OOM: A week off drinking

[the_gene_genie]

          

It’s a Tuesday morning when he puts his hand in his coat pocket, looking for his spare pack of fags. None in there, but he finds the box of pills from the doctor right enough. When did he go to the doctor? Was he ill?

  …shit, yeah. Yesterday morning. Before work, and then there was that blag, and then they all went to the pub and got wankered. He’d told himself he’d start taking them today.

Shit.
 
 
Shit.
 

~ ~ ~

 
She knows something’s wrong. He knows, because she always does. That’s what happens when you’ve shared a house with someone for more than twenty years. It’s been a long time since he couldn’t look her in the eye, though. He’s become proficient at managing it even when he’s fallen in drunk, with lipstick in places there shouldn’t be lipstick. Perhaps being drunk helps. Perhaps.
           
It’s a silent week. A week of him staying out later than normal, even when the workload doesn’t demand it. He finds himself inventing excuses; some vermin that need to be kept an eye on, a practice run for the darts team. The pub, even though he can’t drink. The pub again. Someone’s birthday. He volunteers to work Saturday, even though he could go to Liverpool for the match against Everton. It’s not the same if you have to be sober.

It doesn’t seem right, though. And every time he comes in, eleven o clock, midnight, his tea’s there in the oven, covered with one of her mother’s chipped china plates. He eats it alone, cold, with water, and tells himself it’s stupid, really. The later he comes in, the more her imagination will run riot. But he can’t bring himself to face her.

There’s no escaping Sunday. Dinner at his mam’s, week in, week out. He hopes Len and Brenda are coming, to add a distraction. But when they turn up – her pretty and blonde, in her flowery Sunday best, carrying a pudding she’s made (Bakewell. His favourite.) – it’s just them, quiet around the table.

‘Just tea, thanks mam,’ he says, when she hands him a bottle of beer out of the fridge, same as she always does.

You could hear a dead mouse squeak in the silence that follows, and he smiles as though everything’s alright. ‘Too much last night,’ he adds, and pretends he doesn’t see her looking away, out of the corner of his eye.

‘Never usually stops you,’ his mam says, and he just shrugs, and puts the bottle back.

They don’t say much after that. The girls have a sherry, and pretend everything’s fine. He goes straight out to the pub as soon as they get home, and she doesn’t stop him. The pills in his pocket feel like a dead weight, dragging him away. Anywhere but near her.
 

~ ~ ~

 
It’s two in the morning. He fingers the pill box, turning it over and over until its edges start to wear away. Only one more day on them. It’s fine.

Only it’s not, because him taking them isn’t the problem. Never has been. He stares at the white noise coming from the TV, too heavy to get up and go to bed. But eventually, there’s no escaping the fact he has to be at work in six hours. So he pulls himself up the stairs; in the bathroom, he pulls the plastic tab of pills from the box and slips them into the pocket of tomorrow’s trousers, all neatly pressed on the back of the door for him. The box goes back in the pocket of his Sunday best, before he strips and chucks it in the clothes basket. He stares at it, biting his lip. And then sighs, and goes to bed.
 
She kisses him on the cheek in the morning, her way of saying, I know you hate Monday morning. Here, have a bacon sarnie, and my love. It always makes him smile a bit, sissy though it is. Today, it makes him feel sick, and he pretends to be asleep, lying there, listening to her get on with her chores. She hums as she sorts the washing out; turning socks the right way through, shaking out crumpled sleeves, going through the pockets. She always does. Always the same tuneless hum.

Before he leaves the house, he takes the fag out of his mouth, cups her face between his hands, and kisses her gently. Her eyes light up, like they always do.



There’s a genuine late-night stakeout. He gets back at one the next morning. His tea’s in the oven, covered with one of her mother’s chipped china plates. He eats it, cold, with water. Only one more day of pills, and then there’s going to be all the beer and whiskey in the world.
 

~ ~ ~

 
It’s a silent week. He comes home late, reeking of beer, drowning in Scotch. Always too drunk to manage dinner, but it’s always there waiting all the same. Until Sunday comes around, and they drive to his mam’s, because there’s never any avoiding Sunday dinner with his mam. She hands him a beer from the fridge, and he cracks the top without a second thought.

‘Back to normal, then?’ she says, and he shrugs as he takes a swig. She shakes her head at him, and picks up the sherry bottle. ‘One before dinner, Barb?’

She raises her head with a smile, blonde and pretty in her Sunday best. His wife, his beautiful wife, who looks him right in the eye as she says, ‘No thanks, Betty. I’m off the booze for a week or so.’
 
 
He wasn’t going to go to the pub after lunch. But when they pull up outside home, she doesn’t get out of the car. They sit in silence, facing forward. And then she pats him on the leg.  

‘Try not to make too much noise when you come to bed, then,’ she says, and he purses his lips, and nods slowly, not looking at her. 

He waits until she’s safe inside before he guns the engine. It's habit. And because he couldn’t bear anyone to hurt her.
 
That, it seems, is his job.