The hole was definitely growing.
Jonty could tell, having just woken from a nap, face tingling with grass imprints and a half-crushed flailing ladybird stuck on his eyelashes, to find the hole bigger and nearer.
Jonty was seen as a shabby, acceptable kind of aristo who loitered in gardens on dewy mornings, drunk or whimsical, misquoting Homer and asking for a crustless sandwich while he sat, as squat as a stone rounded by a forgiving sea, marvelling at the stains on his tie.
But the hole, which he’d ignored at first and then saw as a curio defined by what it wasn’t instead of what it was, was concerning. He was, if he admitted to himself, a little worried to stand and move from it should a nervous gravity take hold and his legs fail and he fall in.
‘“Be strong, saith my heart,”’ he said to his belly, which in this green t-shirt looked like a swollen Malvern hill. ‘“I am a warrior; I have seen worse sights than this.”’
But his heart couldn’t convince him.
**
Inside the garden’s recently wood-cladded house — the sustainable Robinia grown close to where Germans once massacred a column of the 9th Polish Armored Division — a couple orbited the permanent thing that defined their relationship, so big it could only be addressed via small, symptomatic instances spat from its centre like shrapnel.
This time, Arthur was spending too long on the toilet playing on his phone, which both Arthur and Assumpta knew was an escape from a world he once thought was built for him. On her blog, http://www.tampaxromana.com — with its steady if not spectacular readership — Assumpta described Arthur’s toileted game-playing as ‘A relapse of infantile addiction caused by weak parenting’, while calling down from the bathroom having heard Assumpta muttering something about ‘a peace-time king spending too long on his exhausted throne,’ Arthur described it as ‘Look, I just need a few fucking minutes to myself and I said I’d make lunch and I will.’
Once he’d finally flushed, washed his hands and stared at himself, he opened the bathroom window and saw, like a beleaguered general whose arriviste commander-in-chief had just opened up another unwinnable front, the hole was getting bigger.
‘He looks like an overripe tomato,’ said Assumpta, unshuttering the blinds of the just-installed, overdraft-stretching bi-fold doors and seeing Jonty there, sitting beside the hole and casting it furtive glances like a boy looking at a boy with a better toy. ‘You know, people shouldn’t be fooled by him.’
‘He’s harmless. I’ll make him a cup of tea,’ said Arthur, who saw the value in doing unasked-for easy things. ‘Want one?’
‘Why does everyone say that? He’s not harmless. He’s, I don’t know, dormant, like the national debt. One day he’ll run a child or a puppy over and everyone will say “I told you so”, as if they actually did when they absolutely fucking didn’t. And they’ll still forgive him and make him fucking mayor or something and then you’ll really see what he’s about.
‘Hey, is that hole growing? I’m sure it’s bigger.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ called Arthur above the grumbling kettle. He wanted to ignore the hole, deny it like he would a diagnosis.
Assumpta banged on the bi-folds’ SOLARMAX™ light-responsive triple-glazed windows. ‘Get up!’ she called at Jonty. ‘Go home!’ Jonty looked at her, turning his neck slowly, in a way that pissed her off. ‘Just shoo, for fuck’s sake!’ she said, with added semaphore, which finally pierced the buffer-state miasma people like Jonty seemed to live in. He levered himself up: heavy, reluctant golem called to irresistible movement.
He tottered for a moment and Assumpta thought he would pitch into the hole; imagined him going in, soundlessly erased, his last movement a flash of badly chopped blonde hair and a fitting, graceless pirouette. She smiled, then was faintly disappointed when Jonty ambled through the side gate, opening and shutting it with a tenderness she thought was all part of the act.
She stared at the garden. The rhododendron had flowered early and its early fireworks were now, not even into March, mouldy pinks and ’70s-typography orange, the same orange Mother inexplicably favoured in her final years. After the fierce winds of recent weeks, the fence they shared with John and Nadine was a decrepit ossature: a sentry, old and loyal and unaware the war was long done.
And the hole, that was definitely bigger. Square in the middle of the recently laid lawn. Assumpta sighed. She’d call a man about it tomorrow, one who could do more than make strategic cups of tea and on rare good days deliver them as Lancelot delivering whispers to Guinevere.
