Invisible Writing

The time when you think you know everything about someone, is the time that you know nothing. Jim lit a cigarette and sat back comfortably in his chair. Today, there would be no chance of his wife bursting through the door at the first smell of nicotine, pushing him to the back door whilst delivering a well-worn sermon on passive smoking. Today he could relax, and revel in the thought of an Englishman’s home being his castle - a castle, where a man could relax and smoke at his leisure. Remembering the box of cigars given as a present, he planned to smoke one tonight, perhaps with a drop of whisky. Now, that really would be the height of indulgence.

He took a heavy draw and felt the smoke fill his throat. He attempted smoke-rings, simply because he could, and because he hadn’t done it since his teenage years. Those were the days when smoking was simply the coolest thing to do and gave him a definite kudos with the girls. He watched as the wiggly lines, which only with the help of a very good imagination could ever be classed as circles, juddered towards the ceiling. Jim smelt the smoke infiltrate the lingering tang of lemon furniture polish and a citrus plug-in air freshener. Its heavy smell was fighting a good fight.

There was absolutely no chance of Linda’s head poking around the door like a bodiless spectre. No, he could sit here and smoke one cigarette after another if he decided to. He was the king of his castle, the master of ceremonies, a managing director for his own time and the minister with sole responsibility for his days. It was wonderful.

Except that it felt wrong, and Jim found himself smoking too quickly. He picked up the packet as if expecting to see a different brand to the one he’d smoked for years. And yet there was no change in the cigarettes, only in his ability to enjoy it. He gave another draw and left the comfort of his chair to sit outside on the wooden garden bench. Why should he change a habit of a lifetime, just because he could?

When Linda was around she’d have asked him to sit outside, and he would have grumbled for the entire time it took him to smoke a couple of cigarettes, but today he had a choice. He could take his time and enjoy the view of his well-loved garden.

They had bought the house eight years ago. Neither of them had ever been green-fingered and the large lawn had been more than enough for Jim to keep on top of, but he had realised that with a little work, albeit spread over a long time, and some cheap flowers planted everywhere and anywhere, the garden could become his haven.

The sun’s rays glistened on the recently-watered planters making the vibrant colours sparkle. A slight breeze danced into each flower, throwing the trailing ivy’s misshapen shadows into an imaginary group of castaways stumbling along the path. Linda had always thought it an old man’s hobby, but had soon changed her mind when the papers started to write about the ‘Villages in Bloom’ competitions. She had run with the challenge then, and now he could spend as much time as he liked out here.

It was getting chilly and Jim thought about making a cup of coffee, a drink he only had when she was out because her magazines and the woman next door said that coffee was bad for him, so that was that. No coffee for him.

Until now.

Yesterday had been the start of three days of doing what he wanted while she was at her sisters. The wicked witch of the North-east he called her, only not within Linda’s earshot. No doubt they would be having a good moan about him.

He could just imagine what they would be saying; he didn’t think Linda would be saying anything too bad, maybe just her usual moans about picking his socks up or his smoking, but he knew her sister wouldn’t waste an opportunity to tell Linda what a dull and boring man he was. She’d probably throw old and stupid into the equation as well. Or was that last year's summing up.

Juliet was badly-named in Jim’s opinion. There was nothing of the star-crossed lover in her. The only thing she had crossed was her eyes and her legs when she walked. There had never been any love lost between them. He knew exactly what she thought of him, and how much it annoyed her that they were approaching their thirty year wedding anniversary, whereas she was already onto husband number three, and even that by all accounts was on shaky ground.

It hadn’t always been like that, but after her first divorce, Juliet’s image of marriage and men in particular had seemed to turn decidedly sour and Jim was an easy target for her angst. After a few awkward visits over the years, it hadn’t been difficult for him to persuade Linda to go by herself, and it gave them both time for themselves.

This was something that they generally didn’t ever seem to get. What-ever they did, they did together. And even though it was by choice and they moaned about getting on each others nerves, at least they did have each others nerves to get on to. Jim wondered if by the time Linda came back, Juliet would be heading for another trial separation. That woman had more trials than a formula one car.

“I’m having a cup of coffee, dear. Would you like one?” Jim laughed as he thought out aloud; their terrier dog, Mac, woke up at the sound of his voice and barked loudly. Jim didn’t need the look from his malteser brown eyes to know even the dog thought he was stupid. “And you needn’t look at me like that either,” Jim pointed with his tea-spoon, “it’s just you and me until tomorrow evening so if you want to go out, you’d better start being nice to me.” Mac tilted his head, gave a little snuffle of protest and padded out to the garden.

