May 2011
Colin ran his finger along the mantelpiece, 'Dust everywhere! I'm ashamed to bring anyone back here. Look at the state of the place.'
Nora looked around carefully, trying to see their home through her husband's eyes. It all seemed rather . . . normal.
'My mother's house was spotless, even with six children to bring up. You could eat off the kitchen floor.'
Nora mumbled, 'I'll start the spring cleaning tomorrow.'
Colin pointed to the ceiling, 'Don't forget the corners – the feather duster was my mother's weapon of choice for that. And it's no good using the upright Hoover to get right up to the skirting board; use the cylinder one I got you for your birthday.'
Nora nodded, she said she'd better have an early night and scuttled up the stairs before any more instructions could be given.
She loved snuggling down in bed all on her own. Colin had long since taken over their martial bedroom, suggesting she'd be better off in the spare room if she insisted on reading half the night.
Nora smiled contentedly as she opened her book and started reading. She had acquired her taste for French literature while studying for her 'A' Levels. They had read 'La Peste' by Albert Camus. Her eyes had been opened by an inspiring teacher who explained all about Algeria, and the significance of Hitler who, she said, was the real plague.
She started to understand what education really meant. Her Latin told her the word derived from 'to lead' and that was what this wonderful teacher was doing . . . leading her into the light.
She wasn't able to complete her 'A' Levels. Her mother couldn't see the point. Nora left and got a job in the Civil Service which bored her out of her skull. Marrying Colin was a natural progression.
She read for an hour, then reluctantly put 'Gernminal' by the magnificent Emil Zola carefully away and turned out the light. She lay in the darkness thinking about her life. When was it going to start?
At breakfast, Nora could see Colin's lips moving, but she felt strangely detached. Perhaps it was lack of sleep. She shook herself back to reality. '. . . and while you clean the inside windows, I'll do the outside; that so-called window cleaner never does them properly.'
Colin always liked to save money; he'd been on at her to cancel the window cleaner for months.
Nora could hear Colin's tuneless whistling as he climbed the ladder to do his bedroom window. She decided to start downstairs. The task went surprisingly well, mainly because she had been thinking about her book and how hard it must have been to work down that mine.
She suddenly stopped. There was no sound of whistling . . . and what was that clattering sound she had heard a while back? Perhaps she'd better check, so she made her way out into the garden.
Colin was laying on the crazy paving still clutching a cloth . . . was that blood?
In the months to come, many people asked what Colin had died of. Nora simply said, 'Spring cleaning.'