Coming Home

by Cynthia Allen

It started off as nothing more than a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive. The sun was hot, the sky, according to Graham, a startling, cerulean blue. Graham was an artist, watercolours his speciality.

“You’ll love this place,” he said to Sarah, “The market square is like
an Italian piazza: cobblestones, amazing buildings. And the most
incredible colours - umbres, burnt siennas, splendid ochres. It’s
just …”

“Amazing?” asked his wife, “Incredible?”

“Yes,” he answered enthusiastically, ignoring her sarcastic tone.

“We should have brought your mother,” he continued, “She would have loved it.”

God, no, thought Sarah, imagining how awful it would be to have her mother in tow.

“She could do with a day out,” he continued

“She’s better off where she is,” Sarah sneered, “with others her own age.”

Graham stared at her, briefly taking his eyes off the road.

“Careful, you idiot!” she cried, “That lorry almost hit us.”

“I can’t understand you sometimes,” he said, “You don’t even like your own mother.”

He continued to drive, his natural ebullience soon returning. “We’re here!”

“So we are,” said Sarah sullenly.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

They traced the river through the village, Graham stopping the car by the water’s edge, where ducks and swans were scrabbling for food. Sarah reluctantly followed him across the cobblestones onto the market square. She surveyed the scene. The buildings seemed to be in perpetual shadow, the walls crumbling. And where were the umbers, siennas, ochres? The place was grey, desiccated; everything was depressingly uniform, the air embracing a stench of decay.

“Come on!” Graham yelled animatedly, leading her through the door of the village inn. She looked up at the sign, the words a faded crimson,
barely visible: ‘The Coming Home’.

Inside, the place was deserted, the tablecloths grubby and moth-eaten and strewn with mouldering crumbs. Behind the bar the bottles were
shrouded in cobwebs. I’m in Miss Havisham’s dining room, she thought. She could not understand Graham’s enthusiasm. Was he at last getting
his own back? Throughout their marriage she had shown him nothing but mockery and derision.

“Drink?” he asked cheerfully.

She sat down by a filthy, mildewed window, gazing out through a chink in the grime. Graham returned, carrying two glasses. Sarah lifted
hers to her mouth. The smell was rancid, yet Graham was drinking his with undisguised relish.

“It’s so beautiful here,” he sighed, then abruptly added, “Shall we join the party?”

“Party?”

“Next door,” he indicated an open door behind the bar, “Can’t you hearit? Isn’t the music tremendous?”

Sarah listened. She could hear something, faint and muffled: a violin, played by a novice, so harsh and discordant were the notes.

“Whose party is it?”

“It’s for us, of course,” said Graham, “the landlord and all the villagers are in there.”

“No, thank you,” she said, “if they can’t be bothered to come out here, why should we bother with them?”

Graham rose, looked at her pityingly.

“Well, I’m going,” he said, walking towards the door, “But I hope you’ll join me. And make it soon.”

Sarah scowled angrily. Who was he to tell her what to do? She continued to sit by the window, gazing out at the town. It seemed
even greyer, all colour leeched away. Time passed, but she would not follow him. She had her pride.

Slowly her eyes began to close. They were back in the car, and Graham was looking at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and
contempt. Then she was aware of her own voice, screaming: Look out!

She felt an intense pain as she hurtled through the windscreen, heard the sound of her bones shattering.

Sarah awoke with a start. She leapt up and ran behind the bar, seeking her husband. But the door was closed, and there was silence.

Filled with unease, she returned to the window. Once again she surveyed the village square. The buildings, surrounded by blighted
trees clothed in putrefaction, seemed to be disintegrating. All around her was an intensifying decay. The ducks and swans had gone,
replaced by an emptiness that filled her with an inexplicable dread.

And then she realised - the light was slowly, almost imperceptibly, fading into night.