"....wit's end and I can't th...."
"Can you just slow down?"
"....What am I...."
"Mrs. MacFarlane."
"....to do?"
"Agnes." Will you bloody listen! "Agnes, just take it easy. You're speaking too fast. I can't understand you. Agnes?" The line was quiet. "Agnes, are you still there?"
There was a sniff. "Yes, I am. I didn't mean to go on like that. I'm sorry."
She seemed a little calmer. At least she had stopped talking nineteen to the dozen. "Okay. Just remember the time lag. Wait for me to finish before you start and I'll do the same for you. Now, how is Eddie? Have you heard from him?"
"What?" She sounded shocked.
"I asked if you'd heard from Eddie."
"What do you mean, heard from him? How could I? My son is dead, Mr. Presswood! But you know that, surely?"
"Dead? Eddie?" Del's mind raced - freckles, lots of them, and red hair, but still no face. "I'm sorry, Agnes. I didn't know. I just got home last night." Now she was sobbing. Why did they do that? Just when you'd got it together, they turned on the tap and the next minute you were agreeing to anything. It wouldn't happen this time, though. He had enough of his own problems.
She broke off crying. "I'm sorry. I assumed you'd know. I thought the Company might have told you, seeing as you and Eddie were friends."
Friends? They had worked together once upon a time. Del hardly knew him. "Yes, we were, but they didn't tell me. What happened?"
"It wasn't an accident, Mr. Presswood. I know it wasn't. I saw it."
"In your dream."
"I'm not mad. I did see it. If you don't believe me, ask them how he died. Ask them what killed him. They won't tell me. I'm only his mother, but you're one of them. They'll tell you. Ask them about Eddie dancing. Ask them about the purple milk. Ask them why I can't bury my son, Mr. Presswood." She was crying again.
“I'm sorry, Agnes. You've lost me. What do you mean, you can't bury Eddie?"
"Just ask them." Her voice had become angry.
"Why don't you tell me, Agnes?"
"Ask them," she repeated bitterly. A dull click followed and the line began to hum.
"Agnes? Agnes? Don't hang up. Agnes!" She'd gone.
Sally was in the kitchen, standing with arms folded, glaring at the electric jug, willing it not to boil so that she could get in a bit of practice on an inanimate object before taking Del apart. Her shoulders flinched, so she had apparently heard him enter, but she didn't look round. "How long has this been going on?" she demanded in a tone which implied that she already knew.
Here we go again! "If you mean me working my butt off so that I can come home and have you bitch at me...."
"I mean the fancy woman. Your little bit of tartan on the side." Her animosity towards him was too crisply delivered to be spontaneous. In fact, she'd probably been working as hard on it as he had on his own tactics. She finally turned and looked him straight in the eye. "She phoned earlier, sounded pretty distraught. Don't tell me you were stupid enough to get her pregnant."
"The mood you're in, I'm telling you sweet FA. Believe what you want."
"I am not in a mood!"
Pig's bum! If he'd had any sense at all, he'd have walked out, but reason and logic didn't have a lot going for them at that moment. He went to the table and sat down instead.
The jug boiled. She unplugged it and filled the teapot. "Do you want a cup?" she asked over her shoulder.
"That's civilised of you. White with one arsenic, thanks."
She spun on him. "Snide remarks aren't going to help the situation."
"And you are, I suppose? How the bloody hell else do you expect me to react? I get a letter and one phone call from a woman I've never even met, and straight away you're accusing me of having an affair! Look." He leaned heavily on the table. "Let's stop playing silly buggers, shall we? It's over, Sal - a disaster. The only good thing that's come out of our marriage is Danny and I don't want him hurt."
"You won't get him!" she snapped hastily. "The courts always give custody to__"
"Jesus Christ! You can't wait to put the boot in, can you?"
"I'm not going to let you walk all over me, Del!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
"And you can keep that foul language out of my house!"
He knew it! - My house. Del put on a look of shocked amazement and stared about him. "I thought something was wrong." He stroked the surface of the table with his hand. "I've got one just like this, you know." He rose and began walking along the draining board, stroking and touching things as he passed. "And this, and this." He caught the fridge door. "This is the spitting image of mine, and I'll just bet there are some cans of Fosters on the top shelf." He pulled it open. "Yes, I thought so. Ah, wait a bit, though - mustard pickle? No mustard pickle in my fridge." He turned to face her. "You're right - I'm in the wrong place. This must be your house."
She had a look of bored contempt on her face. "Have you quite finished?"
He cocked his head and glanced up as if in deep thought. "No, not quite." He reached into the fridge and took out the jar of pickle, then went over and placed it in her hand.
She frowned. "What's this for?"
He watched her eyes. They quivered with uncertainty. He was pretty sure he'd been right about her - she had been screwing someone else. "Put some on your boyfriend's pipe and shove it!"
"I - I don't know what...."
Del was walking to the door. He turned and produced a humourless smile. "Your arse or his, I don't give a shit!"
He went across the lounge and phoned for a cab. He thought for a moment just after he'd hung up and fumbled in his pocket. He brought out some coins, selected a dollar and left it by the phone. After due consideration, he picked it up again - hell, he was going to be paying the phone bill, anyway!
Then he went through to the bedroom and tossed some clothes into a case. When he came back, Sally was standing in the kitchen doorway. She was leaning on the frame, sipping tea, trying to appear smug and in control. Del walked past. "I'll be back for the rest of my stuff."
"Where will you be? What if I need to contact you?"
That wasn't very likely, unless it was for money, or to serve divorce papers. "Do it via the office." He was going to say: "Give Danny my love," but he knew she wouldn't, so he just took his case and his overnight bag and went out to wait for the taxi.
3
Del stood awkwardly on the doorstep. It was nine-thirty in the evening, the same day he had returned from the rig, a few hours after he'd seen John Stanley at the office to arrange a transfer to some job closer to home, and a few more since he'd given Sally all the ammunition she would ever need to put him through the wringer. He kept asking himself why he was there and the only answer he could come up with was that there was nowhere else; and, anyway, she'd suggested it in the first place.
She was Stanley's secretary, a nice kid. Well, not really a kid. Liz would be in her early twenties, but seeing as he'd topped the big three-oh a couple of years back, he'd always thought of them as worlds apart. They'd only ever chatted when he came to check in at the office. Usually the conversation was pretty light-hearted, like older brother to little sister, but today she'd appeared different. Maybe it was the mood he was in or the situation in general. He expected she might have felt sorry for him, standing there with his baggage, looking like a drowned rat. He was sure that was why she'd made the offer. What he couldn't figure was why he hadn't