Would Be King

Would Be King
Marion Foreman

The flowers were meant to be a lovely gesture she thought. Delivered to her work place they had caused a bit of a stir. She had had to go down to reception to fetch them and that overly made up, heavily eye lashed twelve year old had cooed over them and was clearly itching to know who (and why) any one would send her, Ella, an old lady, a fairly indifferent bouquet.
Ella was no more old than the receptionist was twelve, but its all in the perception isn’t it? She took the flowers back to her desk and puzzled what to do with them. They were a gesture but she wasn’t really sure of what. She wanted them to be lovely but actually they looked like the cheapest that the cheap florist could put together. And she knew that they were meant to say something but she couldn’t quite think what the message might be.
Last night had been one of the worst. She didn’t hold out any hope for today.
‘Ella, what’s for tea?’, he had demanded as he walked in. She counted to three, she knew the exact timing.
‘Is it ready? Where’s my post?’.
‘Its nearly ready and there was no post’. Bloody postal chess. Furtive little envelopes, meticulously reposted with a new move inside. Why couldn’t he play online like everyone else? The board stood, poised on the chess table. Untouched and untouchable. The one time she had dusted it – but she wasn’t going to think of that again. One wrong move and a whacking great bruise on her cheek.
He hung his jacket over the back of his chair. How she wished he wouldn’t do that. He took out his newspaper and a pen and settled on the crossword. With any luck it would be finished just as the meal finished. She would sit, quietly. Once she had tried reading a book at the table but the punishment for that lasted a week and certainly wasn’t worth the crime.
He ate noisily. He slurped his drink (beer, one bottle per night, no more) and burped. She held her breath, waiting to see how the crossword progressed. The occasional days when it was ‘done by a rogue compiler’ and deemed to be ‘unsolvable’ were purgatory. He never asked her – if he had done she would have told him; she had finished it on her phone over her lovely breakfast that she had had that morning after he had left for work.
She had needed extra time this morning. She had had to change the bed sheets even though it wasn’t the weekend. She couldn’t face sleeping in them after what had happened. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the change in the schedule. But surely he wouldn’t want reminding either? The rage had been bad and made worse because she hadn’t seen it coming. She wasn’t braced ready.
The flowers would be all the acknowledgement; they were meant to say sorry. There had been no card. He used few words. They were in the bin at work. After much staring at them she couldn’t bear the sight. She had texted a thank you few words and then erased them. Unsent. Hypocrisy wasn’t her thing but she knew she would have had to big them up and tell him that she had left them at work so that she could see them all week whilst she worked.
She cleared the plates and brought in the ice cream. Chocolate, it was a Wednesday. She could see that there were only a few clues left.
‘4 across would be ‘king’’ she said, reading the clue that said ‘piece that is subservient to its female part’.
He grunted, cross with her. He looked up and what she saw did it. Never again would she play that game.
The blow to the back of his head from the rolling pin was swift. Dazed, his head fell into the chocolate mush.
‘Check Mate I think’ she said, quietly, and the second blow wiped the board clean.