**
The man she called, name-tagged Hugo, was an exhumation of sunken eyes and cheeks from the Esso-Worcestershire Company.
Arthur, a lead designer, had helped in the EWC’s rebrand from public council to corporate partnership: their palette of deep blue (‘trust and surety’ explained the brand guidelines, fond of tautology) was a base for a logo so green (‘vibrancy, positivity, urgency’) it reminded Assumpta of the Kandinsky print that dominated the stairwell. It made her regret buying it.
‘Forward, for a better future’ said the strapline that cost close to £35,000 in agency fees. But the thin man just absorbed a cup of tea, took some notes and left. He would email a report within a few days.
‘Fucking hopeless,’ said Assumpta to the closed door. Arthur confidently descended the stairs as if he hadn’t been pretending to work while another man was in the house. ‘I designed that uniform,’ he said. Assumpta looked at him, his underwhelming chest and twiglet arms and pot belly and skin that had the look of rolled-out suet in saturnine light, and repeated what she’d just said.
She apologised for that later, for that bit of shrapnel. For allowing the truth to win out for a moment.
As part of the apology, as a distraction tactic, she suggested they throw things into the hole. Dandelions and patio aggregate went into darkness. Assumpta barked, laughed and called Arthur a cunt when he grabbed her waist and jolted her towards the edge. On his front, Arthur crept towards the precipice and reached in. Nothing was different, his hand wasn’t colder or suddenly removed. He felt soil on the sides.
‘So weird,’ he said.
Within the hour, the three faux-Ercol chairs choking the spare room and long-intended for Facebook Marketplace went in. In their wake followed a barbecue, a sandwich maker, a nest of mahogany tables that marked a failed attempt at Victoriana interior design, three generations of Nintendo, eight cables and chargers, a Klimt print Assumpta hated the second after she bought it, two lifeless Kindles and a 37” Samsung wrenched from the bedroom wall.
‘These things,’ Arthur said, in a rare parting of the clouds that swelled Assumpta’s heart, ‘they promise to improve our lives but just get in the way of it.’ His smile and eyes were wide with that small kind of mania that happens when you test the constraints and preconceptions you give your own life.
He looked, Assumpta thought, like he did on his wedding day.
‘Fucking hell,’ Arthur said, ‘we should be doing this naked and surrounded by fire.’
That night, they fucked in a different way: desperate and tender, paying attention to cause and effect and touching each others’ necks and wrists in the way movies had been telling them to do for years.
**
They pierced the odd sway the attic held over them.
Soundtracked to Wagner, Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights and ’90s nostalgia, they threw into the hole: an old Hoover Assumpta had promised to fix six years ago; photo albums of before they met, showing small happinesses and vibrant skin; Arthur’s cobwebbed Amiga 500, with its legion of pirated 3.5” disks; their spiteful, long-dead cat Pauline’s litter tray; Arthur’s mum’s Royal Doulton Endangered Species collection; and kilos and kilos of fabric meant to kickstart Assumpta’s bucolic maker career before they lost the baby and she stayed as a lawyer because she needed to know she was good at something.
‘It’s definitely getting smaller,’ said Arthur the next day. And Assumpta, at first thinking Arthur was doing his usual pandering to optimism thing, saw he was right.
As did Jonty, who returned later that afternoon, appearing somehow between sips of Sunday Chablis and looking into the hole as if it were dispensing secrets.
‘It’s smaller,’ he said, as Assumpta went out to him. He was pressing fat fingers against fat cheeks, hamster crossed with mechanic by way of boater-hat boarding school. ‘Not just smaller, I think, but shrinking. Satisfied.’ And Assumpta gave in to optimism, too, and nodded and allowed herself to think things would be better for a while.
It was an optimism not at all dampened when Jonty told Assumpta he was finally running for local candidacy and Assumpta, wiry with muscles defined by lockdown YouTube Pilates videos and that looked like carpentry in the midday sun, pushed him in. A flash of eye-whites, a cartoon waving of arms and then a surrender to the inevitable so complete it felt like forgiveness and would repeat in Assumpta’s dreams for the rest of her life. Then gone.
When Arthur saw his wife become a murderer from the bathroom window he remembered promises to her of planting flowers and making frantic roast dinners while tripping over a pair of rescue cats who hate each other and he decided that such a life — as illusory and inchoate as it surely would be — must start now, or forever hold its peace.
