Fly in the Ointment by Anne Fine Read Free Book Online Page A

my tracks and tell them that I was busy, but that I’d make an appointment for them to come back at another time.
    I simply thought that I’d misunderstood. ‘Excuse me? Make an appointment with my
worries
?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜You mean, as if they’re
people
?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    While I was staring at her – was she
mad
? – she added sternly, ‘Of course, it’s very important that you keep the appointments you make. If things get busy, you can reschedule, of course. But you must never fob your worries off. They just won’t stand for it.’
    I couldn’t get out fast enough. I even thought of phoning Mrs Kuperschmidt to tell her the woman she’d been so keen to recommend was little more than a down-and-out charlatan. But that night, as I lay worrying that Malachy wasn’t home, resentful that Stuart was uncaringly asleep as usual, fretting about everything, I’d given it a go. Because the whole business sounded such a farce, I took it lightly, even making a little private joke of it. ‘I’m sorry, worries,’ I drawled to them silently inside my head in what I took to be a Californian accent. ‘I simply can’t be dealing with you now. I have a busy day tomorrow and need my sleep. So you all mosey along and come back tomorrow at—’
    I paused to consider. Stuart brought up the tea at seven, then promptly vanished downstairs to the computer.
    â€˜â€”at five past seven. I’ll worry with you then.’
    I pulled up the covers, rolled over and fell fast asleep.
    Next thing I knew, Stuart was chinking his way back through the door into the bedroom, carrying the tray. ‘
You
had a good night.’
    â€˜I did, didn’t I?’ The first of my worries rushed back. ‘Is Malachy home?’
    â€˜Flat out in bed. The kitchen
reeks
of cigarette smoke.’
    Feeling like someone in a fairy tale granted a precious wish, I kept my part of the bargain. As soon as Stuart had hurried off, I leaned back on the pillows. ‘All right, worries. I’m all yours. What shall we fret about?’
    They hadn’t much to say. Only the same old stuff. Even if I managed to rouse him, would Malachy bother to show up at school? Would he need a cover note for bunking off, and, if he did, should I provide it or provoke yet another horrible scene by telling him I wouldn’t? Was he truly asleep, or lying there dead from an overdose? Would he, some day, set fire to the house with all these late-night cigarettes? When had I last gone round and checked the smoke alarms?
    That sort of thing. I tried to worry about each in turn. Then, since there seemed so little to be added (and, in my mind, my little worries half admitted it, even among themselves), I simply rose a few minutes earlier than usual, tested all three alarms, and droveoff, rested, to work. Halfway along Hawtrey Road it suddenly occurred to me that sooner or later Malachy might start bringing ‘friends’ home from all these rock concerts of his – friends who lived way out of town, or who’d been locked out by sterner, tougher parents. Even, perhaps, ne’er-do-wells he’d only that evening met in some pub and—
    Pulling myself together, I saw my worries off with cast-iron confidence. ‘Sorry,’ I told them. ‘Right now I’m busy driving, and then I’ll be at work. How about nine o’clock tonight when I’m in my bath. That any good for you?’
    Over the years I’d blessed that therapist in my head over and over. I even managed to refine the skill she taught me till it worked for almost anything. Show me another woman who could have had a marriage for so many years, then have it end, kept track of all the paperwork through two full house moves, seen off the only two men who tried to date her (one in the hardware store and one who replaced the tyres on my car) and put her divorce papers safely