He’s in an aircraft about to take off for Australia. Off for a long holiday, time to adjust, to get over the grief, he has been telling everyone. The engines of the Jumbo are roaring, louder by the second, building to the immense power needed for take-off.
A voice says, “Have I disturbed you, dear?”
“What?”
“It’s only me filling my hottie.”
He emerges from the dream and looks at the clock. Five past two.
“I couldn’t survive without my hottie,” Rose says. “I don’t know how you manage, really I don’t.”
“Marvellous circulation,” Albert says silently, moving his lips unseen.
Rose says, “It must be your marvellous circulation. Well, there it is: a nice hot bottle for my poor cold feet. Now I’ll be off to sleep again in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Forty minutes later, Albert is still awake, thinking about ways of faking a suicide.
He is up as usual on the dot of six, groping for his slippers. He feels as if he could sleep three more hours, given the opportunity, but the habit of rising at six is too deeply rooted ever to change. He knows he’ll feel better after the first cup of tea.
He edges around the bed to her side and unplugs the electric kettle.
Picking it up, he shuffles towards the bathroom.
Down in the kitchen, he cleans the saucepan and the spoon from the night before and wipes the surface clean. The kettle boils.
The tea is a life-saver.
In the library, while Rose is looking at the Romance section, Albert covertly inspects a volume entitled Essentials of Forensic Medicine. The chapter on Suffocation and Asphyxia runs to several pages. The list of post-mortem appearances, external and internal, is so daunting that he abandons the whole idea. But another chapter, Electrocution, catches his eye and captures his imagination.
“Do you want to borrow it?”
He snaps the book shut and looks to his right. Rose is at his side. He pushes it back into the first space he can see and says, “No, I was just browsing really.”
“This is the medical section, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I was only whiling away the time, checking up on my rheumatism. Have you picked yours, my love?”
“I’m going to borrow three, just in case I find I’ve read one of them before.”
“Good thinking.”
That afternoon, when Rose is deep in her romantic novel, Albert tries to slip away unnoticed to the bedroom.
“Where are you off to, honeybunch?”
“I think some air must have got into one of the radiators. I’d like to check.”
Rose says admiringly, “My handyman.”
“I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”
“I think I may have read this. I’m not sure.”
“If you have, you could always try one of the others.”
He goes upstairs, straight to the bed and lifts up the undersheet on Rose’s side. The electric blanket lies there, the single size, only on her side — because his marvellous circulation keeps him warm without artificial help. This blanket been doing its job for at least ten years and has lost most of its original colour. The fabric at the edges is getting frayed, and where her feet go, it has worn thin. He stares at it thoughtfully. He looks at the flex leading to the twin point where it is kept plugged in.
“Will it take long, dear?” Rose calls up. She must be standing at the foot of the stairs.
Hastily, Albert tugs the undersheet over the electric blanket again. “Not long, my dear,” he answers, adding in a whisper, “It should be very quick.”
“Shall I put the kettle on? I wouldn’t mind a cup.”
“Good idea.”
A few precious minutes. He folds the sheet back again, takes a penknife from his pocket, opens it, and begins scraping at the thin covering where her feet go. Cutting would be too obvious. It must look as if it has worn away naturally. He scrapes at several places and finally the threads begin to part and the copper element beneath is laid bare. He continues to work, exposing more of it, until he gets the call that the tea is ready downstairs. He scoops the loose threads into his hand, pockets the penknife and straightens the undersheet and tucks it in.
“Is that job done, my love?” Rose calls up.
“I hope so, my dear,” answers Albert, planning the next part of the operation. It can wait until the evening.
“Have some tea, then. You deserve it.”
About nine-thirty, after watching the news on television, he gets up as usual to take the kettle upstairs and switch on the electric blanket. Rose remains in her chair, knitting. Albert has done this so many times that he doesn’t even have to tell her where he is going.
He collects the kettle, fills it with water in the kitchen, and carries it upstairs, placing it on Rose’s bedside table. He switches on the electric blanket.
The hot water bottle is in the bathroom as usual, and has to be emptied. He unscrews it and stands it upside down in the wash basin to drain. Then he gets to work on the stopper. He pulls the rubber washer away from the base. This should ensure that the bottle leaks. To be quite certain, he makes a test, half-filling it, screwing in the stopper and holding it upside down. Sure enough, it drips steadily.
The preparations completed, he goes downstairs and joins Rose for the last hour before retiring.
When the milk is simmering in the saucepan, Rose asks, “Did you remember to switch on the blanket, Albert darling?”
“An hour ago, my love.”
“So thoughtful.”
“I think the milk—”
“Quick! The mugs.”
Rose lifts the saucepan from the hob. Albert places the mugs beside the cocoa tin and Rose does the rest.
Everything is in place, as the politicians like to say. There is little else for Albert to do. At two in the morning, he will be wakened as usual while Rose fills the hot water bottle. She will push it down by her cold feet. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, as she will tell him, she will be asleep. For the next hour it will seep, seep over the undersheet, slowly saturating the electric blanket. While it remains warm, she won’t notice. And when he judges the moment right, Albert will get out of bed, move around in the dark and switch on the blanket.
An unfortunate accident, they will decide at the inquest. Faulty equipment.
“Is it up the stairs to Bedfordshire?” says Rose.
“I think it is, dear.”
“Will you lock the doors and turn out the lights?”
“Depend upon it,” says Albert.
In bed, they drink their last cup of cocoa together, sitting up.
“People are so stupid,” says Rose.
“What do you mean, dear?” says Albert.
“When you hear about so many marriages breaking up. So much unhappiness. If they’d only have a little more consideration for each other.”
“True,” says Albert.
You bloody old hypocrite, thinks Rose. Driving me to the brink of insanity with your sanctimonious smile and your “Yes, my darling,” while you pursue your own selfish ways, waking me every blasted morning at six. Heaving yourself up with a groan and a yawn, to put on your slippers, regardless that it all causes a minor earthquake in the bed. Groping around the edge of the mattress to collect the damned kettle. Switching on the bathroom light. Flushing the toilet. Clumping downstairs and turning on the radio. Forty- seven years of it, I’ve endured. His farting, his fishing and his football on television.
And never a cross word between us. I wouldn’t give you that satisfaction. I’ve held out all this time.
“Oh, dear.”
“What’s the matter, love?” says Albert.