Binoculars

Mr Braeburn took one last look in the hallway mirror- straightened his tie and plucked the keys to his green hatchback from their hook by the door. It was the beginning of another long week. An early meeting had been scheduled and his presence was required, requested even. Having been at Blackfoote bank for almost twenty years now, he felt completely settled in all aspects of his role there. He kissed his wife goodbye in the kitchen, taking a cling-filmed sandwich package from her. She made too many to count and then froze and defrosted them, using a specific brand of marmalade (the only one he liked) which was sold in fifteen litre tubs. They always had at least one. 'Goodbye dear,' she said sleepily, closing the door behind him as he walked towards the car. She walked into the sitting room, a busy little room filled with a miscellany of objects that she would spend the day sorting and arranging. Her husband earned more than enough to sustain both of them, but he preferred she manage their assets, which suited Lillian just fine. Some years ago, she had also worked in Blackfoote Bank, but these days she froze sandwiches and collected buttons, keys, and pottery, (and kept track of their accounts.) She set herself specific tasks to complete each day before Mr Braeburn arrived home from work. Today she decided she must choose new plates to hang on the walls, she was rather bored of the willow-patterned bone china currently residing above the mantle. She hummed as she picked out a cardboard box of plates from the garage, and with some difficulty hauled it inside, just as the car coughed down the drive, leaving a trail of gravelly dust in its wake.

'As you know we are working on a new client acquisition so we need everyone's full focus and attention in order to close this deal.

We have a lot of competition for this client and we do not want to lose them.' Mr Wyles' wheezy, yet heavy voice resonated in the large, glass walled conference room. He sneezed, and reached into his chest pocket for a handkerchief. 'Excuse me. Any questions?' Mr Braeburn looked around, and saw no other hands raised. He assumed his first task would be to review all of the client's documentation and pass it on to the investment management team. He made his way to his desk, in his favourite place in the office, up one flight of stairs and just behind the water cooler (he liked it here as it was always far too hot in the building.) He tucked his briefcase underneath and headed into the canteen, depositing his cellophane-sandwich in the fridge and making himself a cup of coffee. 'How's Bertie today?' came a chipper enquiry from behind his left ear. He turned to see Ken, holding two mugs of tea and clenching a biscuit between his teeth, so that everything he said was slightly lisped. He had expected as much, no one else in the office even called him Albert, let alone Bertie. 'I'm very well thank you, Ken. And you?' he answered politely, knowing he should get back to his desk and start reviewing the documents. 'Just keeping everybody sweet, man! S'in the name, geddit? Ken Sweetman?' He guffawed at his own joke, removed the biscuit, and walked away down the corridor.

Mr Braeburn cradled his coffee and made his way back to his desk. He set the mug down on the desk and ducked underneath it to start the monitor. As his computer whirred to life he pulled his chair in, plumped his chintz cushion, handmade by his mother for his first office job years earlier. The office was busy this morning, he always concentrated better when it was quiet.

As he waited for the chatter by the water cooler to die down, his mind drifted to the weekend just gone, it had been their fifteen year anniversary on Saturday and so they had made a little excursion out of their few days off together. They had gone down to Townsend-on-Sea, on the coast, to the same B&B they always did, so that he could make the most out of the bird watching season down there. The parrot crossbill was one of the few birds he had not yet ever seen, and they were common there at this time of year. He had brought his new set of binoculars, and Lillian a new murder mystery novel she was reading. They whiled away hours of the weekend like this, briefly interrupted by a cup of tea or a chat. Mrs. Appleton, who ran the B&B, was a spectacular cook and had made stews and marmalade sandwiches which she would pack up for his birdwatching trips. These trips always hit the reset button for him, he came back feeling replenished and focused.. All the same, he wondered if Lillian was happy. He loved her dearly, but she was very hard to read. She seemed nervous, about anything and everything, on edge even., and yet she never divulged what it was that seemed to tie her in knots. Whenever he questioned it she said she was fine, but he wondered. Money troubles perhaps? No, they were very comfortable, and she was more than capable of managing that side of things. He knew she was a bit anxious, always had been, that had played into their decision not to have any children. He thought often about what the root of it was. Those new age nutrition types would probably say it was the food she was eating or how much of a certain type of vitamin she got. He was sure they were doing just fine. In truth, Mr Braeburn worked so much because although he loved her, he feared that he bored her. There seemed to be so much going on in that permed, lip-sticked head of hers.