FICTION | SHORT STORY
A Place to Call Home
It’s not always bricks and mortar
Toby is frightened.
They have been arguing all afternoon. Lucy’s high-pitched accusations and David’s rumbling denials trade places, shattering the peace. The air, once light and fragrant with the aroma of coffee and croissants hangs heavy and torn, like old, ripped curtains.
The accusations turn into rasping sobs, the denials transform into hectoring demands. Attacker becomes victim. Long-past hurts and not-quite-forgotten wrongs are wrenched from the past and verbal blows are exchanged to cause maximum pain. They find their target with cruel efficiency.
Toby looks from Lucy to David, from David to Lucy, as if watching a tennis match. He hides behind the sofa, peering out, trying to monitor proceedings without attracting attention. The last place he wants to be is in the middle of their slanging match.
Last week, they had rowed in the kitchen. Cups and saucers flew through the air, splintering as they crashed on the stone floor. A cup bounced off the cooker hood and hit Toby on the head. Lucy blamed David, David blamed Lucy, and the row escalated. Toby hid in the hallway cupboard, wriggling behind the clothes airer and the boxed-up Christmas tree, making himself as small as possible. He…
