full closed.  He rubbed his lips together.  Mrs Brooks smiled as sweetly as if he had just slid from her womb all over again.  His eyes both opened at once.  Mrs Brooks was still smiling and his mouth tried to reciprocate.

 

‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, shall I?’ Mrs Brooks stroked his arm and tilted her head towards him in anticipation of an answer.  He nodded from within his shirt.

‘Ok, I’ll go and put the kettle on’, Mrs Brooks straightened herself and smoothed down her dress with both hands, ‘Why don’t you have a nice bath? Ever so soothing a bath in the morning sets you right up for the day.’  Mrs Brooks turned to leave the room as her son raised himself up onto an elbow.  She half smiled at him and closed the door behind her.

 

The tea sat on the table between Mr and Mrs Brooks.  She turned her head slightly as the echo of footsteps on the stairs came from above them.  The front door opened and closed from behind the hall wall.  Mrs Brooks looked at the steam above the cup and then at her husband. 

 

It was only a five minute walk from the front door to the park.  He pushed the heavy iron gate open and stepped into a patch of sunlight.  He wrestled with his shirt, trying to find a spot to settle within it.  He saw two of the gardeners opening the tool store by the far gate.  One was rolling a cigarette and as he put it to his mouth, he waved across the park, smiling.

‘Hey Toby man! How’s it going?’