'Dirty Laundry' by Barbara Chapman

What a beautiful morning! Beryl Brightwell allowed her lips to curve in the merest hint of a smile as she nudged the backdoor shut with her hip. Gripping the laundry basket more securely, she set off down the garden ignoring the meandering curves of the path, and striding purposeful and straight towards the rotary line discretely concealed by a bower of trellised clematis towards the bottom of the garden. Annoyance at the impracticality of the path imparted sharpness to each footfall which, had it not been cushioned by lawn, would have reverberated with displeasure. How typical of Brian! A simple task – a path to get from A to B – and he turns it into a landscaping project. He must have used three times the amount of materials. And for what? Well, she didn’t need to be led around in circles to appreciate the placing of the flower beds. It made mowing the lawn a nightmare.
Thoughts of her husband snagged tighter on irritation as she remembered he had her car. His was in for repair. Trust him to pick that particular spot in the supermarket car park! She’d told him not to park next to the trolley return point. People are so clumsy. But no, he hadn’t listened; too lazy to drive a bit further and find a better space. So what happened? When they got back there was a huge ding in the bumper and no one to claim against. So that was £250.00 down the drain.
Beryl placed the laundry basket on the ground next to the line and gripped the hem of its cover, sliding the sun-warmed plastic up and off in one smooth movement. A pigeon exploded out of the clematis, wings flailing the air as it fought to gain height. Flying rat! Her cold stare followed the bird as it disappeared over the fence.
She snapped the arms of the rotary line open, hooked the peg bag into place and bent to remove a bed sheet. The damp cotton was dazzlingly white, an effect she found particularly pleasing against the unordered colours of the garden. She might be marooned at home but the day would not be wasted. Beds stripped, laundry done, she would drop into her neighbour’s coffee morning. What was it in aid of? Brow creased in concentration, she couldn’t recall the cause. No matter, she would take a packet of biscuits out of the cupboard. Gwen would be grateful for her support. In fact she ought to get a move on; Gwen wasn’t the greatest organizer in the world, so the sooner she got there the less likelihood that the event would degenerate into a shambolic gossip session.
The last pillow case pegged into place, Beryl was turning away from the line when the voices reached her. Drat! People were arriving already. It sounded as if they were setting up outside. She’d have to get a move on. That was Sally Jones she could hear, and the burst of high-pitched laughter was from Nancy Ryan. At the thought of the gleamingly manicured Nancy, Beryl’s mouth tightened and it took a few seconds before she caught the thread of their conversation:
'...really? As blatant as that?'
'Yes, he made no attempt to hide it. Said “Hello” and actually introduced her.'
'And how did he introduce her? As a work colleague?'
'No, he didn’t and their body language said it all. They could hardly stop themselves holding hands.'
'What’s she like? Younger, I bet!'
'I’d say about the same age, though it’s hard to tell.'
The clatter of a tray descending onto a table was accompanied by Gwen’s voice: 'What’s all this about? Who are you two tearing to shreds now?'
'Us!' The tone was aggrieved. 'Gwen, whatever do you mean?'
'Umm.' The monosyllable was heavy with mock sarcasm. 'So go on, who are you dishing the dirt on now?'
In the pause that followed Beryl became aware that she was clutching the empty laundry basket like a life preserver.
Sally’s response when it came was almost a whisper, 'Brian.'
'Brian? You mean....?'
'Yes. Your neighbour Brian.'
'Whew... there’s a turn up for the book.'
'By the way, is Beryl coming this morning?' This from Nancy.
Gwen’s voice was distracted as she observed, 'No, she’s out. Car’s gone. So when was this?'
'Tuesday evening at the Royal Oak.'
'The Royal Oak! That’s virtually on the door step.'
'Yep, as bold as brass.'
'And what was she like?'
'Early 50’s, trendy dresser, big boobs – that’s the first thing my Ted noticed of course,' Sally chuckled.
'Well, good luck to them I say.' Nancy’s voice was harsh.
'Hang on, that’s a bit rough. I know Beryl’s not exactly a close friend...'
'Too right! She couldn’t get any stiffer if you rammed a poker up her arse. From what Brian’s let slip to my Ted, she shut up shop way before the menopause – separate bedrooms, the lot. So can you blame the poor chap? I mean there’s no pleasing that woman. If she was here this morning the cups and saucers’d be in ranks and files and we’d be lining up for biscuits!'
'Sally!' Gwen’s admonition was lost in a burst of laughter.
'No, I’m with Sally there,' Nancy chimed in. 'From the way things seem to be going I think he’ll make the break. If he doesn’t tell Beryl soon, someone else will and that’ll be that, as they say.'
'Cooeee. Where are you?'
'Oh, it’s Hillary and Pat. Down here - down here at the end of the garden.'
Gwen’s call jolted Beryl into life. Her gaze took in her hands clenched on the laundry basket, the knuckles as white as the plastic.
A sudden scrabbling drew her eyes to the fence. The pigeon teetered there, gained its balance. Bloody flying rat! The laundry basket left her hand, flung clumsily towards the wooden boards. Fixing her with a beady glare, the bird launched itself as the basket struck home. It rose into the sun, seemed to hang suspended above the washing for an eternity then released a stream of berry-mottled excrement that arced down with unerring precision onto the white sheets waiting like virgin canvas below.