The fisherman, his rod, his wife and her sandwich.

by Jane


It was the hottest day of the year. Even under the shade of my umbrella the heat was unbearable. I’d discarded my shirt by mid morning wading into the cool waters in just my shorts and old plimsolls. Casting my rod out as far as I could reach I’d watched the multicoloured fly skim across the surface of the river, whilst the waters slipped silently past.

Like my life.

It was peaceful here. Sheer heaven, away from Gilda and her constant nagging. “Do this, do that. Clean the car, empty the bins, paint the dining room, tidy the kitchen and don’t forget to mow the grass before mother comes.” Oh yes, and kiss my arse. It was hard to believe that she was the same woman I’d married long ago; fresh faced, enthuastic, a smile greeting me everyday as I arrived home from my job with the council.

How things changed. Maybe I hadn’t been ambitious enough. The job cleaning windows wasn’t great but it was reliable. It wasn’t like I was self employed and the income was irregular. There was always money to put food on the table and for holidays. Okay, so we hadn’t had holidays to the Caribbean but we’d always had them; a beach in Spain, a villa in Portugal, a gite in France. Hell, we even went to Venice for our honeymoon.

At first we’d had so much in common. Gilda had been a sales assistant in Little Women, a clothing chain for petite women. Nothing grand. We lived a simple life during the week but on the weekends we partied or went to the cinema and while I went fishing on Sundays Gilda always seemed content to do her own thing. It all seemed quite perfect and as time passed I never really felt the need to become chief window cleaner or look for anything else. It wasn’t that I’d never been ambitious but as I passed from my twenties into my thirties and no kids arrived there didn’t seem the urgency to progress. There were no extra mouths to feed, no fear of having to buy the latest fashionable trainers or gimmicky toy and I suppose I just became content with what I had.

Gilda had gone through a broody stage though. We’d tried all the homeopathic remedies for conception, special diets and ovulation temperature gauges. Gilda had even tried doing handstands up against the bedroom wall. “Anything’s worth a try,” she would say, her long blonde hair trailing over her face. I used to watch at first. I found her slim agile legs splayed against the flowered wallpaper and her firm round breasts with her nipples still engorged from our lovemaking incredibly erotic. The tufts of her pubic hair were equally tantalising.

But as the months passed it became increasingly tedious and any unplanned advances would be counteracted by “You’ve had your lot for now. I reckon a week on Tuesday and I should be really fertile. Let’s save it for then.” Eventually we went to the doctors, I with my sperm sample in hand and her with a chip on her shoulder.

It turned out that I had a slightly lower sperm count than normal. I wasn’t barren but instead of having 50 million plus of the fellas swimming around I only had about 40 million and some of the little buggers has passed out through exhaustion. I wasn’t officially infertile although Gilda often made me feel that way. Especially on Saturday nights when she would have one drink too many and tell the entire pub that I was suffering from “oligospermia.” If the pub had got darts I would’ve probably scored a bulls-eye, as it was I’d just throw her a glance which I hoped would be just as deadly but usually went unheeded. The lads used to back slap me and give me the “Never mind you lucky old goat - you can put it about and she’ll never know!” routine but it fell on deaf ears. I couldn’t please Gilda anymore and it hurt.

We had our free allocation’s worth of treatment on the NHS and when that failed there wasn’t the money to spend on more and so as the years passed we came to accept that it wasn’t going to happen. We settled into our old habits again and Gilda stopped mentioning the oligospermia. Well that was until they started doing all this politically correct stuff at Gilda’s work. Suddenly, she was no longer a “sales assistant” but a “sales consultant.” On weekends while I fished she no longer visited her mum, sewed dresses or made Sunday lunch but studied for an NVQ in Retail.

Things began to change almost imperceptibly at first but when Sarah, her boss, left to look after her kids Gilda decided to apply for the manager’s job. I was chuffed for her when she came home one afternoon with the news that the job was hers and we celebrated down at the Indian. I thought maybe the new responsibility would finally lay the ghost of our childlessness to rest.

Well, I guess it did. But not quite the way I expected. From that day on the time we spent together became more and more infrequent. Gilda was always late home from work – the alarm wouldn’t set up, there was a problem with the tills or an evening stock delivery. She put in countless extra hours and within a short space of time she was an area manager, packing her Slimfast bars in her briefcase in the morning and striding off down the path with the parting shot of “I won’t be home till late; don’t wait up for me!”

And I just carried on cleaning windows.

I took another bite of my cheese and pickle sandwich and gazed out over the river. It was quiet. Almost foreboding. Heavy branches of a weeping willow, laden with leaves drooped in the water on the opposite bank. It was probably too hot for kids to play out; maybe they would make an appearance later when the temperature began to subside. A few lonesome bubbles burst on the surface of the water as I savoured my last crust of bread. In a minute I’d give it another crack of the whip but so far my luck had been abysmal. Even the fish seemed to be asleep.