Image by Nikki Dawson from Pixabay – a sinkhole in a grassy patch.
literally stories 
The characters in this odd, comic, but with a serious point, story are superb. The metaphor in here about feeding the hole and getting rid of unnecessities works really well and the effect it has on this quirky and eccentric couple is brilliant. I love the unexpected ending as well as Assumpta gets rid of one last ‘thing’ that’s bothering her.
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Ben
Wasted time and life create holes. And although one should not agree with her methods, Assumpta is proactive. The final paragraph is as good as they get.
Leila
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Excellent word play in this odd little piece. It carries a couple of subtle messages, I think, or maybe more correctly ‘warnings’. The characters are interesting and quirky and altogether it’s a fun read. I enjoyed this thank you – dd
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Hi Ben,
The hole was getting smaller when they filled it with the immaterial. That works very well! I’m sure it will have shrunk after she pushed the guy in!!
I think it caused them to re-connect due to them clearing out what they didn’t need and that probably says a lot about relationships.
This was clever and I’m sure it is one of those stories where the reader would find more meaning each time they go back to it.
All the very best my fine friend.
Hugh
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Wonderful comic writing. Surely, I’ll never forget ‘Arthur’s mum’s Royal Doulton Endangered Species collection.’ Bravo. And dd found a sinkhole for the header.
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I relate in two ways. Minutes before reading this I made tea for us after editor made breakfast. Same motivation?
“King Arnold” is my version of the the King Arthur legend set in modern times. Available to the right publisher (right=someone who will take it) first shown in Freedom Fiction.
Love is a strong word, so I’ll just say I liked it a lot. The idea of a King Arthur coming back to save in England when needed is so cool, we could use one on this side of the Atlantic, but instead we get – no need to finish that thought.
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Hi Doug, my interesting friend!!
I had to dive in here just to explain something about us Scottish folks…’Love’ is easy to say…
…Depending!!!!
I love certain films, books, food, Bacardi (It was my first love. Gwen accepted this after about thirty years together!!) music, biscuits, memories etc.
But we have a helluva problem saying it to each other. Fuck knows why?? My dad lay dying and all we could do was nod to each other. Folks would think that horrific but if those words were said we would have sullied what we knew.
My sis says it a lot but it still, to me feels wrong. It’s like the weather presenter who tells you that it’s raining. Stick your head outside and you will fucking know that is what is happening, it’s obvious!!
I think that’s my point!!!
You are right, it is a strong word when used correctly. But regarding emotion, that doesn’t always happen. So to me, you are better with a nod!!!
All the very best my individual friend.
Hugh.
(I think that is the first time ever that I have explained myself…Need a bottle of Bacardi now!!!!!)
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Checked – a friend recommended Glennfiddich (sp) as being good but not expensive. My love list begins and ends with editor. She has improved me and kept me alive for 54 years, but don’t tell her that, she knows it.
“I love you” is listed as one of the hardest things to say along with “I was wrong” and “I need help”. I can say all of those things.
Keep on rocking.
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Hi Doug – send the link please. I love King Arthur stories and would love to read your take.
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https://www.freedomfiction.com/2024/10/king-arnold-by-doug-hawley/
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I thought I’d sent this earlier. https://www.freedomfiction.com/2024/10/king-arnold-by-doug-hawley/
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Greetings Doug! And hi!
You have a subtle, and extremely intelligent, way of analyzing language, which is also thought-provoking, so I wanted to chime in here a little bit…
As Willie said, “Cowboys ain’t easy to love / and they’re harder to hold. / They’d rather give you a song than diamonds or gold. / Lonestar belt buckles and old faded Levis and each night begins a new day. / If you don’t understand him and he don’t die young, he’ll prob’ly just ride away.”
Your vital comment/ary upon the word “love” made me ponder on its usage and non-usage, and I came to the conclusion that thinking about words in this way is something which I DO, truly, “love” doing, so thanks!
