The crack in the ceiling
‘It’s getting worse’ he tells me as I wake.
It must be Sunday I realise. We are about to discuss the crack in the ceiling.
I roll over. ‘It’s the same as it was last Sunday ‘I try to reassure him.
‘No’ he replies. ‘It finished level with the mirror then – now it’s at least a centimetre longer.’
I sigh and turn back over. In a moment he will get out of bed and climb, naked, onto the chair. He will peer at the crack, call it all manner of undesirables and confirm with an air of gloomy satisfaction that the crack in the ceiling has, indeed, increased in both length and breadth over the course of the last seven days.
Experience has taught me that it is best to apologize. To accept responsibility for the crack, and to offer myself up as penance. This ,I find, is usually sufficient distraction from the crack.
Today, however, a new approach must be found. I have missed the window of self sacrifice opportunity. The measuring stick is already being employed.
I have a flash of inspiration. I offer to plot a graph.
Each Sunday, I suggest, we could measure the crack and monitor the rate at which it is progressing. With this information to hand, I enthuse; we could accurately predict the point in the future at which the ceiling will collapse.
It would seem that I am alone in finding this idea inspired.
Perhaps we could make a feature of it, I wonder aloud , I could paint around it, make it look like the creator giving life to man. Pilgrims would travel from far and wide.
I am being even more ridiculous than usual it now seems.
I close my eyes and listen to his voice; I have learned to let the irascible words wash over me, to make water tight all entry points.
An unusual expletive exposes a fissure.
I contemplate how long it would be before he runs out of expletives.
‘Fifty nine ‘ I tell him.
He pauses. Momentarily confused. ‘Fifty nine what?’
‘I’ll be fifty nine before you run out of expletives. ‘
I need to take things more seriously I am told as he balances, naked, one foot on the chair, one foot on the chest of drawers, poking at the crack with a measuring stick.
I turn over and drift back to sleep.
Tiny flakes of plaster tickle my face. I flick open my eyes to determine the cause.
He is prodding at the crack even harder now.
´You’re making it worse ‘I tell him ‘Leave it alone’ but now that he has started, he is unstoppable.
Beneath the plaster there is dust. Thick red dust that pours out temporarily blinding us.
As it falls, we are motionless, bound together by helplessness. The dust finally settles.
Things look different covered with this red blanket. I conjecture that this must have been how Pompeii looked like after the volcano.
Layers of white volcanic ash are not, I learn, even in my imagination, comparable to red house brick dust. I pretend I am one of Pompeii’s statues.
It seems that now is the time for the serious equipment to be brought out.
‘No good will come of this’ I warn but he needs to see The Full Extent Of The Problem.
He is head and shoulders into the hole.
‘What do you see’ I ask. It is dark. He cannot see a thing.
‘Might I take a look?’ I request.
A ‘Go Ahead! Be My Guest ‘ gesture encourages me make my ascent.
Dark shapes take form as I flick on the torch. Canvasses. So many canvasses. Some carefully wrapped in brown parcel paper, others lovelessly strewn across the floor.
An easel, an unused cobwebbed crib, and there, surrounded by row upon row of discs, a record deck.
I call to him to join me. He insists there is nothing there.
I hand him the torch. They weren’t there when he looked he tells me.
‘No ‘I say’ perhaps they weren’t. ‘
We should take the weight off the ceiling I suggest, and get the hole properly fixed.
All in good time, he tells me. First he wishes to see What’s what.
He sits, hour upon hour. Leafing through records, exclamations of surprise and pleasure fill the air. He has failed to notice the canvasses, the easel and the crib.
Slowly and carefully, one by one, I remove the paintings from their dusty tomb, I struggle down the narrow opening to deliver the crib into the daylight.
I steel myself to examine the canvasses. I peel off their brown swaddling. I am enthralled. I look upon them with the eyes of a stranger. I try to recall what sins brought about such an exile.
I call to the hole that dinner is ready. The hole does not hear.
I bid the hole goodnight. There is no reply.
The hole grows bigger and bigger until at last I can watch from my bed as the records are ordered- first in date sequence, then by artists, genres, then alphabetically and as he catalogues, he listens.
He is happy, I see this.
There is much to do. A crib to home, canvasses to photograph, galleries to contact, long forgotten friends to reconnect with. Ideas that have waited patiently for years to be let out are urgently vying for attention each clamouring to stake their claim on my virgin canvas. ‘Hush’ I tell them, ‘There is time enough for you all.’ They quieten down.
I am busy for the longest time.
I forget to remind the hole of mealtimes, of nightfall and of sunrise.
In time I forget the hole is even there.
The church bells let me know that another Sunday morning has arrived.
I stretch out in my bed, letting the day take shape in my head. I glance up at the smooth ceiling.
Somewhere, behind the church bells, I detect a beat which is out of place.
Rosie L Seymour is a writer born and bred by the North sea .She currently lives and works on the Lancashire/Cheshire borders in the creative arts. A diverse writer, with influences ranging from the Brontes to Ishiguro, Rosie is as at home writing a blog for her local newspaper as she is writing web site copy for purveyors of quality chocolates. Whilst ‘Crack in the Ceiling’ is the first piece of adult fiction she has dared laid bare to public scrutiny, she is currently looking for a publisher for two tried and tested books written for children in the 4 -11 age range. Rosie is the proud owner of the finest collection of tea in the North of England, She can be contacted through her blog: niceandspricey.wordpress.com.
