They Made The Effort
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: In the middle of the night in the dark of winter, two people get ready for their journeys.
_____________________________________________________________________
He tossed and turned till his wife told him to sleep downstairs. The rest of the night he spent on the couch, the lights switched off, the television tuned to the comedy channel, although he only caught fragments; it was difficult to concentrate on the screen. Too many things were running around in his head, disjointed images jostling for attention before shooting off on absurd tangents. Nothing made sense, after a while the scenes began to overlap, there was so much going on, too much information, all of it punctuated by the incongruous mirth of a laugh track.
His eyelids were closing. He fumbled for the button on the remote. It was time to get ready.
She smothered the alarm as soon as it went off. She realised she was holding her breath.
Malcolm didn’t move.
Alan was the only person awake in the village, he could tell from the silence, the kind that is peculiar to winter. The house was freezing. He could have turned on the heating, but they were trying to cut back on bills, it was his idea and therefore a bone of contention, one of many. At least the shower was hot. He used what was left of the liquid soap, washing his hair twice. He tried to tease some life into himself, but it was no use. It is nothing organic, he said out loud, It is nothing to worry about. Maybe it was too early in the day. It was so early it was the middle of the night. That wasn’t the problem. It was punishment, pure and simple. He was in the midst of a situation that warranted censure. He spread his fingers against the tiles and let the water massage his neck, but the thoughts were starting again. He dried off and drew the towel across the mirror. The foam spread easily, smoothly, over his face. He didn’t need to shave, he’d taken care of that before he went to bed, but he wanted to look his best. He wanted to show that he had made the effort. When he finished he checked for cuts, especially around his throat, which was where the damage usually showed up.
The house was already warm. Ailsa had adjusted the thermostat the previous evening. It was all in the planning, and she was good at that, at laying plans, she’d made a career out of it. In the bathroom she noticed blood – two days early. It was hard not to feel disappointed, this was something she hadn’t expected. Not really. She cleaned herself. She felt cheated, but even without this, there was no way she would have been doing anything, although it would have been nice to have that possibility, to have felt like she was in control; to have been able to say no for no’s sake. She stepped into the shower and immediately saw a splash of red at her feet. She closed her eyes to it. Life was short. Malcolm was fast asleep, for once he was the way she wanted him. It would probably take him till lunchtime to remember where she was, or, rather, where she had said she would be.
He shivered on the landing. He should have laid out his clothes before he got into the shower. They were in the wardrobe. His outfit. He had put a lot of thought into what he was going to wear, just like the good old days when he was working. The clothes were nothing special, a shirt, a pullover and a pair of jeans, but it was all about the image he wanted to project. This image concerned youth – the denial of a lack of it. His wife was snoring gently. He peeled the clothes off the hangers and checked on the kids before going downstairs. He dressed quickly, trying to stave off the voice that was lurking.
Before he left, he doused himself in after shave.
Her clothes and makeup were in the guest room. She didn’t have time to do her nails, but she’d been for a manicure during the week, her nails were fine. They were better than fine. She had shown them to Malcolm. ‘It’s good to see you’re making the effort,’ was what he said. She would have hit him, but she turned away. She had turned away and smiled. If only he knew.
Out in the garden, the night lights had run down. That was the thing about winter, the batteries hardly had a chance to build up a decent charge. And the air was completely still, the storm she’d heard about must have passed them by. The sky was clear, full of stars, dawn was a long way off. Where was North? She didn’t have a clue, even though that was where she was going. She stubbed out the cigarette on the path. She drank more coffee then brushed her teeth. She was almost ready to leave when she remembered to reset the alarm for Malcolm. She looked at him lying there. A voice in her head said ‘I love you,’ but it didn’t sound like anyone she knew.
The bus was already waiting at the stop, the lights on, a huge cloud juddering from the exhaust. The driver was inside, checking the ticket machine. Alan removed a glove. He chapped the door and mimed smoking, but there was no response.
He had rolled three cigarettes back at the house. Fat ones. He got the first one burning, but something was missing. Coffee, of course, the smoke didn’t taste the same without coffee. He leaned against the shelter and looked at his watch. He had time, there was no rush, he’d planned this carefully. The driver was examining something in a battered notebook, stabbing at the page with the nub of a pencil. He looked as if he was adding things up. Not his hours, surely, this was the first bus of the day. What, then? Maybe the drivers had to share the notebook, passing it over between shifts. Observations in case an Inspector showed up. Reports to do with bad passengers banging on doors ten minutes before the bus was due to leave.