Pretty sure I do love other things too, like puppies, kittens, sunrise, open places without any people, a good meal, etc. (having lost my appetite so many times in a sometimes-sickening world…)
You’re exactly correct, the word “love” (and so many others) has/have been tragically drained of their meanings in the modern world of sell, sell, sell, buy, buy, buy, where the world elevates the Biggest Bullshit Salesman of All Time to the most powerful position (including the free usage of the nuclear codes) in the world…(I think the bastardization of the Word really got going with the invention of the printing press, and unbeknownst to most of the world, it’s truly one of the biggest problems the human race has created for itself of ALL time…)
I can also add that our once and future president is one of the worst writers and speech-makers in all of history, one of the greatest, most monstrous LANGUAGE ABUSERS this world has ever seen, or probably ever will see. Both his continuous, nonstop postings on “Truth Social” in the middle of the night which he writes himself (dozens upon dozens in one night sometimes, and one can tell he writes them himself because he does have his own (terrible, horrible) style of writing, if nothing else), and his endless, mad, manic speeches that he gives to the confused and deluded populace display a subtle, satanic abuse of language that truly justifies the word “satanic” even if one doesn’t “believe” in the REAL Satan…which I sometimes wonder about…maybe he’s coming back from somewhere else now to see what damage he’s been able to wreck, like Revelations tells us…or are we just doing it to ourselves?. (Some of these Republicans really do look like the Devil if one analyzes their photographs, like Rudy, Matt, and Pete…and maybe a few Democrats too.)
I’ve thought about “they” in its singular form, too, and I’ve come to the conclusion (and I could be wrong because I’ve already been wrong about fifty times today) that this is/will be the new way of doing things in the English language going forward…I think it happened because the young folks are sick of the old boundaries and I don’t think there will ever be a way of going back on this now…Freud, among others, started to point out that we all have female and male inside us to a greater or lesser degree depending upon who we are (and boy did they give him shit for it), and when considered in that light, especially if you don’t know who the person really is, etc, “they” seems OK to me. One thing I do know for sure, this is the way anyone born after the year 2000 speaks and writes “they” without even thinking about it any more…
Another thing I truly enjoy about your commentary is its ecological consciousness/awareness, not to mention the way you use brevity, and your complete originality; you never say a boring thing in a boring way…tell “Editor” I said hi; and please keep on analyzing language when it occurs, because it’s good for all of us!…Thanks.
Dale
PS, Another reason LS is a great site is because people on it are using, or trying to use, language as an honest art form, not abusing it for personal profit and gain (which doesn’t always include money but usually comes back to that one way or another)…
Like Willie said, cowboys would rather give you a song than diamonds or gold! Even though he himself is famous for giving away more of his money than he keeps!!!!!!…..
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Ben
I was super-impressed with the CHARACTERS and the characterization in this story. They all seemed REAL (in a fictional way), both typical or recognizable on one level, and unusual and idiosyncratic on another level at the same time, just like humans do in the “real world.” The small details in this story went a long way. The everyday setting, combined with the mystery of the hole, was a good combination of story-telling defamiliarization: making the ordinary seem strange, and-or the strange seem ordinary. The way this piece alternated between private human moments and public human moments, like dealing with a repair person or the town drunk, then bathroom habits and sexual behavior, was also “realistic” and deeply human in a true, fictional way. An attentive reader can definitely tell that this piece was created by a careful and original artist of the word. Congrads!
Dale
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Ben
You could read each sentence over and over, flipping the words and allusions around for new views that would change the story very little, if at all. It took great restraint for me not to jump into the story myself. Maybe push Assumpta into the hole. But I figured Arthur would do that later. Or not. I read it one last time and she threw me down the rabbit hole. What a trip. — Gerry
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Playfully dark. The hole metaphor works well. A fascinating exploration of a deteriorating relationship. I’ll have to remember that bit about the value of doing unasked-for easy things.
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A weirdly wonderful start to the week with surprisingly relatable characters and engagingly written – thanks for this!
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Hi Doug,
I love (See what I did there!!!!) the relationship that you mention regarding you and ‘The Editor’!!!
All my very best to the two of you.
Hugh
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Thanks so much for reading, everyone — and for sharing such well-considered thoughts that have made me think again as to what this piece is about. Glad it resonated.
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Great title and very creative detailed description and narration. The description of Jonty at the beginning is priceless he he! I liked the whole bit about Assumpta and Arthur and the hole they throw their stuff in, including Jonty at the end, I found this very entertaining, original, and a pleasure to read.
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