The Anniversary Cake
The cake didn’t look like it had all the other times she had
made it. The lemon glaze was less shiny, was her piping unsteady,
unsymmetrical? Martha laid her hands either side of it and stared down. It
smelt as it always had with the hint of ginger poking through her trio of
citrus flavours. Thirty-eight years ago, David’s mother’s face had cracked a
smile, gliding her fork through Martha’s cake. Crumbs had fallen into her lap,
and she had left them there, devouring her plate, eyes skyward. Martha had
beamed at the sight.
But looking
at it now, it didn’t hold the same attraction and Martha felt a tear spring up
and roll down her cheek. It wasn’t good enough. She glanced at the clock. She
didn’t have time to make another one. It would have to do. David was so busy,
maybe he wouldn’t notice the shaky piping or the lack of lustre on her fruit
topping. She left the cake to cool and hoped on her way upstairs it would at
least taste the same.
The iron
was now hot enough and she laid out her dress, the pale blue linen one she
saved for special occasions. Friends remarked how wonderful it was she could still
fit into her clothes from times past. It wasn’t something Martha thought about
much. She had always been slender and enjoyed her daily walks on the grounds
with the dogs, weekly swims and Pilates classes. Her friends said she was
dedicated, and they lacked the commitment to exercise. Martha didn’t remind
them that they had children and busy lives, while she had little to do. She
enjoyed the compliment too much to open the discussion and her life to more
scrutiny.
She took
the dress through to the bedroom and hung it on the wardrobe door while she
undressed, sprayed a rose scent over her body and ran almond cream over her
arms and legs. She paused, looking at the mirror. Why not? She thought. She
dipped her hand in the cream and rubbed it into her breasts and belly. Maybe,
just maybe, David would want to make love tonight.
It hadn’t
gone well. Five phone calls interrupted dinner. He didn’t even notice the
present beside his plate until she pointed it out. He hadn’t got her even a
card. Then, once the cake was on the table, he started on the fact she always
made that “bloody cake” and didn’t he give her “enough money to buy new
clothes? Why was she wearing that old thing?” Martha tried to take him back to
a place on the seaside and a cosy little Italian where she had worn that dress;
to a mid-afternoon picnic when she had surprised him at the office many years
ago with prawn sandwiches and her cake. He wasn’t interested. He took his
brandy to the study, leaving the door slightly ajar, like a dare.
She didn’t
take him up on it. She quietly took her coat and slipped out of the front door,
crossing the curved driveway armed with huge lavender pots and onto the lawn.
Clouds crumbled the moon’s light. She heard an owl in the distance and wondered
how long it would take to reach that owl, and fly into the night with it.
Somewhere, anywhere.
Martha
headed towards the thicket at the bottom of the lawn and crossed the style. The
wooden beams were slick with moss and dew. She made no sounds on the wet leaves
as she took the path which eventually opened up at their little lake.
Martha
looked at the water and thought of the vows they had made on the pontoon
opposite thirty-six years ago. She thought of David’s disbelieving mother who
would give up the rights to the house; of his father, distracted by the
illegitimate child the cook was carrying; of her parents’ puzzled faces at the
beauty that some people lived in; of David’s seriousness and her own, complete
joy.
Now she
understood her parents’ confusion about how the poor girl from the village
would make it work with the rich, handsome gent from the house on the hill. She
understood why they had cast her adrift, quietly and unceremoniously, setting her
off on this path they couldn’t follow. But it had only led her here.
She stepped towards the water’s edge.
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She stepped towards the water’s edge.
Have a look at what others have written by clicking on the icon below.
I liked the tone of quiet despair, but I wasn't clear on the reason for it. Did she fight back at first?
ReplyDeleteThanks! No, I don't think she ever did. Maybe she should have spoken up instead of years being a pleaser.
DeleteSad, so sad. And your ending has me thinking the worst.
ReplyDeleteThanks for reading :-)
DeleteThe sadness is palpable. My heart hurts for Martha.
ReplyDeleteThanks Tara, but I didn't want to make you hurt, too ;-)
DeleteThis is a sad and lonely tale but I absolutely loved it. I especially loved these lines..."She enjoyed the compliment too much to open the discussion and her life to more scrutiny." - So honest and revealing. "He took his brandy to the study, leaving the door slightly ajar, like a dare." - Perfection. I feel this line on so many levels. I'm having a difficult time describing it at the moment. Great job!!!!
ReplyDeleteWhat beautiful description in an otherwise sad story. Poor Martha. She made me think of Virginia Woolf. The line Ashley mentioned also struck me. Enjoyed it very much!
ReplyDelete