Internal monologues. Internal monologues and sanity.
The car was a loaner. It started on the third attempt. Her own car was in the garage being serviced, seemingly it needed a new timing belt as well as everything else, even though it was less than a year old. She adjusted the mirrors, again, with the little knob on the window ledge. A clock was set in the middle of the dashboard.
She wondered if Alan was awake.
His reflection at his shoulder. He was the only passenger. He had looked good in the bathroom mirror, but now that he saw himself from this angle he wasn’t so sure. He removed his woolly hat. His hair was all wrong. He ruffled it with his fingers till it was just right, the way he had meant it. The heating was turned up full, he could feel himself starting to sweat. Yes, he thought, it’s the Real You.
He moved to the seat across the aisle. The window was steamed up. He didn’t touch it.
At this time of the morning the bridge was quiet. Usually, when she was driving to work, the traffic was backed up on both sides, all four lanes jammed. She took her foot off the accelerator and let the car glide down to forty. She hated hanging around in airports, she didn’t want to get there too early. But what about the queue at Security, you always had to wait these days. At least the shops would be open. Of course they would, she wouldn’t be the only one travelling.
He got off at the road end, as per the timetable, so there was no need for thankyous. As soon as his feet touched the ground the door slammed and the bus moved off.
He already had his hat on, and his gloves. The village had been cold, but this was Arctic, almost the middle of nowhere. He took small steps down the embankment, the pavement had iced over, as had the puddles at the side of the road, white at the edges with grey bubbles in the middle. He waited till it was safe and put a heel through one of them. The crack then the hiss and wheeze. A whine, all the way along the gutter.
He became aware of another whine, this one growing louder as he approached the terminal. The smell of jet fuel. It was something he associated with getting away, but he wouldn’t be flying anywhere, despite the anticipation, the sweet hint of an escape. He had invested so much to be here today, but he had also neglected things, he had neglected the people he loved, although he hadn’t lied to them. Would lying to them have been so bad? He was here, now, and they weren’t. They didn’t know where he was. Only two people in the world did. He was one of them. He used to be good at this kind of thing, putting things in little boxes, making sure he knew where they were. He’d been destined for greatness, before they decided to let him go.
Cones up ahead, flashing lights. She had to brake. A tree was lying across the road, the base a massive disc of soil and roots, it towered over the car. She imagined giant fingers gripping the trunk, pushing it over.
No one was pushing Ailsa. No one was forcing her to do this. She indicated left at the roundabout where the motorway ended. It was still early, though, the car park wasn’t even half full. She had to fiddle with the key to get the doors to lock. She checked them all, and the boot, to make sure.
Ski bags and suitcases. It was that time of year. Malcolm had booked something for the end of the month, same place as always, same faces, same conversations, same old. She went to the toilet to change liner. The cramps were starting. She popped two Nurofen out of their blisters and scooped water from the tap. She wasn’t going to let this spoil her day out, her jolly.
They frisked her thoroughly, but she didn’t have to take her boots off. The gate was quiet – she bought a coffee from the concession and sat down facing the window. It was still dark outside, all she could see was her reflection and the emptiness behind her. The flight wouldn’t be busy after all. She was glad. She thought about the day ahead, about how they would spend it. She wanted to see him. She needed to. Just this once. It wouldn’t come to anything. It couldn’t, because she knew only too well where the past belonged. She sipped her Skinny Latte through the slit in the cap. It was okay to have a dream once in a while, she thought. You could even be part of one. You didn’t have to try very hard.
The terminal was buzzing. He went straight to the arrivals lounge and ordered an espresso to go. The pavement was full of smokers, some of them huddled round an ashtray set on a bollard. Alan paced the kerb, the carton of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Inside, he watched the screen. On time. Approaching. Landed 08.15. It was half past now. The doors opened. He was on his tiptoes, even though he was the only one waiting. Still no sign. His hand moved to his chest. Blood was pumping through him. It had nothing to do with caffeine. He felt great. Wanted. He felt like a man at the start of something.
Swearwords: None.
Description: In the middle of the night in the dark of winter, two people get ready for their journeys.
