Every other Friday Cynthia Nelson invited a carefully select number of people from the village to her expansive house.
The pleasure of observing people pretending to enjoy chewing on boring sandwiches or drinking foul tasting tea was not the aim of the gatherings, but it was a bonus. It was not from warmth or generosity that she kept this habit. She repeated this arrangement so as to exert a cruel and calculated form of control over her guests.
The villagers went along, grimly resigned to their fate.
Mrs Nelson did not live in her palatial residence alone. Her son, Steven also lived there.
Steven was something of a taboo subject. No one ever mentioned him to her. Opportunities to mention Mrs Nelson to Steven did not arise for he had never engaged in conversation with anyone in the village. Never. Not a single word to a single soul. Not one.
Steven’s relationship with his mother was hardly verbose either. They barely spoke a word. An arrangement that suited them both. Any words they did exchange were delivered with spite and venom.
How could she talk to him, when the way he spoke, the way he walked was every day, and in every way a reminder of the man that had betrayed and deserted her?
A further mystery was the sudden disappearance of Mr Nelson four years ago. Like any other village, whenever details were not forthcoming, speculation and conjecture filled the void.
The explanations of Mr Nelson’s vanishing lurched from the impossible to the ridiculous. One being that he had simply ran away with the cleaner. Another that Mrs Nelson had bludgeoned him to death with one of her tea-pots before burying him in the vegetable patch next to the summer house.
The theory went that this accounted for the prize winning marrows Mrs Nelson entered every year at the village fete.
The oppressive atmosphere at her events, complete with forced laughter and cucumber sandwiches was never an enjoyable event for her guests. Which of course was entirely her intention.
Cynthia Nelson was placing her empty tea-cup onto its saucer, and nibbling delicately on a Nice biscuit when one of the guests suddenly fell to the floor.
Such poor manners. Mrs Nelson tutted as the cup and saucer tumbled down the collapsed guest, spilling their contents before crashing onto the hardwood floor. Mrs Nelson stood. Her movement serving to communicate her displeasure.
It was fortunate that one of her regular guests was Doctor Miles. The young Doctor had moved to the village several years ago, an idealistic and principled man. She had taken particular pleasure in crushing his spirit.
His concern for the collapsed guest was very clear, but he dare not move until permitted by Cynthia Nelson.
With a dismissive nod she released him and off the boy doctor went to tend to the fallen guest. The cause of such disruption. Such selfishness. There is a need for order, and this sort of thing just would not do. A terrible burden for her to bare, but bare it she must. These fools needed someone with discipline and control to show them the way and prevent them from descending into anarchy. She sighed as the doctor went about treating her failed guest. She would want to know their name so as not to invite them again. The boy doctor appeared rather shocked if not overwhelmed with the situation before him.
The boy doctor quietly enlisted the assistance of three other guests. They set about removing the prone guest from the room. Although irked by the commencement of such action without her permission, she conceded it was best to remove the source of the disruption.
The other guests formed an informal semicircle around where the woman had fallen. The whispers started, sniping back and forth. Mrs Nelson was no fool. She knew of the tattle tales in the village.
Mrs Nelson jumped when the Doctor appeared close by her side. She had not registered his approach. She did not allow anyone to get this close to her. Her already low opinion of the boy doctor sunk lower.
“Mrs Nelson, I have the most terrible news”
Cynthia Nelson slowly turned to face him. This pathetic excuse of a man before her, out of breath, disheveled. Beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“What is it Mr Miles?” She demanded, purposely refusing to use his title. Denying him any recognition of elevated importance. She must be the only person of importance in any room she entered.
“Tracy Collins” He paused to recover his breath. His chest falling and rising rapidly. “Tracy Collins is dead”.
Mrs Nelson kept her eyes on the creature before her. “Who ?”
“Tracy Collins, the daughter of Robert and Kathy Collins. She’s dead.” The boy doctor clearly expected this news to mean something to Cynthia Nelson, and it did. She was most annoyed by the event.
