Expectations by Vin Hamer
Charles sat hunched over his computer, lit only by the glare from the screen. He pushed his bifocals down his nose to scrutinise the words. His fingers fumbled awkwardly over the pad as he scrolled the screen. He used to have a mouse which he found much easier; he hated the speed at which technology changed. Among the faces rolling down the page he spotted one that caught his eye. Intelligent, attractive, the right age. Dorothy. Possible. Downstairs he could hear Mary banging drawers. She was moving out tomorrow. She had stacked her suitcases in the hall and filled several black bags with rubbish. He had only just managed to rescue his stamp collection from a bin bag. Stupid woman!
On the screen Dorothy looked encouraging. Not too old. Lived by the sea. Enjoyed long country walks. Liked to weave her own rugs. Bet she took the Guardian too! She liked reading and was looking for a man with similar interests. The site was called ‘Meeting of Minds’. He hoped she wasn’t too intellectual. He scratched the bald patch at the back of his head as he tried to find the right place to put in his own profile. He might need to do a little editing but his friends always told him he looked young for his age. Why did they always say they liked walking? Boring! And she had cats! Never mind.
He added that he played golf (that was an outdoor activity) and said he particularly liked birds.( He chuckled when he thought of the pheasants he had shot last week) He downloaded the mug shot from his office days twenty years ago. It was a good professional photograph. Not like Mary’s pictures that always seemed to show his bald spot or had him squinting into the sun. Dorothy didn’t mention whether she wanted a companion or was up for a more intimate relationship. He stopped and let his imagination take flight thinking about a first date. No! He had to get to meet her first.
Dorothy sprawled on her floral sofa, wedged in with cushions. Her laptop was propped on a knee cushion as she fondled the wispy ears of her black cat Sooty. She was examining the website entries that had come in today. She batted at Sandy, the ginger one, who kept trying to steal the Maltesers from a large box at her elbow. Her other cat Snowy was draped over her feet. Warm but noisy as he purred loudly. Dorothy looked over her profile. It was a nice photo. Maybe she should update it but she was sure she could lose the few extra stone quite easily if she wanted. She could get back into walking again. She had stopped walking when she took up weaving and sitting in front of a loom was much more restful. She had added that she was an avid reader (after all she had read ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ in less than a week!) That face on the screen looked OK. A bit like George Clooney but with less chin. Oh dear he would want her to play golf in all weathers. And he liked birds! Nasty flappy, feathery things. That was no good. There was another one here who was a member of Camera. That wouldn’t be bad. She quite liked beer. Oh dear! That wouldn’t do at all. He had a beard. So un-hygienic! She scrolled on.
Mary sat in the front row at a London fashion week show. She loved her new outfit that Ruth had helped her choose and the new hairdo that made her smile when she looked in the mirror. On the catwalk the models slunk down the walkway like moody greyhounds. Each one had a large handbag slung across their back, draped over one shoulder or resting at an elbow. They were her handbags. She felt a tingle of pride. What did Charles know? He had once called her dull and sneered at her job in a leather factory. “Why don’t you give up?” he would ask, “It’s embarrassing when my colleagues ask what you do. You could be a housewife on my income!” It was their childless marriage that was dull! Charles was a commuter who liked to work late (so he said) they hardly saw each other. He didn’t know that she was now CEO of her own company and doing rather well.
When Hannays, an old family business, had started to fail she had tentatively suggested to the elderly Mr Hannay that maybe handbags would be a better line than leather gloves which had such a small demand these days. With his permission she had come up with a few designs to try which had been snatched up by local shops immediately they had been put into production. She found one of the girls on the shop floor who was a computer whizz and between them they set up a new website. As the business flourished so did her status. When Mr Hannay retired he was happy to sell it to her at a nominal price on condition she kept the name. Hannays handbags became the must-have accessory. Celebrities would be judged on the number of Hannays they owned. Orders poured in from abroad. Charles actually read about them in the Telegraph. “I see Hannays are doing quite well. Isn’t it about time they gave you a raise?” Mary had long ago started her own accounts but maintained the same contribution to their joint account. What he called her ‘pin money’. She wouldn’t tell him now. She knew he was taking his secretary to conferences and had been having affairs for years.
She looked at her daughter Ruth at her side (such a pretty name) on the other side was Ruth’s mother, Joanna who was such a good friend now. Charles didn’t know about Ruth either. As a teenager, Mary had had been forced to let her go for adoption and had longed for her ever since. She had never felt able to tell Charles. When Ruth had made contact she was overjoyed. To her delight she discovered that Ruth shared Mary’s interest in fashion and design and now worked as a stylist. It was Ruth who had helped her get the bags onto the catwalk. Joanna was Ruth’s adopted mother. Her Mum. Initially both had both been anxious about meeting but their shared love of Ruth overcame their reservations and now they were close friends. Ruth called Mary by her name but also described them both as her mothers. The models had finished their parade and now assembled at the front of the stage, their handbags together like a cluster of ripe fruit. Charles would never have the vision to believe this possible. Mary smiled to herself.
Charles was updating his profile. He was glad to be upstairs as a strange, smell pervaded the ground floor. He thought it might be from the kitchen. Perhaps he should get a plumber to check the drains. He hadn’t noticed the pedal bin under the sink containing the remains of the fish pie, the last dish Mary had cooked for them both. There had been one or two complaints from the last site when he had actually gone on dates. He was accused of giving misleading information. This was a new site, ’Two’s Company’. He had typed in a reference to his interest in taxidermy (he had once helped a student friend, a Goth with tastes for the sinister. He had thought it might make him look ‘cool’ but his squeamishness had got the better of him). It might make him seem more artistic he thought. Perhaps he should describe himself as ‘an active older businessman.’ He was sipping a glass of whisky. It was good to indulge in daytime drinking now Mary wasn’t there to make him feel guilty. He absently wondered if she would be able to cope on her own. He didn’t really miss her. She had always been rather dull and had no imagination- but he did wonder what she had done with all his clean socks?
