A STABLE REFUGE
By
ANNE STENHOUSE
Cold seeped through the soles of Aline’s slippers and crawled up her legs. It circled her knees, and she knew they’d be bright pink. No-one could see that, though, as the onesie she wore covered everything. Covered everything and protected nothing.
Her body was so cold, she thought it wouldn’t be long before it went into shock.
“Hey, Missus,” the elderly shopkeeper said as she staggered a little under the weight of her basket. “Let me help with that.”
Gratefully, Aline released the basket to the man.
“I missed the chance to book a supermarket delivery,” she said without making eye contact. Who on earth would believe that?
“That’s to my advantage then,” the man said. “Husband outside in the car?”
“No, no. I’ve only two hundred yards or so to walk.”
“In this weather! Want me to phone him?”
“Goodness, no,” Aline said and even to her own ears panic laced her voice. She did look up then and saw the woman standing in the storeroom doorway. She wasn’t fooled. Aline knew that disconcerting calm marked a professional.
The man checked out her Christmas shop and if he wondered why a household living two hundred yards down this middle-class suburban street was going to dine on tinned soups and packet ham, he was too polite to say anything.
She hauled the notes Brian had give her out of her pocket and was relieved to see they were enough. The man rang them up and handed her twenty-two pence change.
“What do you want for Christmas, then,” he asked as he carried the bulging shoppers across the shop to the outer door.
“Shoes,” she said without thinking, “Size six, lacing.”
The woman was beside her holding a thick cardigan. Breathing in her clean soapy smell made Aline’s eyes fill. Her mum would smell like that after her shower. The wave of longing meant Aline’s attention wasn’t on the woman and she allowed her arms to be eased into the cardigan.
“We really are open twenty-four hours,” the woman said quietly, “For those in need.”
“I can’t take this,” Aline screamed the words, clawing ineffectually at the sleeves of the cardigan. The woolly pile clung like Velcro to the pile of her velour onesie. “My husband provides for us.”
“Does he?” the woman said. “Well, that’s good, but remember, Liz and Mike are open 24/7.”
Aline grabbed her bags from Mike and slopped home through the driving rain. Brian would be waiting, stopwatch in his hand.
“Hmff!” he said as he clicked her in. “What’s that?”
Aline didn’t pretend ignorance.
“The cardigan?” she said trying to keep mounting hysteria at bay. If that Liz was a professional, she should have known giving her the cardigan would only ramp up Brian’s grievances. “I was shivering, and the shopkeeper’s wife insisted. I’m to take it back soon as.”
“Right on, you are. They think I don’t look after you? What were you telling them, Aline?” Brian drew out the vowels of her name in a parody of the way her dad had talked to her. Her dad meant it as a sign of affection. Brian as a sign of mockery.
“Nothing, Brian. I did the shopping from your list and handed over the money.” She searched in her pocket for the change and set it down on the corner of the hall table. “I’ll put the stuff away so the milk doesn’t go off.”
There was little difference between the temperature of the house and the temperature of the fridge, but she pretended.
Ivy and Luke slid into the hall and gazed longingly at the shopping but there was nothing in there to cheer them up. Nothing at all.
Christmas morning in Brian’s house, as Aline had come to think of it, was possibly the worst morning of the year. When they gathered in the living-room for video calls with his mum and dad, the floor was strewn with Christmas wrap and bits of string. The tree lights were on. Everyone was dressed – properly dressed – with underwear and tee-shirts and trousers and jumpers with silly reindeer on them. Silly but warm.
The children’s presents from Santa sat in a neat pile on the edge of the broad arm of the settee. None of them had the cellophane torn, though. Aline had wondered once why her mother-in-law didn’t ask about that, but now she thought she knew. Brian had to be born in a mould of some sort.
She let her gaze stray to Luke where he sat at his dad’s feet. At ten he was small for his age and there were still one or two accidents in the night. Accidents that allowed Brian his favourite type of moment. The moment when he could accuse her of mollycoddling and lack of discipline. The moment when he could…
“Aline,” Brian’s pretend jocularity speared her straying thoughts, “Aline, Dad wants to know what you got from Santa.”
She peered into the phone. The older man was studying her as closely as the instrument allowed.
“Santa?” she said. “We’re going shopping day after tomorrow. Brian saw a lovely dress he thought would suit and it’s just above budget, but it’ll come down in the sales.”
No phone call to her family. Presents packed into the carriers ready to be returned for a refund. Ham sandwiches made. Brian heated two tins of tomato soup but took her by the arm and pushed her out into the back garden. She heard the lock click. She heard Ivy and Luke crying in protest.
Cold seeped through her slippers. She’d had no shoes for nearly two years now. Brian knew she couldn’t go far in her slippers.
At around three o’clock, Aline heard the window of the bathroom on their half-landing creak open. She looked up and watched as Ivy tumbled through onto the flat roof clutching her one and only dolly. Luke’s head appeared behind her and then he thrust a bag out. It dropped to the ground beside Aline’s feet.
She helped the children slither off the roof and brush themselves down.
“The bag, Mummy,” Luke whispered. “He’d just fallen asleep when I saw a lady in the front garden.”
Aline shook out the shoes. Size six, lacing.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I know a stable refuge that’s open.”
THE END
© Anne Stenhouse
No part of the above story, A Stable Refuge, may be reproduced without written permission from the author.
Below are some of the Robins I share the monthly Round Robin blog with throughout the year. Their stories are available to read from Saturday 16th December.
Dr. Bob Rich https://wp.me/p3Xihq-35i
Connie Vines http://mizging.blogspot.com/
Diane Bator https://dbator.blogspot.com/
Judith Copek http://lynx-sis.blogspot.com/
Helena Fairfax http://www.helenafairfax.com/blog
Victoria Chatham http://www.victoriachatham.com
Skye Taylor http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_by_the_sea
Novels Now 