the death of mr reginald hargreaves

the death of mr reginald hargreaves

If I justify myself, mine own mouth shall condemn me.

I am afraid of all my sorrow. I know that thou wilt not hold me innocent.

Job

The blood had congealed on the path forming a membrane that reflected the light.  The edges of the pool bulged at some points ready to over-run the constraints of the luminous surface.  At other points those same constraints had been breached, the luminosity lost as the concrete soaked up the blood, changing its texture to one that was matt and sticky.  Reg lay contorted as if he mirrored the white line one would expect to see traced in heavy chalk around a body at the scene of a crime.  The angle at which his leg protruded and the obvious presence of blood alleviated any perception that the dead figure had simply slipped peacefully into a sleep-like state.  What little hair Reg had fell forward concealing any expression that may have betrayed a sense of shock or surprise.

Marjorie turned and walked briskly down the path.  The toe of her shoe left a trail of crimson prints that thinned as the distance from their source increased. The hue of the crest-like form was in keeping with the dahlias that resided in the well-tended gardens on either side of the path; gardens that drew life from the very ground that seemed to have sucked the remnants of Reg’s life from him.

Marjorie ascended the steps that led into the house passing by the door’s porthole panel that housed a glass-etched image of a boat tossed on stormy seas.  Marjorie had often imagined the exotic destination the boat might carry her away to, far from her current existence.  The door was weighed back. The darkness of the wallpaper concealed the hope the portholes usual radiant glow offered when the light shone from behind.  Marjorie’s destination today was the store on the corner of High and Queen.  Retrieving her coat from the hall cupboard, she gently secured her scarf at the base of her chin, repositioning and tucking away wisps of hair that were astray. Although she examined herself carefully in the mirror that hung above the hall table, she altered nothing more about her appearance. Collecting the bag that lay before her she pulled the door closed behind her as she left.

The journey to the store was a routine one.  Marjorie walked it most days stopping at the butcher to collect meat for Reg’s supper.  He was particular about what he liked,particular that the meat should be fresh, daily, although he would settle for cold meat on Sunday. Years of frequenting the Gordons’ establishment resulted in a familiarity with his tastes and the reservation of fine cuts.   As Marjorie did not require their services today she continued past the black and white tiled exterior. The large reflective window boldly proclaiming the proprietors, offered glimpses of neatly displayed meat, separated on their stainless steel surfaces by what Marjorie had come to think of as plastic green grass. A curious reference, she had thought, to the former life of the butchered flesh.

The store for which she had set out was a shop or two beyond. It was an all-purpose store, not large, but one that housed the necessities of life and the odd miscellaneous items that one needed in an emergency. Reg didn’t like emergencies; to be caught unprepared was weakness, to succumb to demands of the unexpected, a lack in self-discipline. Marjorie had learnt to plan for every eventuality.

As Marjorie entered the store she collected a basket, heading directly for the second aisle. Once more the routine of Marjorie’s life dictated a familiarity with her surroundings and although the suspended signs indicated where things might be found, Marjorie had no need to consult them.  Marjorie knew the exact location of the items she sought. On an ordinary day she would not have stopped at this point, as Reg did not like jelly. Marjorie did. In the many years that Reg and Marjorie had been together she had refrained from indulging in the small pleasure that she found in its consumption on account of Reg’s hatred of the substance.

Marjorie placed her belongings at her feet. Bending, as her aging body would allow, she came eye to eye with the brightly coloured boxes in their rainbow arrangement.   The joyous fruit that danced with beaming smiles indicated both the flavour and colour one could expect to find inside.  Lifting the seemingly weightless boxes Marjorie let them drop into the basket forming a small mound. As Marjorie selected the items she desired narrow tunnels developed extended the depth of the shelf where once the strawberry, raspberry, black current and wild berry jellies had resided.  Rearranging the boxes in her basket ever so slightly Marjorie proceeded to the checkout.

The young operator was new.

“Mrs. Hargreaves has an account with us, son,” called Mr. Thomas as he made his way over to where the young operator was standing. The slightness of the boy accentuated the roundness of the older mans form. Placing a small bound book on the counter top for the young operator to record the details of Mrs. Hargreaves purchase, his eyes fell on Marjorie with greater scrutiny than he had earlier given. Neither Mr. Thomas, nor the young operator, diverted their attention far.

“Can we be of any further assistance today Mrs. Hargreaves?” asked Mr. Thomas with more pointed inquisition than Marjorie seemed to notice.

“No, thank you,” replied Marjorie, “however,” she continued as if considering factors slightly out of reach, “I should like to pay by cash today.”

Clipping open her purse Marjorie extracted several carefully folded notes handing them to the young man before turning her gaze to the promotional offer broadcast at the end of the aisle.   The newfound interest in the soap powder was a welcome diversion as the operator counted her change and prepared the purchased items for her departure. Laden with a somewhat misshapen bag Marjorie left the store.

On her return to the house Marjorie removed her coat and scarf, replacing them in their hallway abode and continued into the kitchen.  Her apron had remained concealed on her journey, its unveiling brought a sense of restoration to the surrounding in which it, and Marjorie, played their most important role.

Entering the small walk-in pantry just off the kitchen Marjorie extended the stepladder. She ascended the rungs to recover a large preserving pan, a pan usually employed for the bottling of summer fruit and the simmering of conserves.  Filling the pan with water and placing it on the front element of the stove Marjorie returned to the pantry. Pushing the door closed as she entered Marjorie extracted a large cardboard box that sat, with a look of neglect, behind the door undisturbed by the day-to-day coming and goings.  Placing the box on the mottled surface of the kitchen table she withdrew the cardboard flaps that slotted into one another closing the top.  As they folded back to expose the contents of the box their variation in colour retained the map of how the pieces had interlocked.

Marjorie took the tea towel from where is hung on the rail at the end of the bench holding it over the sink, turning the tap. As the water soaked into the fabric it darkened and intensified the colours revealing glimpses of floral species native to the South Pacific.  Marjorie extracted from the box the objects that had been so carefully hidden; jelly molds. Running the cloth over their surface she removed the dust and debris. Each vessel she prepared promised to mold crystalline forms with peaks and curves becoming of the glistening substance. Lined along the bench and tabletop they awaited the sweet hot jelly.

Turning back to the now boiling water, Marjorie removed the jelly boxes from her bag, one by one pressing her finger into the small serrated crescent, peeling back the top of the box.  Working her fingers to release the folds that secured the waxed paper she carefully poured the crystals into the steaming pan, stirring as the instructions indicated to ensure that they would dissolve completely and consistently. As the bubbles pushed their way to the surface Marjorie lowered her ladle into the swirling red syrup transferring the liquid to the awaiting vessels. Once cooled Marjorie removed them from their molds slowly filling the surfaces around her with the plates that housed bright and curvaceous forms – Returning with each release to continue their process of construction. 

In the midst of this production Marjorie was alerted to the presence of two uniformed police officers standing in her kitchen.  In glancing out the kitchen window she noticed a third circling the body on the path.  The net fabric that screened the window reduced him to a dark, indiscriminate figure. As she wiped her hands on her apron in order to greet them, she realised, as did they, that the red that stained the fabric and spotted the skin on her forearms and face, although holding the deep red tones of the jelly was not in fact its residue.

“Mrs. Hargreaves?” enquired the officer

“Yes,” replied Marjorie turning to face them, “I have been expecting you.”

T H E   E N D