Home Truths by Freya North Page B

them and laughs hysterically. Somany places to sit, so much time. Too much time. She decides the scatter cushions look ridiculous and they should live up to their name so she chucks them around the sofas until she feels they've found their natural grouping. Still she doesn't fancy sitting there. She gazes at Bob's chair and her laughter is stilled by a sigh that seems to start in the pit of her gut and expels every molecule of breath in her body.
    ‘You know, I always thought you were ugly and nothing but,’ she says. ‘I mean, my cooker may be ugly but I like it. But you, you I never liked. If I'd had my way I'd've sent you back just as soon as you arrived.’ She looks out of the window. More snow. ‘Think what I could've had here without you taking up all the space. You're the ugliest chair in the world. With some things, you can appreciate that form simply follows function. My summer sandals for example. If they were pretty I'll bet you they wouldn't be comfortable. But look at you – You're ugly and you don't even look like you'd be comfortable.’
    There's someone at the door. A rattle of friendly knocks followed by a ring of the bell.
    ‘Penny? Penny honey – you home?’
    It's Marcia and She's gonna let herself in anyway.
    ‘Pen? It's me. I've brought soup. Snow's said to be bad tomorrow. You in here?’
    ‘In here ,’ Penny's voice filters through to the kitchen where Marcia has put the soup on the stove. She goes through to the sitting-room to find Penny.
    ‘Hey you.’
    ‘Hullo, Marcia.’
    ‘You sitting in the dark on the coffee table for a reason? You want me to get some lights on in here?’
    ‘Sure. I didn't see It's gotten dark. I've been sitting here, Lord knows how long, cussing Bob's chair.’
    ‘Cussing Bob's chair,’ Marcia says sagely. ‘Well, you never did like that thing.’
    ‘If the first sign of madness is talking to oneself, then talking to a chair must make me insane. But hell, It's ugly.’
    ‘Ah – but is it comfortable?’
    Suddenly Penny finds She's laughing again. Marcia seems taken aback. ‘You know something, I don't know! I never even sat on it! I never tried!’
    Marcia's eyebrows, tweezered into supercilious arches, shoot heavenwards. ‘In thirty years, you never sat on it once ?’
    ‘Not once.’
    The notion is simultaneously idiotic and rather amazing. ‘Was that out of pure stubbornness?’
    ‘A little,’ Penny smiles forlornly, ‘but then you see, Bob was usually sitting there himself.’
    Marcia sits down alongside Penny and places a hand gently on her arm. They gaze over to the chair, both trying to privately conjure Bob – any image of him, at any point over the years – sitting in his chair. Marcia finds she can do so with ease; for Penny It's impossible.
    When is his face going to come back to me? Why can't I remember how tall he was? Which way did he position his legs when he sat in that chair?
    ‘Did you ever see Bob sit anyplace other?’ Penny remarks wistfully.
    ‘You know what,’ Marcia marvels gently, ‘no I did not.’
    ‘For thirty years I've been complaining about it – I told Bob over and again that it was a clumpy, ugly thing, out of keeping with all our other furniture. But he wouldn't consider looking at an alternative. He'd sit there, relaxed as you like, while I cussed.’ Penny gives just a little laugh. ‘I can throw it out now,’ she says, with dull triumph, ‘I can dump it outside. I can have it chopped up for the fire.’
    ‘Oh don't chop it up, my dear,’ Marcia takes Penny at her word. ‘Perhaps the refuge – they might find a good home for it?’
    ‘Perhaps,’ says Penny. Then she frowns. ‘You know something, crazy as it sounds, I couldn't bear to. All these years I've been hating it. But just now, this instant, I love it. It's just where It's always been. And here it shall stay. I'll give it a good home – right here. How insane is that?’
    ‘Honey, are you doing OK?’ Marcia asks tenderly, giving Penny's