Mr. Havisham

Mr. Havisham
by Daniel Adams

The roast was still in the oven when Alan came down to breakfast. A quick bleary eyed glance through the oven door showed it looked a bit drier than it had yesterday evening, but Alan had no doubts the Lamb-shoulder would still taste very good. Maggie would work one of her miracles on it when she came back, she was a wonder around the kitchen. No head for figures or money or any of the sort of thing Alan was good at. As for trying to explain cricket to her! But after thirty-five years of marital excellence you could not help but know your partner’s strong points, Maggie was an excellent cook and housewife. She kept everything very clean and played a mean game of Bridge according to the ladies of her bridge group who came around every fifth Saturday. Saying that, the group had not been around for a while but schedules do change, perhaps it was every sixth now?

Alan took his bowl and spoon from the dish-washer then poured himself a bowl of Alpen. He had to get the milk from the fridge himself, Maggie usually had it on the table in a jug waiting for him. But she was still out so Alan would have to rough it that morning. He was reasonably sure he could go without his morning toast – which Maggie would normally also have waiting – as long as he had more cereal than other mornings. Toward that end he heaped Alpen into the bowl with the casual abandon of a man forgoing his morning toast. It was not long before he decided it would have been better to have two normal sized portions rather than an unusually large one, that way the milk would not have had so much time to make the cereal soggy. Had Maggie been there she would have pointed that out, she was ever so practical, although had Maggie been there he would have been having his toast rather than and extra large portion of cereal so the argument was rather academic.

After breakfast Alan headed for the shower, the bathroom had recently been redone and was a joy behold. A lovely yellow ochre bath suite with sparkling bronze and diamond effect taps. The tiles were an orange colour with pretty chrysanthemums painted in relief on every second tile. Together he and Maggie had chosen the suite - now the envy all those who visited - obviously he had pointed Maggie in the right direction as to what colours would look nice and what fixtures and fittings were within their price-range. A role-top bath simply was not a viable option in the current economic climate, once Maggie had understood that she obviously agreed a “marble-effect” acrylic bath was just the ticket. The aqua-marine blue floor-tiles had been a good find in the ‘seconds’ section of the shop; Alan was sure Maggie liked those too.


These days Alan had plenty of time to do things he liked. Model planes were a hobby of his, making and painting. He was currently recreating, in full 1:60 scale glory, the Dam Busters squadron. He had started the last plane yesterday morning and was planning on painting it this afternoon, the glue would most probably be dry but it would not hurt to leave the job till the afternoon, just to make sure. Alan had saved Wing Commander Guy Gibson’s plane until last. It had been the first of nineteen Avro Lancaster Bombers to attack the Möhne Dam during that famous night in 1943. He’d explained all that to Maggie but it was one of those things that went over her head. Maggie thought a mosquito was just a bug!

He pushed aside thoughts of making the plane now, he had decided to give the house a tidy for when Maggie came back, not that it was untidy apart from the odd model plane here and there but if he polished and dusted then Maggie would notice and be pleased – one less job on her house-hold itinerary.

Where were the dusters? The cupboard, in the utility room as they usually were. He paused in the kitchen to scrape the sodden cereal into the bin put his bowl and spoon back into the dishwasher, being careful not to drip any milk on his lunch and dinner plates. He quickly looked in the oven and - not for the first time - wondered if he should send the cold shoulder of lamb the way of his cereal. He decided against it, when Maggie came back she would be angry if he had simply thrown it out. She did work very hard in the kitchen and he did not want to upset her. Thirty years of marital excellence was about knowing your place; Maggie new hers and he knew Maggie’s too. A place for everything and everything in its place.

The lounge was the obvious starting point. The television screen always attracted dust and the coffee table looked much more elegant when its shine was high and bright. The television was a job of seconds now, the task of wiping the dust from the TV screen was covered best with four vertical strokes, culminating with one horizontal stroke across the bottom to collect any left over dust. The mantlepiece was a simple matter of lifting up the china ornaments and dusting beneath before setting them back as they were. Maggie would be pleased when she came back, pleased to see he had kept the place so clean for her.

The photo on the mantlepiece of himself and Maggie outside the church on their wedding day caught his eye. He often used to joke that Maggie had not known what she was letting herself in for. Jokingly she would agree. He picked it up and gave the glass a quick wipe. Not in their thirty years of marriage had her smile looked so radiant as it did in that photo, there was something about marriage that made women radiant. Alan simply could not agree with the current fashion of co-habitation. There could not be true love and longevity in such an arrangement, the tax breaks were also better if you were married.

He set the TV times straight on the coffee table. He put the care worker notes hastily into his pocket. Maggie did not need to see those, she might think he was having an affair! A big front page picture on the TV-times told him that Dr Who was on later that evening, so it must be Saturday. Although he could not recall seeing Dr Who on television for sometime, if it was Saturday he would have to tidy the dining room because Maggie might come striding through the door with her Bridge friends in tow.