_____________________________________________________________________
He tossed and turned till his wife told him to sleep downstairs. The rest of the night he spent on the couch, the lights switched off, the television tuned to the comedy channel, although he only caught fragments; it was difficult to concentrate on the screen. Too many things were running around in his head, disjointed images jostling for attention before shooting off on absurd tangents. Nothing made sense, after a while the scenes began to overlap, there was so much going on, too much information, all of it punctuated by the incongruous mirth of a laugh track.
His eyelids were closing. He fumbled for the button on the remote. It was time to get ready.
She smothered the alarm as soon as it went off. She realised she was holding her breath.
Malcolm didn’t move.
Alan was the only person awake in the village, he could tell from the silence, the kind that is peculiar to winter. The house was freezing. He could have turned on the heating, but they were trying to cut back on bills, it was his idea and therefore a bone of contention, one of many. At least the shower was hot. He used what was left of the liquid soap, washing his hair twice. He tried to tease some life into himself, but it was no use. It is nothing organic, he said out loud, It is nothing to worry about. Maybe it was too early in the day. It was so early it was the middle of the night. That wasn’t the problem. It was punishment, pure and simple. He was in the midst of a situation that warranted censure. He spread his fingers against the tiles and let the water massage his neck, but the thoughts were starting again. He dried off and drew the towel across the mirror. The foam spread easily, smoothly, over his face. He didn’t need to shave, he’d taken care of that before he went to bed, but he wanted to look his best. He wanted to show that he had made the effort. When he finished he checked for cuts, especially around his throat, which was where the damage usually showed up.
The house was already warm. Ailsa had adjusted the thermostat the previous evening. It was all in the planning, and she was good at that, at laying plans, she’d made a career out of it. In the bathroom she noticed blood – two days early. It was hard not to feel disappointed, this was something she hadn’t expected. Not really. She cleaned herself. She felt cheated, but even without this, there was no way she would have been doing anything, although it would have been nice to have that possibility, to have felt like she was in control; to have been able to say no for no’s sake. She stepped into the shower and immediately saw a splash of red at her feet. She closed her eyes to it. Life was short. Malcolm was fast asleep, for once he was the way she wanted him. It would probably take him till lunchtime to remember where she was, or, rather, where she had said she would be.
He shivered on the landing. He should have laid out his clothes before he got into the shower. They were in the wardrobe. His outfit. He had put a lot of thought into what he was going to wear, just like the good old days when he was working. The clothes were nothing special, a shirt, a pullover and a pair of jeans, but it was all about the image he wanted to project. This image concerned youth – the denial of a lack of it. His wife was snoring gently. He peeled the clothes off the hangers and checked on the kids before going downstairs. He dressed quickly, trying to stave off the voice that was lurking.
Before he left, he doused himself in after shave.
Her clothes and makeup were in the guest room. She didn’t have time to do her nails, but she’d been for a manicure during the week, her nails were fine. They were better than fine. She had shown them to Malcolm. ‘It’s good to see you’re making the effort,’ was what he said. She would have hit him, but she turned away. She had turned away and smiled. If only he knew.
Out in the garden, the night lights had run down. That was the thing about winter, the batteries hardly had a chance to build up a decent charge. And the air was completely still, the storm she’d heard about must have passed them by. The sky was clear, full of stars, dawn was a long way off. Where was North? She didn’t have a clue, even though that was where she was going. She stubbed out the cigarette on the path. She drank more coffee then brushed her teeth. She was almost ready to leave when she remembered to reset the alarm for Malcolm. She looked at him lying there. A voice in her head said ‘I love you,’ but it didn’t sound like anyone she knew.
The bus was already waiting at the stop, the lights on, a huge cloud juddering from the exhaust. The driver was inside, checking the ticket machine. Alan removed a glove. He chapped the door and mimed smoking, but there was no response.
He had rolled three cigarettes back at the house. Fat ones. He got the first one burning, but something was missing. Coffee, of course, the smoke didn’t taste the same without coffee. He leaned against the shelter and looked at his watch. He had time, there was no rush, he’d planned this carefully. The driver was examining something in a battered notebook, stabbing at the page with the nub of a pencil. He looked as if he was adding things up. Not his hours, surely, this was the first bus of the day. What, then? Maybe the drivers had to share the notebook, passing it over between shifts. Observations in case an Inspector showed up. Reports to do with bad passengers banging on doors ten minutes before the bus was due to leave.