“I have no idea why you would think this a suitable place or time to discuss such a matter. Nor am I sure why such a revelation should be important to me in the slightest. Can you not see Mr Miles, that I have guests?”
A boy without the backbone required to be a man, this child doctor, she thought. He continued to talk, further to her displeasure.
“The lady that collapsed..” He said, voice wavering, but pointing at the spot from where she had been removed not moments before. “That lady was Tracy Collins”.
The boy doctor dared not speak further, though he clearly wanted to say more. Mrs Nelson paused to consider events.
“How..inconvenient !” She proclaimed. Such lack of respect to have the nerve to die at one of her friendly gatherings. How dare she !
Cynthia Nelson simmered with indignation. She was about to speak again when a noise behind her demanded her attention and that of the whispering villagers nearby.
In similar fashion, another of her guests crashed to the floor. The thick set man with short ginger hair met the floor with a thud, shaking the room. A gasp escaping from the mouth of the woman next to her. Another of Cynthia’s precious tea cups crashed to the hardwood floor. The woman started to sob as she shook the man violently. She screeched in desperation for someone to help her.
Do these people have no idea of how to behave properly ? Such lack of control.
The Doctor started moving toward the man and woman. Spilt tea seeping across the floor toward the rug.
“Mr Miles, please can do something with that man ?” Cynthia Nelson instructed. The boy doctor had already started his work. It was important that her guests saw Cynthia was in charge. Directing as was her place. What was the proper way to conduct oneself in such situations ? What was the correct way for a host to behave when their guests started dropping to the floor in full view? The shaking of the boy doctor’s head, and the consolation he bestowed upon the woman told Cynthia Nelson there would be no recovery for this guest also. Such disruption !
Again stepping ahead of himself, the boy doctor motioned for his cohorts to come over. They each grabbed a limb, setting off the wailing of the woman.
Cynthia marched over to the lifeless body. The woman looking up at her, face awash with tears. The woman’s wailing suddenly silenced in shock and disbelief as Cynthia swung her left leg back before kicking out at the man’s torso.
“Get up ! Get UP! I demand you get up!”
The vultures from the village sharply taking in their breath as one.
Cynthia Nelson felt herself being pulled away. Someone had their hands on her ! Such impertinence ! She was steered her back towards her chair.
The fallen ginger man was lifted and removed by the men. The woman’s wails interspersed with her calling his name as she followed them into the next room.
Such disruptions cannot be tolerated.
“You can never be sure !” She proclaimed to no one in particular. “He may have just passed out.”
“He is quite dead Mrs Nelson. I can assure you.” The boy doctor informed her softly. He had always annoyed her, but today his actions were positively infuriating. She would not be inviting him to another party for quite some time, this much was certain.
The boy doctor left her to attend to the woman who could be heard sobbing in the next room. Time for Cynthia to collect her thoughts. Order must be maintained.
Cynthia Nelson’s eye caught before her a folded piece of white card. She had not noticed this earlier. How it came to be sat next to an unwanted slice of cake on her mahogany side table she did not know. She was instantly certain of the card’s origin. The two sides did not line up to each other exactly. It had been folded without care. She reached forward and picked up the card, turning it over in her hand. The writing on the reverse confirming her suspicion as to the source. She easily recognised the undisciplined and lazy scrawl of her son Steven. She shook her head, recalling the large sums of money she had wasted trying to cure her offspring of his messy output.
‘Mother. I do hope your guests like the cake. I made it myself.’
She huffed. Such a constant source of disappointment her son. He had not remembered that she hated the taste of pineapple. The untouched pineapple upside-down cake sat before her. How could he miss such an elementary detail ?
Another of her guests claimed the portion plated before her. She sat without comment as they sliced off a fork full and guided it slowly to their mouth.
“Stupid Boy” She cursed as the clatter over by the sandwich table announced the dispatch of a third guest, and the loss of yet another teacup and saucer.
