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Listeners' Fantasies |
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Desperate Housewives Anonymous
by Vicky S
 Alistair isn't the only one who needs the support of the fellow afflicted, as this heartfelt tale, posted to the Fantasy Archers topic of illustrates.
It was a cold windy Thursday in late May. For almost the whole day, long awaited rain had swept in chilling sheets over the village, soaking the dry earth and muddying the pond as it filled. Now as evening set in, curtains were drawn early against the unseasonal chill, no light spilled from them, only a few street lamps swaying in the wind shone ineffectually against the darkness, highlighting the heavy rain as it fell.
Avoiding the puddles at the bottom of the slope, the organiser scurried from her car to the Village Hall. She fumbled with her umbrella and the keys in their stiff awkward locks, but at last the door was open, the alarm disabled, and the Hall lights flashed out like a beacon across the Green.
She hung her coat in the lobby, shaking the rain from her headscarf before carefully folding it and placing it in her coat pocket. From a carrier bag she took a pair of Footglove loafers and changed her shoes. She glanced at her watch. Twenty five to. Plenty of time.
Her first task was to pull down the window blinds, the last one by the kitchen only came down half way. She frowned. It didn't really matter, but she made a mental note to report it.
Through force of habit she set out a few cups in the kitchen, filled the kettle and the milk jug and found the sugar bowl in the cupboard. Though experience told her that they would remain uneaten, she carefully arranged some homemade shortbread biscuits on a paper doily. The members never stayed for the advertised refreshments. But it was best to be prepared.
Next she positioned the folding chairs in a circle in the middle of the room. Not too close as to be intrusive on another's space, but close enough for comfort. In the centre she put a shallow tin tray. From a Huntley and Palmer's tin she poured in a covering of sand, before arranging a dozen tealights on the tray. Mindful of Health and Safety she made sure that each one was firmly embedded before she lit it.
As she worked she was aware of cars pulling into the carpark. Their engines and lights were turned off, but no one came to the hall.
Finally, she glanced around the room. Everything was ready.
At the door she opened the fuse box and found the master lighting switch. She flicked it a few times, then in the final darkness made her way carefully to a chair.
The light switching was the signal. One by one she heard the car doors open and close, and the bleeps of central locking. One by one footsteps came up the slope, through the lobby and into the hall. One by one the chairs were filled. Around the circle the women sat in silence. The dim glow from the tealights only lit the polished floor. Above waist height the room was dark.
As their eyes became accustomed to the dim flickering light all that each could see of the others was their shoes. Trainers, boots, clogs, brogues ...
Still. Waiting.
The Organiser cleared her throat a little nervously. Then began to speak. Her well modulated voice was low and precise, every syllable clearly enunciated.
"Ladies, welcome to the meeting. An especial welcome to any new members who may be here tonight. As usual, I would like to start by reminding us all of the DHA rules. You are aware that we operate on a basis of strict confidentiality. The purpose of our meetings is to allow us to express our true feelings about our relationships in a safe, non-judgmental environment. To protect our identities we use our pseudonyms at all times. As usual I will open the meeting."
She stood up, her feet placed firmly on the floor.
"My name is Cornucopia and I am a Desperate Housewife."
"Hello Cornucopia," the group chorused.
"I have been married for years to a man who is in love with two other women," she continued, "I have spent my married life competing for his affections. But my rivals are not flesh and blood women, but shadows, his idealised view of how a woman should be. Daily I have to live up to the expectations engendered by a saintly mother and an idealised first love. I subjugate my own interests and wishes to his, hourly I repress my need for intellectual stimulation, for lively stimulating discourse about world events, politics and literature. I find myself channelling my creativity and self expression into the domestic realm. My Aga is my paintbrush, my duster is my quill. I am Cornucopia, hear my pain"
As Cornucopia sat down, a slight figure rose from the other side of the circle. Her feet in a pair of slightly muddy designer trainers shuffled nervously.
"My name is Angel, and I am a Desperate Housewife."
"Hello, Angel" the voices were warm with welcome for the newcomer.
"I am a woman who is a girl, a child who is a mother, a wife who is a partner. I am an independent person who depends on others. I am a lover who is not loved. I am not single, yet I am alone. I have dreams but live in a nightmare, I have ambitions for my future but am trapped in my present. I am Angel. Hear my pain."
As she tucked her feet shyly around the legs of her chair she saw that another figure had risen to take her place. An elegant pair of Italian leather shoes with a neat kitten heel stepped forward.
"I am LadySugar, and I am a Desperate Housewife."
They greeted her.
"I am married to a man who cannot take life seriously. Who lives in the past and the present but will not face the future. Whose life experience has been that reward comes without labour. Who cannot see the virtue of forward planning but relies on the happenstance of luck and coincidence. A man who will not share the burdens of responsibility and thinks that tomorrow is a million years away. I am LadySugar, hear my pain."
And so it went, one at a time they rose and stepped forward. Dorcas in her down-at-heel hushpuppies. Venus in her Geiger pumps. Circe in her cheap market stall slingbacks. Demeter in her shabby clogs. Mrs Lovett in her mud spattered wellies. Annie in her cowboy boots. Atalanta in her sturdy riding boots. Marlene D in her well polished brogues. Shiva in her dainty sandals.
Each with a tale to tell and a heart to unburden.
***
As the tail lights of the last car left the car park, Cornucopia put away the unused cups and placed the uneaten shortbread back in the tin. He could eat them tomorrow she thought, with his coffee ...
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