It was dead. Front paw hanging limply off the edge of its plastic wheel. It’d loved that bloody wheel, Stuart had heard him rattling away on it at night often enough. Perhaps its tiny heart had given out, fused like the bulbs in the hall.
Stuart sat down heavily on the sofa, wishing he had a cigarette. He wondered how Steph would react. Of course she would be furious. She was always angry with him lately. There was always something he was supposed to have done, or not done. Perhaps she would go back to normal if they had a holiday. They used to really enjoy one another when they got away.
After all, hadn’t he defended her to his mother, years ago? Told her, as her teacup shook against its saucer, exactly what was special about Stephy. It was just taking him a while now, to remember what it was he had said back then, how he had been so certain. Perhaps that was all just part of growing up, the slow creeping of uncertainty, like a layer of dust over a house.
He looked up at the clock; he had an hour or so before she was due back. He had always hated that clock, it was a present from Steph’s dad, and had this fuzzy cuckoo which used to pop out on the hour. For nights Stuart had lain awake in bed, waiting to hear its shrill “Cuckoo”. Just the idea of it, animated through the small hours, was enough to keep him from sleep. After a particularly spiteful row, he had snapped the bird from its spring mechanism, and left it on top of the biscuit tin. When they had made up, he had tried to glue it back on. It had wobbled drunkenly in its wooden doorway, and eventually stopped appearing at all. His sleep had returned to normal, until she had bought the hamster.
He had come home from work to find the cage on the table,
‘Hun, what’s this?’ He could heard her singing echoing in the shower, and prodded the yellow plastic house through the bars. The whole cage smelt of piss, he carried it out of the kitchen and left it on the living room floor. Steph had come down, her dark, wet hair sticking in strands to her neck.
‘His name’s Hugo. Isn’t he cute? Gemma’s hamster had babies, and I thought we could keep one.’
‘Nice of you to mention it to me.’
‘I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s hardly going to affect you, is it?’
The discussion was clearly over. She had never understood why Stuart had taken against the hamster, and in truth, neither did he really. But he resented its noises, its smells, and its ratty face.
It was unlikely she would believe its death to be an accident. She had expected him to look after it while she was at her mum’s, and to water all those bloody pot plants. They were the only couple he knew who had a plant crowning the toilet. He hated how anxious they made him, the slightest brown curl of leaf. At least he had quashed the dog plan, it was a shame they had fought about it, he hated seeing her cry, but enough was enough. He was only twenty-eight, and still wanted to go to Peru, and get so drunk he threw up, and maybe even go to uni. This house wasn’t his future, it was just a temporary base, and he had thought that since they moved in. Until recently he’d thought that she agreed with him, they always used to pick up travel guides and spend hours on the floor with them spread out on the carpet. One Monday, however, he had noticed the recycling bin stuffed full of holiday brochures, and a new pot plant on the kitchen sill.
While Steph was away, he’d spent most of the weekend pissed, mates in and out of the house, just like the old days at the flat. Before they arrived, the hamster had poked its head out of its house, its cheeks bulging with seeds, staring at Stuart with black eyes. He had put the cage in the bath tub, the curtain drawn around it, and taken out the wheel to prevent echoes. Within the hour, four of the lads were on his leather sofa. Stuart appeared from the kitchen, cradling a six-pack tenderly. The Everton match blurred blue on the TV.
‘Missus let you have the weekend off then, did she, Stu?’ Keith looked up over his can at him, with eyes dark and judging as the rodent’s.
Steph turned the corner onto their road, her suitcase getting wet leaves stuck in its wheels. She felt breathless, and slightly queasy. She usually got a taxi from Lime Street, but she was too jittery to sit still. She could already hear her key in the lock, taste Stuart’s kisses on her mouth, perhaps he would have bought her flowers. She wondered what food he’d have got in, whether there would be wine in the fridge. Of course, it’d be a while before she could drink wine again. Or eat shellfish, but she wasn’t mad on them anyway. She couldn’t wait to tell him, it would make everything real, he could listen for the heartbeat in her stomach, although it was too early for all that yet. Ever since she’d locked herself in her mum’s bathroom, with the bag full of tests, he’d been all she could think about. Imagining his eyes soften as she told him, his wonky grin. She hoped that the baby would have that same, honest smile.
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