Whispers

Whispers

In the small town of Terryfelldown rumours ran like Chinese whispers. What started small became big, excluding the rumour about Mr. Cullin which just kept getting smaller. They would run through the schools and through the offices, through the old ladies and through the pubs.

Like the time someone saw some children sharing, and two days later parents were outside the school angrily waving their placards and screaming: “Reds out!” as the headmistress patiently explained that Marxism was not part of the curriculum.

Yes, rumours almost took on a life of their own in the small, and rather isolated town. So it seems quite a mystery why Mr. Devilish was so surprised to find wife throwing his things out of the window of their third floor flat when he returned home from work.

Small, balding and a little on the chubby side, Colin Devilish stood outside as his life rained down around him. As an amateur geologist this gave him some cause for
concern.

“Daphne,” he called his furious and shockingly blonde wife, “can’t we talk about this? What’s this all about darling?”

“What’s it all about?” She shrieked at him, “What’s it all about? I’ll tell you what its all about shall I?” She disappeared from the window.

“Daphne?” He ventured.

A geode came sailing out of the window and did some damage to his car. He’d never liked that car anyway, too flash, too expensive. But he did check that the geode was undamaged.

“It’s about you having your way with that tart at the Christmas party,” his wife reappeared at the window and rather forcefully presented him with an ammonite, which he dodged.

Colin stood there flabbergasted for a moment and tried to think. He had never once, in their twelve years of marriage, been unfaithful.

“Which tart darling?” Apparently this was the wrong thing to say.

“Which tart? Which tart! More than one is there?”

“As far as I know there wasn’t even one tart.”

“Oh yes, just deny it all, that’s just like you. You men are all the same. I should have listened to my mother,” she flounced off away from the window again.

“Your mother and I get on very well…” Colin called up.

Colin considered going up, but his wife’s aim was a lot better up close and some of his samples were rather spiky. Daphne reappeared at the window.

“Angela,” his wife shrieked so triumphantly she almost fell, “it was that little slapper Angela.”

“Angela…you mean the new girl?”

“Oh yes, play dumb why don’t you!”

Colin never drank at the office Christmas party, too many people made idiots of themselves without him joining in. He remembered speaking to Angela; and he would admit that she was young and pretty, but nothing had happened. As far as he could remember he had shaken her hand and wished her a merry Christmas. She had then called him Mr. Mole and thrown up on his good shoes.

“Darling, nothing happened between me and Angela, I’m married, were colleagues and she’s far too young for me anyway. She’d just laugh at an old fool like me wouldn’t she?” Colin took a step closer to the building. “Now let me in and we’ll talk this through.” Daphne watched him silently for a long moment.

“I see,” she said eventually, “You think I’m old!” Her last word became a wail as she became to cry.

“What! No, that’s-”

“I’ll bet you told her what a hag I am!”

“No! I don’t-”

“Told her I’m an old crow,” she shrieked, “well the hell with you Colin! I should have listened to my father!”

“I get on well with-”

“Shut up! Get away from me Colin, just go away!” With that she slammed the window shut and disappeared, leaving Colin bewildered and alone.

Silently he cursed himself. He had enough experience of dealing with his wife, he knew how she was, but could he ever say the right thing. And this one was serious, not just another little tantrum about nothing, not just another little strop. This was important.

“Daphne?” He called up.

Several minutes passed and his wife did not reappear. Carefully Colin gathered up his thing and loaded them into his car.