Stirring his coffee absent-mindedly, Jim’s gaze wandered to the calendar above the bench. A big red cross was marked against tomorrow’s date, and the number thirty one written in Linda’s bold handwriting across it. Puzzled, Jim kept stirring, unaware of the coffee splashes pooling up against the bottom of his mug. Tomorrow was the twelfth, but their wedding anniversary was the sixteenth, what significance was the twelfth of May? And what was thirty one supposed to mean?

Linda had always made a point of writing everything down on the calendar because she hated to forget anything. She had a priority system which she worked with three felt pens. Red was for something very important, blue for something that needed to be done immediately and yellow for birthdays. The window cleaner and the bin men were noted with a black biro because they came every week on the same day. Nothing was missed.

Jim stared at the calendar. There was a gnawing feeling pushing around the side of his head that this was something important. Something that he most definitely shouldn’t have forgotten. ” The twelfth of May,” he muttered under his breath. What had happened on the twelfth of May? Or was it that something was going to happen on the twelfth of May?

He stopped stirring, and aiming at the kitchen sink, threw his spoon across the room. It missed and splattered the last drops of coffee across the floor. Jim sighed wearily as he picked it up and wiped the floor with his slipper. He began to think that there was a reason why Linda stopped him behaving like a child; he didn’t make a very good one.

He didn’t go back to the sitting room, it was too quiet without Linda pottering around and singing to the radio. He’d had the radio on that morning but it only seemed to make the rooms feel emptier. That was the thing about Linda; she didn’t need to be with him all the time, as long as she was just around. That’s what he liked, having her around. He could go into any room in their house and there was something about Linda in each one.

She’d had two or three of these breaks and they had both looked forward to them. Jim keenly anticipated a couple of days to slop around the house, unshaven in his old jogging pants, the ones that he’d done most of the gardening in and painting in. He’d even ordered a take-away last night.

Linda wouldn’t mind. Her only concession for his free reign was that the house was clean and tidy for when she came back. He could do that.

She was a stickler for tidiness, but Jim naturally veered towards messiness. It was always unintentional; he did try but couldn’t see her point of daily dusting and cleaning. After all, there was only the two of them and the dog. His excuse of ‘I was going to clear it up, but I heard Mac barking to go outside’ had seemed to work so far.

Thinking about her made him look forward to her coming home, but this date thing was beginning to worry him. It would be awful if she came home expecting him to say something about, well, something, and he didn’t. You never knew with women he thought. He’d have another cigarette with his coffee, outside on the bench. Just him and man’s best friend.

“Come on, Mac, help me out here.” The old dog lay across his feet. He was Linda’s dog really and only ever feigned affection to Jim in her absence. Still, he had been company these last couple of days, but Jim knew the minute Linda came back, he wouldn’t give him so much as a whimper.

The sight of the thirty one on the calendar began to prick at his thoughts. If they had been married thirty years on Friday, was it something that happened before they got married?

“Mac, you’re a genius. That’s it.” He ruffled the dog’s fur and then unceremoniously pushed him out of the way. He knew that Linda had always kept diaries and he even knew where they were.

Last week they’d had a bit of a clear out. An old wardrobe upstairs had become nothing more than storage place for everything that they couldn’t find another home for. They were both hoarders by nature and over thirty years of memories were holed up in there. They had shared a bottle of wine that night and looked through her diary of 1978, the year they were married. Jim had teased her that she was only an old romantic now and she had kissed him and told him she still loved him. He remembered how even after thirty years he still marvelled at that fact.

1977. Jim found and opened the diary at the twelfth of May. Linda’s handwriting was a little smaller than today, but he could still make it out. As soon as he read the first words, he knew what it was about. He read the words slowly, ashamed that he had forgotten such a memory, and glad that she hadn’t.

‘Today, Jim gave me a card. It just said “I love you,” (He’s a terrible writer.) He said that he couldn’t always say it, being a man and all that, but he would always mean it. He told me to keep this card for ever. And I will. Just in case he never writes me another one, or sends me a card with nothing but invisible writing inside. Only Jim could write an invisible ‘I love you.’ What are men like?’

Jim closed the diary; there was nothing more visible than the words ‘I love you’ that were swimming in front of his eyes. And he did.

- THE END -