An Exercise in Futility

The Mother slid a vinyl record out of its sleeve, the black disc perfectly polished so that she could admire her face in its reflection. She placed it on the mahogany record player and watched the needle arm automatically swing out, delicately brushing the surface of the spinning record. A crackle emanated from the surround sound speakers that were gradually protruding from a hidden space inside the walls of the sitting room. A soft piano melody and silky male vocals broke out over the top.

Someday, when I’m awfully low,

When the world is cold,

I will feel a glow just thinking of you

And the way you look tonight.

She pirouetted, Fred Astaire’s voice warming her, and she slow-danced, alone, in the sitting room. She swung side to side on the lurid, Middle Eastern-style carpet in the centre of the room, which was surrounded by stiff wooden armchairs and a sprawling Chesterfield sofa. The walls were ordained with stuffed animal heads: a deer, a boar, and a sabre-toothed tiger, which The Mother believed to be real. Muted, lipstick-red curtains obscured floor-to-ceiling windows on one side of the sitting room, while the other end opened up to a kitchen of immense scale.

Yes, you’re lovely, with your smile so warm,

And your cheeks so soft…

The Mother ran the back of her hand across her cheek as she swayed in time with the music. The silver wedding band on her finger cooled her skin. She recoiled, the sharp iciness of the ring almost bursting her idyllic moment, but the music swept…

There is nothing for me but to love you,

And the way you look tonight.

…her back to the warmth and a smile slipped into place on her lips.

The Father was standing in the partition between the sitting room and kitchen, staring at his wife with barely masked contempt. A pipe drooped limply from his fat, curling lips, and tendrils of smoke spewed up like a hand from a grave. The Mother noticed him and extended a spidery hand towards him, the wedding band catching the light from the chandelier above and redirecting it towards The Father’s spectacled eyes. His eyelids narrowed.

“Come,” she said, “dance with me, darling.”

“We don’t dance together.”

The Mother smiled dryly and pirouetted again, turning her back on her husband. Her knee-length skirt splayed out as she twirled, creating a parasol at her waist. The Father supported his rounded belly with two fleshy hands.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Roast chicken.”

The Father frowned. “We had roast chicken last night.”

“We did.”

“So why are we having roast chicken again? If we must have a flightless bird on our plates, why not pheasant or pigeon for a change? And if it must be chicken, why not cook it in a different way, why not breaded, or grilled, or even smoked?”

The Mother stopped dancing.

“Because, dear, we are having guests for dinner.”

“Guests?” The Father ripped the pipe out of his mouth as if this was a great offense. “And when did you think it might be an idea to tell me?”

“Just now.”

The Father shook his head disdainfully.

“Besides, roast chicken is a most presentable dish, perfect for our guests this evening.”

And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,

It touches my foolish heart.

The Father grumbled, stuck the pipe back between his lips like an IV drip into an arm, spun heavily on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen. The Mother hummed along to the tune of the melody and resumed her sway…

Cause I love you, just the way you look tonight.

The words drifted up through the floorboards to the bedroom of The Son.

The Son was sitting on the edge of his perfectly made bed, staring blankly at his undecorated wall. His mind was clear, his body motionless, his existence barely material as a spiritual plane opened up before him. Blank, white sand dunes stretched out before him, a zephyr whisking away the sand grains at the ridges, moving them on somewhere else in the expanse. The Son glided forwards, whilst almost paralysed on the edge of his bed, gaining speed, feeling the wind snatch at his precisely-styled hair, feeling the roaring in his ears, the dryness in his eyes, the needle-like jab of suspended grains of sand. The dunes warped into an open grassland, populated by knee-height shrubs and the occasional fluttering insect – 

The Father twisted the doorknob and The Son’s bedroom door swung open with a click. The Son twisted his head to face his father, awoken from his meditation with a scowl on his face.

“We’re having guests for dinner.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your mother seems to think we are.”

The Son sighed.

“Come downstairs now. You’re needed.”

The Father huffed on his pipe and lumbered out of the bedroom.

…until the song ended and the next was less to her taste. She turned on the oven and placed the two plump, stuffed, glazed chickens inside. The Father loomed behind her, his immense frame casting a shadow over her, smoke from the pipe creating a haze below the low ceiling.