I shuffled around under the umbrella trying to get as much of my body out of the sun as possible. Maybe a drink would soothe my throat and clear my mind. Fortunately, the beer was still cold in my ice bag; I snapped open the tag and greedily slurped some down. In the overpowering heat it tasted better than ever. It reminded me of when Gilda and I were young and life had still been fresh and exciting. When I was going to be more than just a window cleaner and she was going to be a mum.

I guess there hadn’t been one definable moment when things had gone wrong. Just a gradual separation of ways. We hardly slept together any more, although I'd noticed that Gilda’s underwear was becoming increasingly more expensive and erotic. It had crossed my mind that maybe all the late nights were really a cover for an affair but in the end I’d put it down to the extra cash and her yearning for the better things in life. Her tastes had begun to get more extravagant – a bit like her nagging. If we couldn’t have a kid then perhaps an expensive car or a glamorous kitchen were the next best thing. Well that’s what I thought till I found the condoms.

Well a woman whose husband’s six shooter is firing blanks doesn’t need condoms does she?

I brushed the crumbs off my shorts, cupped them into my hands and tossed them into river. Maybe the fish liked cheese and pickle sandwiches too. Heaving myself up, I picked up my rod and waded back out into the water and cast my line out again. The sun was even higher in the sky now and I could feel the skin on my shoulders beginning to prickle despite my attempt to lather myself with sun cream. I felt a little dizzy too and wished I’d remembered my hat. Maybe I should just quit and drown my sorrows at the local.

“Hello Harry. I thought I’d find you here.”

I twisted slowly around in the water; the heat was intense now and my feet felt like ancient roots buried deep in the silt. My vision was blurring, everything seemed to be revolving yet somehow I was fixed, immobile in the river. I knew whose voice it was though. Gilda’s. My heart thumped loudly, reverberating in my ears as her face flashed in and out of focus.

“You look a bit under par Harry. Is the heat getting to you?”

“Yes, I think so. I think I’ll come in for another drink in a moment.”

“Have you had your lunch yet? Some food would probably make you feel better too.”

“Yeah, thanks. The sandwiches you made were really tasty.”

“You know, you’re really not looking great. Maybe it was the sandwiches.”

“Nah, it’s the heat. Your sarnies were just great.”

Carefully I reeled my line in and flicked it out again across the water whilst Gilda watched sullenly from the bank. She never could hide her distaste; it was a bad habit of hers.

“About your sandwiches Harry,” Gilda’s voice carried across the water breaking the silence. “I think you should know that I poisoned them.” She smirked maliciously. “In a few minutes you’ll be dead. You were always so bloody predictable; I knew you’d eat your sandwiches at midday.”

My legs buckled beneath me, water rising to my chest. The malevolence in her words felt like they were drowning me. But even so, underneath the cold water my body was exploding with heat. Fear pulsed through my body as I realised the full intensity of Gilda’s betrayal.

She didn’t just want an affair but a permanent separation. A deadly separation.

I swayed back and forth reeling from the revelation, water lapping against my chest as Gilda waded out towards me.

“You’re a useless twat Harry. I’ve wasted my life with you. All you think about is your bloody windows and fishing rods.”

“I guess you’re right. I never had any imagination,” I mumbled.

The pain was so intense, I closed my eyes and wondered, wondered where my life would have gone if only I’d stopped cleaning windows.

“Goodbye Harry”

I felt Gilda’s hand upon my head, pressure bearing down on me. But as my head went under the surface my hand, as if it had a will of its own, grasped her leg and I began to pull her down with me.

Maybe we would die together.

Or maybe not.

Something happened to me, I’m not sure what. Grabbing her waist, using my all my strength I pulled myself up against her, forcing her down into the water. I could see the horror in her eyes as I pushed her flat. Now it was her time to flounder. Her head bobbed in and out of the water, mouth spluttering, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

“Things are a little different now aren’t they?” I tightened my grip. “You know, it really was the heat Gilda. I’m not dying.”

“Harry…… I…. was….. only… joking……” Her words, her breathing was sporadic as her lungs slowly filled up with water.

“No you weren’t,” I replied, the words tumbling out of me. “If you hadn’t been so wrapped up in yourself you’d have remembered I don’t like prawn sandwiches. I bought some cheese and pickle ones and threw yours to the birds. Your sandwiches are behind the bushes with some dead sparrows. I thought it was odd but now I know the truth.”

I pushed her deeper down. She was mouthing words at me, her eyes bulging wide. As her hair trailed behind her in the current and I remembered what she’d looked like standing on her head all those years ago when we still loved each other.

But we didn’t love each other anymore.

When the bubbles stopped rising and her thrashing arms fell limp in water, I dragged her as far out into the river as I could go where the current was stronger and faster. And then with all my weight I pushed her downstream towards the open sea and watched her sail away, her blonde locks still trailing behind her.

I guess Gilda never recognized the value of good window cleaners. They nearly always do a grand job.

And sometimes when the grime is too thick they use plenty of water.