Alan thought Bridge was a pointless game, she should take up something meaningful like the piano. Women looked elegant when playing a piano. Playing Bridge was not elegant. He took a breath and resolved not to think that way, what she did with her spare time was her own affair, and it did mean he could build his planes in peace. Imagine attempting to build a Sopworth camel with Maggie trying to master Chopsticks in the background!




Martin stood on the door step, picture with address on the back in one hand, package in the other. He took a deep breath, this was going to be difficult – how would the guy react? What did he look like? He almost turned to go but he owed this to his mother and was not going to break a promise. Taking another breath, which failed to calm his nerves as he hoped it would, Matin reached up and pressed the door bell.

Alan jumped. The door bell – installed by himself in a thrifty and electronically conversant fashion – had surprised him. He wondered who it could be then it dawned, it must be Maggie. He stuffed the duster into his pocket and made his way as quickly as he was able to the door, it was likely she would have some shopping and he didn’t want to leave her holding it too long in the outside cold.


Through the bubbled glass of the front door Martin watched the distorted approach of his father. A sliver of shivering trepidation ran down his spine which had nothing to do with the chill weather.
The door opened.
“Maggie, its good that yo…Oh I’m sorry I was expecting my wife. She was meant to come back today.” Martin silently appraised the father he had never known. The man was small, with grey hair and thick glasses. His nose was red, covered in a criss-cross of broken blood vessels. Martin wondered if this was a sign of too much drinking. He wouldn’t begrudge him if it was – who could stay sober through something like that?
“Mr Reynolds?” The man nodded with a pleasant enquiring smile on his face. Martin steeled himself. “ My name is Martin, I think I should come in, I have some news,” the enquiring smile became perturbed.
“I’m Alan,” he said brusquely. “You will have to be quick mind, my wife objects to strangers in her house.” He moved away from the door and disappeared out of sight. Closing the door Martin followed the old man through an archway into what was obviously the lounge.
He gasped.
Thousands of model planes littered the floors and chairs, every available space was occupied by a plane apart from small foot sized gaps through which frayed worn carpet poked up apologetically. Mr Reynolds traversed these threadbare islands to the only plane free chair in the room, his practiced movements were a testament to the fact he was oblivious to the plastic sea.
The sickly sweet smell of rotten meat hit Martin making him retch and gag. He fought the nausea and composed himself. As he stood he noticed strange details, a layer of thick cloying dust covered everything, except the mantle piece, television and the coffee table. The coffee table, upon which lay an ancient yellowed TV times, had been buffed and polished to a glow that belied the room’s need for a light bulb.
“Well what is it? I really don’t have all day. As I said Maggie my wife will be back any second, she may even be bringing her Bridge friends with her.” He glanced in the direction of a green baize covered table against the far wall, Martin could only just make out the baize under the heaped pile of Lancaster bombers.
“ Maggie won’t be coming back. Maggie is dead,” the words simply did not register on the man, Martin ploughed on knowing if he stopped he would never be able to finish it. He cursed his mother for making him do this. “ My mother died last week.” Finally a sad note touched the old man.
“ I am sorry to hear that. Is that why Maggie isn’t coming back today then? Going to the funeral eh, did she know your mother well?” Martin’s mouth worked incredulously. He found his voice.
“ Maggie was my mother.”
“ I am sure she was very kind to you young man Maggie’s has a big heart.” Martin felt the anger break even before he realised he had been angry.
“ You crazy bastard! Maggie walked out on you 25 years ago!” The accusation hung in the air, a miasma of dirty truth, freed after years of self denial. The Man’s mask cracked. Calm certainty was replaced by unbridled rage.
Plastic planes cracked and parted as the man flew across the room toward Martin, fists raised and face red. Martin fended him off with a sharp shove, pushing Alan backward over the polished coffee table into the dusty sea of plastic pilot-less planes. He didn’t get up, just lay there panting, looking at Martin with a sad hate that burned Martin to the core. He felt he had raped this man’s dream. Finally the broken man spoke.
“Why?…” he asked through clenched teeth. Martin let his breath out desperately wishing to be elsewhere, the despair in his father’s voice brought tears to his eyes.
“ She said you treated her…like…like one of your models.” Martin tossed the wrapped package at his father’s feet. “ The Will reading was yesterday – she left you that. She left instructions for me to say, she was sorry that she left and hoped you enjoyed the roast lamb she left for you.” A pause divided father and son for a moment.
“ Nothing else?” Martin shook his head. “ Would you like to see the bathroom…we’ve just had it redone?”
“ No Alan… I have to go now. I am sorry, God knows I’m sorry.” Martin turned and left tears streaming down his face. His mother truly must have hated that man.

Alan sat up slowly, pulling a bit of splintered plastic from his hand. He pulled the wrapped package onto his lap staring at it for a moment before grabbing a broken wing and using it as a make-shift letter knife. As the paper fell away Alan began to weep.
“Damn you Gibson.” He muttered staring down a 1:60th scale boxed model Lancaster...