Songs My Mother Taught Me; A Collection Of Short Stories

Martin

"Martin, is that you? Did you remember to pick up the sour cream?"

"Oh, fuck-"

"Language!" Claire hisses, poking her head around the edge of the door, glaring at her husband. "How you could forget? I must have told you 100 times before you left the house!" Martin rolls his eyes at the shrillness of her tone, the layers of stress that seep through every word.

"I don't know why you're getting so worked up." He grunts, shoving his shoes into the rack, then stopping to neaten them slightly. "It's only some bloody boring arseholes from the council-"

"You know full well what this will mean for the women's committee... And your neighborhood watch group." Claire snaps, dabbing a damp cloth over the already gleaming light switch. "And don't tell me that you can't wait to see the neighbours faces when the mayor pulls up outside our house."

"Just so long as he doesn't bring any of those waifs and strays with him." Martin sighs, following her down the neatly hoovered hallway and into the sitting room. "Last thing we need is the house being burgled by one of his bloody charity cases-"

"Don't sit there!" Claire shieks, flapping her duster towards him. Martin stops, mid-lowering himself on to the settee. "I've just spent 15 minutes fluffing the cushions-"

"For Christ's sake, Claire! He's the mayor of Little Hampsing, not Prince-bloody-Charles!"

"You won't be saying that when he's here... Last council meeting you were practically licking his shoes." She mutters, crouching down to polish the door stop. Martin sniffs and turns away, fiddling with the glass brandy bottle and pretending that he didn't hear the last- rather accurate- statement that she uttered.

"Well anyway, just so long as he doesn't bring any of them with him. Those god awful charity cases of his. Tell you what, at the summer BBQ I could barely enjoy my burgers, the way those bloody orphan kids were staring at me. Felt like I was in a bleedin' Red Cross advert."

"I can't believe you forgot the sour cream." Claire mumbles, standing up and grabbing the little plastic bag of shopping from his hand.

"Can't you just make some?" Martin calls after her as she stalks into the kitchen, stopping to adjust the occasional cushion or picture.

"Oh, yes, Martin, why didn't I think of that?! If you know a bloody recipe for sour cream I'd love to hear it!" She yells through.

"Just take some normal cream and breath on it, you old dragon. That should sour it." He mumbles, deciding that an early brandy is going to be essential after all.

"What was that?"

"Nothing love!" He pours his brandy and adds a liberal extra dash, just for the road.

"Are you drinking already?"

"It's only a brandy-"

"Make yourself useful and give me a hand with the buffet!" Claire calls back, gritting her teeth as she sees him lumbering into the room with a brandy in one hand and a newspaper in the other. A twitch of annoyance stabs her that he was about to relax when there's only 20 minutes left, but she forces herself to let it slide. Martin is laid back, boring even, but even he can only take so much nagging and she's aware that she's been on at him non-stop since 6 this morning.

"This looks gorgeous, love." He nods his approval towards the buffet.

"I should have done a proper meal. Or a BBQ at least-"

"It'll be fine."

"Do you think the ham sandwiches are a bit decadent?"

"How can ham bloody sandwiches be decadent?" He snorts. "Watch out that the quiche doesn't end up a bit flamboyant-"