Internal monologues. Internal monologues and sanity.
The car was a loaner. It started on the third attempt. Her own car was in the garage being serviced, seemingly it needed a new timing belt as well as everything else, even though it was less than a year old. She adjusted the mirrors, again, with the little knob on the window ledge. A clock was set in the middle of the dashboard.
She wondered if Alan was awake.
His reflection at his shoulder. He was the only passenger. He had looked good in the bathroom mirror, but now that he saw himself from this angle he wasn’t so sure. He removed his woolly hat. His hair was all wrong. He ruffled it with his fingers till it was just right, the way he had meant it. The heating was turned up full, he could feel himself starting to sweat. Yes, he thought, it’s the Real You.
He moved to the seat across the aisle. The window was steamed up. He didn’t touch it.
At this time of the morning the bridge was quiet. Usually, when she was driving to work, the traffic was backed up on both sides, all four lanes jammed. She took her foot off the accelerator and let the car glide down to forty. She hated hanging around in airports, she didn’t want to get there too early. But what about the queue at Security, you always had to wait these days. At least the shops would be open. Of course they would, she wouldn’t be the only one travelling.
He got off at the road end, as per the timetable, so there was no need for thankyous. As soon as his feet touched the ground the door slammed and the bus moved off.
He already had his hat on, and his gloves. The village had been cold, but this was Arctic, almost the middle of nowhere. He took small steps down the embankment, the pavement had iced over, as had the puddles at the side of the road, white at the edges with grey bubbles in the middle. He waited till it was safe and put a heel through one of them. The crack then the hiss and wheeze. A whine, all the way along the gutter.
He became aware of another whine, this one growing louder as he approached the terminal. The smell of jet fuel. It was something he associated with getting away, but he wouldn’t be flying anywhere, despite the anticipation, the sweet hint of an escape. He had invested so much to be here today, but he had also neglected things, he had neglected the people he loved, although he hadn’t lied to them. Would lying to them have been so bad? He was here, now, and they weren’t. They didn’t know where he was. Only two people in the world did. He was one of them. He used to be good at this kind of thing, putting things in little boxes, making sure he knew where they were. He’d been destined for greatness, before they decided to let him go.
Cones up ahead, flashing lights. She had to brake. A tree was lying across the road, the base a massive disc of soil and roots, it towered over the car. She imagined giant fingers gripping the trunk, pushing it over.
No one was pushing Ailsa. No one was forcing her to do this. She indicated left at the roundabout where the motorway ended. It was still early, though, the car park wasn’t even half full. She had to fiddle with the key to get the doors to lock. She checked them all, and the boot, to make sure.
Ski bags and suitcases. It was that time of year. Malcolm had booked something for the end of the month, same place as always, same faces, same conversations, same old. She went to the toilet to change liner. The cramps were starting. She popped two Nurofen out of their blisters and scooped water from the tap. She wasn’t going to let this spoil her day out, her jolly.
They frisked her thoroughly, but she didn’t have to take her boots off. The gate was quiet – she bought a coffee from the concession and sat down facing the window. It was still dark outside, all she could see was her reflection and the emptiness behind her. The flight wouldn’t be busy after all. She was glad. She thought about the day ahead, about how they would spend it. She wanted to see him. She needed to. Just this once. It wouldn’t come to anything. It couldn’t, because she knew only too well where the past belonged. She sipped her Skinny Latte through the slit in the cap. It was okay to have a dream once in a while, she thought. You could even be part of one. You didn’t have to try very hard.
The terminal was buzzing. He went straight to the arrivals lounge and ordered an espresso to go. The pavement was full of smokers, some of them huddled round an ashtray set on a bollard. Alan paced the kerb, the carton of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Inside, he watched the screen. On time. Approaching. Landed 08.15. It was half past now. The doors opened. He was on his tiptoes, even though he was the only one waiting. Still no sign. His hand moved to his chest. Blood was pumping through him. It had nothing to do with caffeine. He felt great. Wanted. He felt like a man at the start of something.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford is from Grangemouth. His work has appeared in over twenty publications, including Interlitq, B O D Y (Czech Republic), Gutter, The Ofi Press (Mexico) and The Athens News (Greece). Andrew's first novel, Drive!, was published in 2010. He has also written two collections of short stories, The Next Stop Is Croy and A Man's Hands. He lives in Greece.