“Who are these guests coming for dinner?”

“Oh, they’re very nice, dear. You will find their company most enjoyable, I’m sure.” The Mother smiled, but her eyes were empty. “Now, go on upstairs and get changed into something less… dreary.”

The Father grunted and followed her instructions, his heavy feet booming on the wooden stairs. The Son was on his way down and he had to press himself against the wall so The Father could squeeze through.

“Evening, father.”

“Rather.”

The Son was greeted by The Mother with an instruction.

“You must arrange the flowers on the windowsill while I crush this garlic, dear boy.”

The Son nodded and twisted the flowerpots so that a different side was facing outwards, moved one a few millimetres to the left, another a few millimetres to the right. The Mother made unappealing noises of exertion as she used both hands to squeeze garlic cloves into a small bowl through the crusher. She paused to inspect The Son’s flower arranging progress.

“No, no, no.” The Mother hastily approached The Son by the window, brandishing the garlic crusher. “It seems I must do everything myself in this house to get it done right.” She waved her arms emphatically as she said so, strewing flecks of crushed garlic around the room and onto The Son’s expressionless face.

The Mother returned the flowerpots to their original positions and moved one a few millimetres back to the right, the other a few millimetres back to the left.

“Much better.”

She went back to the counter on which she was crushing garlic and squeezed the crusher, but nothing came out. She opened the arms and peered inside.

“There’s none left. How on earth could that have happened?”

The Son used a pinky finger to flick a piece of garlic out of the corner of his eye.

The Mother hurried across the kitchen and delved into a small storage room hidden behind a door that blended discreetly into the wall. She reappeared, wielding a hosepipe and held it out in offering to her son.

“Clean the patio, won’t you?” she said. “So it looks nice for our guests.”

“Of course.”

The Son made his way to the patio out at the front of the house. The drive consisted of a circular road around a marble fountain that spouted crystal clear water from five spouts in the shape of cherubs. Manicured flowerbeds and hedges lit up the patio in technicolour, an overwhelming assault on the visual senses to any visitor, though The Son was numb to its dazzling effects. He attached the hose to an outdoor tap and began spraying water across the tiled patio. The patio was already sparklingly clean, and the water simply created a film over the top, not making any impact on the miniscule, imperceptible amount of dirt that may have been present. He stood, rotating slowly, a thumb over the end of the hose to control the spray, wetting the tiles uselessly, limply.

Once his task was complete, The Son retreated to the safety of the house.

The Father was hunched over, his face millimetres from the glass window of the oven. He wheezed, struggling to breathe as his belly was constricted. He groaned as he extended his body up to an erect position. 

“Chicken looks done.” 

“Not quite.” The Mother said, “There are still two minutes left on the clock. I always time it perfectly, don’t I, dear?”

“Yes, I suppose you do.”

“Almost one and a half minutes now, not long.”

“When are these guests supposed to arrive?”

“Any minute now, any minute, I assure you.”

The Son laid the table, knife on the right and fork on the left of each plate. The Mother swiftly adjusted his setting, shifting the forks so they were, too, on the right of the plates, and she ensured that the plates were precisely centred on the straw mats. She sighed lightly as she did so, lamenting The Son’s inadequate efforts.

The timer on the oven rang out.

“Oh, look at that.” The Mother removed the roast chicken from the oven, and it was, undoubtedly, perfectly cooked. 

She placed the chicken on a thick wooden chopping board in the middle of the table. Already served was a mixed salad of lettuce, rocket, courgettes, fennel, and grated carrots with a citrusy dressing – her secret recipe. Roast potatoes formed a ring around the chicken. Satisfied, The Mother took her seat at the head of the table. The Father and The Son took their places on either side of her, the same as every other evening.

“Tuck in, boys.”

“But the guests aren’t here yet.” The Father said.

“Oh yes. Indeed.”

They waited. 

Silence. 

The chicken began to cool. The potatoes lost their delicate crispiness. The salad became sodden as the leaves absorbed all of the dressing. The maddening, steady tick of the grandfather clock in the sitting room ate into the silence. The Father’s breathing became more laboured. His stomach spoke for him. The ticking exploded into the room. 

The food, untouched, grew cold.

“I guess they aren’t coming,” said The Mother.