Iain Maitland [Iain Maitland] - Mr Todd’s Reckoning

Snip.

Snip, snip.

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Its still close to 80 degrees even at this time of the evening. Its been like this for weeks now and they say it will last all summer. Its going to be the longest, hottest summer since records began. I can do without it; what with everything else as well.

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Adrian stands tight and tense at the side of the kitchen, hunched over, snip-snip-snipping away at the vegetables hes laid out carefully, almost symmetrically, in a rainbow of colours, in the wok on a back ring of the oven.

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He does this every evening, cutting all of the ingredients down over and over again. By the time he has finished, and it will be a while yet, the wok will be filled with a mass of multi-coloured slivers.

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Snip, snip.

I sit here, at the kitchen table by the back door, trying to write my diary, to record my thoughts and feelings, to work things through, drenched in sweat and listening to him slashing and stripping and trimming every single vegetable down as far as he can. Its a wonder he does not cut himself.

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This endless snipping is something that would irritate many people, anger them even. I often wonder what would happen if someone with what might be termed a hair-trigger temperament had to listen to this time and again. And again. And again. And again. There would be some sort of violent incident for sure.

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I do not say anything, no matter what. I am a calm man. There is very little that troubles me. I am in control.

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He is my son. He is 25. He still lives at home. He always has. I think he always will.

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He is unemployed. I believe he is probably unemployable. He has what are called issues. He is on medication.

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Sometimes, there is a long pause, an agonising wait before he carries on or stops, finally satisfied with his relentless shredding. But that will not be now. Not yet. He still has much to do. He still has to go on. And on. And on. And on.

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We live in a small two-bedroom bungalow. It is on a busy main road between Felixstowe and Ipswich. I have the back door open tonight, yet again, as the heat is unbearable when it is shut. Having the door open means I have to listen to the noise from the road and the pavements and the neighbours and the children in the gardens to either side of me and all along.

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The children should be indoors by now, having had their tea and getting ready for bed. But they are not. They are left out all through the evening to shriek and yell as they please. To do whatever they want.

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One of them has something wrong with it and just grunts and screams at intermittent intervals. Grunt (pause), scream (long pause), scream (slight pause), grunt, grunt, grunt. That noise and its randomness are almost as unbearable as the heat. Night after night after night.

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The bungalow is too small for two grown men living on top of each other like this, while trying to lead separate lives, especially with the eternal heat. Two bedrooms at the front, a bathroom to one side in the middle and a living room and a kitchen-cum-dining room at the back. The hallway, from the front to the back of the bungalow, is no more than twelve strides. I have measured it out. There is room for a little storage in the loft and a garage too, just to the side of the bungalow at the end of the driveway. Even so, there is not enough space for everything.

No matter where I go, I can always hear Adrian. Each cough and wretched sniffle. Every visit to the bathroom, both short and long.

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I do not mind what I call the humdrum noise of everyday matters, however unpleasant. That does not trouble me unduly. It is the unnecessary noise, and the non-stop repetition of it, on-off, stop-start, on-off, stop-start, that I am constantly aware of.

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Having eaten my main meal at lunchtime, with a sandwich and a piece of fruit at six oclock, and having been polite to Adrian for just about as long as I can bear, I have now gone into my bedroom to finish my diary.

It is no cooler even with the window open. There is no breeze. There has not been one for days and I can smell the bins from here. A rancid, decaying smell, however much I sprinkle carpet freshener over the rubbish. I can always smell it. Its even worse than the pig farm and the fields of cauliflowers and cabbages over the way. And I can still hear Adrian, no matter what, my ears somehow straining for the sound of that endless snipping.

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I am 55 years old this autumn and I have stopped work. I am at home almost all of the time other than my morning and afternoon visits to the local shops for fresh air and groceries and, as often as not, to choose a microwave meal for my lunch.

I write throughout the day letters to people, little notes to officialdom, jokes and bons mots for myself; all to keep busy. I have my diary to fill in the gaps. I am not yet so old or befuddled as to watch daytime television with its endless procession of lifes flotsam and jetsam.

Adrian has been at home for most of the time since I stopped working; other than when he has to go into town to sign whatever forms he has to fill in for his benefits. But he has been going out more lately, during the days, and I have been wondering what hes been doing. It worries me. More than I can say.

I should not have to put up with all of this at my age, really I shouldnt.

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(50, 51.)

My diary is a hobby, of sorts, which I hope will keep me busy during these long summer weeks ahead. I think about things, some serious, others amusing, and write something every day, sometimes several times. I try to write at least two or three pages; its a home-made notebook, so I can write as much as I want when I want. I am not limited to a single page as other diarists are forced to do with an A4 desk diary. I write about what I have done, along with my musings on life.