On the screen Dorothy looked encouraging. Not too old. Lived by the sea. Enjoyed long country walks. Liked to weave her own rugs. Bet she took the Guardian too! She liked reading and was looking for a man with similar interests. The site was called ‘Meeting of Minds’. He hoped she wasn’t too intellectual. He scratched the bald patch at the back of his head as he tried to find the right place to put in his own profile. He might need to do a little editing but his friends always told him he looked young for his age. Why did they always say they liked walking? Boring! And she had cats! Never mind.
He added that he played golf (that was an outdoor activity) and said he particularly liked birds.( He chuckled when he thought of the pheasants he had shot last week) He downloaded the mug shot from his office days twenty years ago. It was a good professional photograph. Not like Mary’s pictures that always seemed to show his bald spot or had him squinting into the sun. Dorothy didn’t mention whether she wanted a companion or was up for a more intimate relationship. He stopped and let his imagination take flight thinking about a first date. No! He had to get to meet her first.
Dorothy sprawled on her floral sofa, wedged in with cushions. Her laptop was propped on a knee cushion as she fondled the wispy ears of her black cat Sooty. She was examining the website entries that had come in today. She batted at Sandy, the ginger one, who kept trying to steal the Maltesers from a large box at her elbow. Her other cat Snowy was draped over her feet. Warm but noisy as he purred loudly. Dorothy looked over her profile. It was a nice photo. Maybe she should update it but she was sure she could lose the few extra stone quite easily if she wanted. She could get back into walking again. She had stopped walking when she took up weaving and sitting in front of a loom was much more restful. She had added that she was an avid reader (after all she had read ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ in less than a week!) That face on the screen looked OK. A bit like George Clooney but with less chin. Oh dear he would want her to play golf in all weathers. And he liked birds! Nasty flappy, feathery things. That was no good. There was another one here who was a member of Camera. That wouldn’t be bad. She quite liked beer. Oh dear! That wouldn’t do at all. He had a beard. So un-hygienic! She scrolled on.
Mary sat in the front row at a London fashion week show. She loved her new outfit that Ruth had helped her choose and the new hairdo that made her smile when she looked in the mirror. On the catwalk the models slunk down the walkway like moody greyhounds. Each one had a large handbag slung across their back, draped over one shoulder or resting at an elbow. They were her handbags. She felt a tingle of pride. What did Charles know? He had once called her dull and sneered at her job in a leather factory. “Why don’t you give up?” he would ask, “It’s embarrassing when my colleagues ask what you do. You could be a housewife on my income!” It was their childless marriage that was dull! Charles was a commuter who liked to work late (so he said) they hardly saw each other. He didn’t know that she was now CEO of her own company and doing rather well.
When Hannays, an old family business, had started to fail she had tentatively suggested to the elderly Mr Hannay that maybe handbags would be a better line than leather gloves which had such a small demand these days. With his permission she had come up with a few designs to try which had been snatched up by local shops immediately they had been put into production. She found one of the girls on the shop floor who was a computer whizz and between them they set up a new website. As the business flourished so did her status. When Mr Hannay retired he was happy to sell it to her at a nominal price on condition she kept the name. Hannays handbags became the must-have accessory. Celebrities would be judged on the number of Hannays they owned. Orders poured in from abroad. Charles actually read about them in the Telegraph. “I see Hannays are doing quite well. Isn’t it about time they gave you a raise?” Mary had long ago started her own accounts but maintained the same contribution to their joint account. What he called her ‘pin money’. She wouldn’t tell him now. She knew he was taking his secretary to conferences and had been having affairs for years.
She looked at her daughter Ruth at her side (such a pretty name) on the other side was Ruth’s mother, Joanna who was such a good friend now. Charles didn’t know about Ruth either. As a teenager, Mary had had been forced to let her go for adoption and had longed for her ever since. She had never felt able to tell Charles. When Ruth had made contact she was overjoyed. To her delight she discovered that Ruth shared Mary’s interest in fashion and design and now worked as a stylist. It was Ruth who had helped her get the bags onto the catwalk. Joanna was Ruth’s adopted mother. Her Mum. Initially both had both been anxious about meeting but their shared love of Ruth overcame their reservations and now they were close friends. Ruth called Mary by her name but also described them both as her mothers. The models had finished their parade and now assembled at the front of the stage, their handbags together like a cluster of ripe fruit. Charles would never have the vision to believe this possible. Mary smiled to herself.
Charles was updating his profile. He was glad to be upstairs as a strange, smell pervaded the ground floor. He thought it might be from the kitchen. Perhaps he should get a plumber to check the drains. He hadn’t noticed the pedal bin under the sink containing the remains of the fish pie, the last dish Mary had cooked for them both. There had been one or two complaints from the last site when he had actually gone on dates. He was accused of giving misleading information. This was a new site, ’Two’s Company’. He had typed in a reference to his interest in taxidermy (he had once helped a student friend, a Goth with tastes for the sinister. He had thought it might make him look ‘cool’ but his squeamishness had got the better of him). It might make him seem more artistic he thought. Perhaps he should describe himself as ‘an active older businessman.’ He was sipping a glass of whisky. It was good to indulge in daytime drinking now Mary wasn’t there to make him feel guilty. He absently wondered if she would be able to cope on her own. He didn’t really miss her. She had always been rather dull and had no imagination- but he did wonder what she had done with all his clean socks?