10 minute challenge
Oh man that was hard. So I wrote this in 10 but I reckon I had at least an extra 3 to edit. If other people’s weekends have found their way into their ficlets they sound more interesting than mine, which has involved quite a lot of sorting out and housework. Hence:
Woman’s Work Elio/Oliver at a squint
Monday and Friday are the days to change the bedlinen, after the every-day chores; Mafalda moves through the house in her accustomed routines, her mother’s voice always in her head, counting out the household duties, criticising her folding and commenting on the amount of salt she puts in the soup.
The study, quickly, before the Professor wants to start fussing with his books and papers but don’t put anything out of place, don’t thrown anything away, even if it looks like it’s fit for the fire. Dust with a wet cloth, lavender oil is good to add to polish too, blend it with beeswax…
Bathrooms next, vinegar is best for bathrooms but lemonjuice for the steel and bicarbonate of soda for the sinks. There’s a mess of towels and shirts and wet swimming trunks in Elio’s bathroom. Mafalda sighs and scoops them up, back downstairs then to put them in the washing pile.
A bicycle bell and Mr Oliver goes past the window, Mafalda counts quietly to herself, a little bet: sure enough, 30 seconds later, there goes Elio.
She climbs the stairs again, a little harder on the knees with every year that passes, to make the beds. White linen for Madame, as ever, stripes for Elio, the same he had when he was little, the same he had the summer when he stayed indoors with the curtains drawn watching tennis, wearing a striped headband like that long-haired blond hippy player he liked.
Oliver’s bed gets Mafalda’s favourite sheets, the ones with yellow hearts and swirls. Lavender oil for freshness. These sheets are right for him, sunny and bold like him. Handsome.
She remembers Annella at 17, not long after the family had returned to the house, the village still getting used to having Jewish neighbours again, what was to be remembered, what forgotten. She was so beautiful, the boys from the village used to look in the gates just to catch a glimpse of her, there was one with a motorbike… but then Mr Perlman had come, that first American visitor, and he could make her laugh, and he danced so well...Fold and tuck, Mafalda, hospital corners, or they’ll ruck and you’ll have to remake them.
In Elio’s room she picks up a paper from the floor, written in English, she can’t read it, but she can see it’s written in two hands so she folds it into her apron pocket. They think they’re so clever and secret, young people. Sneaking around. But old houses remember things, floorboards that creak, doors that slam.
Better him, this American, maybe, than those girls who hang around. But Elio has always taken things so seriously, even as a little boy.
She piles his discarded books on the desk, shakes out his pillow, smooths his sheets again.
How many for lunch? Always someone else to add or someone not coming who should. And there’s the tablecloth to iron, and the pastry to make…
