She is searching for her reading glasses, wondering where, this time, she has put them. Car keys are the same - who knows where they go? Last week her son found her keys in the washing machine tub. He asked if she was getting forgetful, she did not welcome the implication.
The glasses are on her head. She should have known. Now that she has clear sight she discovers Fred isn’t swimming around his bowl. He has gone missing before, just that once, the day she won him at the fair. He jumped out of his bowl into the washing-up. Lucky that. Otherwise he might have perished. She was disappointed he’d tried to escape.
Fred is Fred Number Three, and he’s always Fred. She can’t bear the idea of starting up with another Fred. She’s been married three times and never bothered with a fourth. None were called Fred.
Fred is not on the floor, in the plant pot, or the washing-up. Fred is nowhere. She sits on the kitchen stool and sheds a few tears. This Fred was her favourite. Those brilliant, shimmering orange scales captivated her right from the start.
She wipes away her tears and heads for the garden. The roses need dead-heading, the weeds pulling up. She has just tugged up a clump of nettles growing amidst the dahlias when a flash of orange light catches her eye. So that’s where you’ve gone, is it Fred? Looking for a bigger pond like Husband Number Three.
The following day a heron flies in. Maybe it’s for the best.
No comments:
Post a Comment