Short Story: Not A Good Friday

Short Story: Not A Good Friday

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

He said he had done it for her own good.

She said he had done it to spite her.

Her friends agreed with Fiona – miserable git they called him.

His mates stayed well away from the war zone.

Her fourteen year old son shrugged his shoulders - “whatever,” he mumbled

Her daughter had some sympathy but, being currently grounded having been escorted home by the police on Saturday night, she curled her lip and sniffed.

He had left it, where she could not reach it.

Balancing on the three legged stool didn’t work – her twenty one stone dangerously overlapped.

She attempted hooking it to the edge with the broom handle.

That worked, but left her in a quandary.

Could she flick it off and catch it mid air?

Doubtful, with her frame, speed and dexterity weren’t her forte.

The more she looked, the more she wanted it.

The more she wanted it, the more frustrated she became.

Beads of sweat dripped off her nose to be scooped up in her generous apron.

She could smell the Simnel cake cooking, and was momentarily distracted.

She settled for a hot cross bun, toasted, with lashings of butter but.......

That box, on top of the Victorian dresser was what she really wanted.

And she was going to get it.

The shiny, sparkling box advertising its contents smiled back at her and she growled.

She hurled the colander in the general direction and tiny white specks of flour sprinkled her, but the action succeeded only in pushing the box a little further back.

Her heart was pounding now; she swallowed a handful of blood pressure tablets washed down with a noggin of cooking sherry.

In a flash of inspiration she grabbed the Hoover, with its extra long hose, and attempted to suck the box towards the edge hoping it would keep its grip ‘til it was safely down.

It was somewhat heavier than she imagined- it stayed firmly in its place.

Two hot cross buns, another noggin of sherry, followed by a moments triumph as a cake worthy of the WI prize was retrieved from the oven, and she was still looking at the box. It was leering back.

Next door's lanky son, the one who was a rising basketball star - his mother said, called round to ask if Fiona would be joining his mother in going to the bingo that night.

He, of course, had an ulterior motive, don’t they always at seventeen?

He was slightly worried when Fiona - drooling somewhat, grinning inanely, her nervous twitch more pronounced than usual, grabbed his arm.

“Could you just get that box down for me Dearie?” she asked

With a jump worthy of an Olympian he retrieved the box, handing it over and made good his escape. Phew - For a moment there he’d thought he might have needed Childline.

With the box in her hand, she read the contents, though she knew them word for word.

· A giant chocolate egg with 2 Dairy Milk bars

· 1 x Giant Cadbury Dairy Milk Egg

· 2 x 120g Dairy Milk Bars

· Dairy Milk chocolate hollow egg

· Fairtrade chocolate

With the lightest fairy touch and a flick of the wrist the cardboard was discarded and she embraced the silver blue wrapped egg in both hands, barely able to breathe now.

A flick at each end ensured it could be loosened, unwrapped without breaking the magic.

To her horror it revealed a huge lump of beautifully carved wood, egg shaped of course. Fiona gazed at it looking for all the world like a marble statue of Queen Victoria.

The door opened and Sid came in.

“Aaah, the game’s up I see?” he blurted out. “It’s for your own good,” he repeated, just once too often.

He died, the coronary reports said by a single blow to the head, and the egg, much blood splattered, was produced in court.

The judge at her trial, while pronouncing sentence, just had to say, “It's for your own good.”