Where's the wife?

Tuesday, February 3 ‘09

A year ago Mrs Bennet had very strongly suggested to Mr Bennet that if he wanted a wife at the end of the proposed building project, he had better consider moving out. To his credit, he did consider. To her dismay, he then reconsidered. So being the good wife she was, she agreed to live through it. But now, four months after work had started, Mrs Bennet wondered whether she really was a good wife and questioned where the wife had in fact gone? She no longer recognised herself. She had a strange tinge of grey about her, which, if you touched her was so tangible, it rubbed off. Mrs Bennet had surreptitiously turned into the duster. It was the house’s pay-back time – revenge for all the years she had failed to clear, duster or remove its cobwebs. The Bennet duster was huddled next to a small halogen heater, which radiated light and heat, subsequently melting any ice in its wake. As the Darcys in the Dirt had now broken through in two places: in the hallway as well as the landing, it meant the unheated brand new half of bite-size Pemberley stole the heat of its older half, at a time when Britain was experiencing its worst winter for 18 years. Mrs Bennet didn’t do cold well. She couldn’t function, think or concentrate. She drank far too much tea on these occasions and no matter how many layers she wore, she couldn’t get warm. She took great delight in robbing Mr Bennet of his body heat with her icepack feet. It was his punishment for not allowing her to move out. Of course the older three Miss Bennets were oblivious of mess and disorder; their twin siblings just relished the attention from the growing breed of Darcys in the Dirt and Mr Bennet had left the building before work started and returned when work had finished. So why should any of them complain? Thankfully the duster had a sense of humour. But it was getting drier. The wit was edging towards sarcasm and she didn’t like it. The day was drawing near when she’d have to pack the kitchen away as well. Today Mrs Bennet, feeling and acting like a whinge-bucket, had snapped at the children and had felt even worse for doing so. Then she apologised and spent the rest of the evening undoing what damage she may have done. Perhaps there was one consolation. Having never been very religious about dusting, she felt no obligation to start now when the house was at its worse.“My dear Mr Bennet, I promise to duster every day for the rest of our married life, so long as I don’t have to live through another building project!” she informed her warm-blooded-who-never-feels-the-cold-husband.“Are you renewing your wedding vows? Because I’ll need a witness for this,” he remarked. The duster hit him, covering him in a shower of grey soot.