The Anarchist. Tristan Hawkins

to do.

      Sheridan watched the slow dilution of the city from an empty first-class carriage. Some flowers and an early edition of the Evening Standard rested in the adjacent seat. And it had to be said, for the first time since he could remember, Sheridan Entwhistle would have conceded that he was a happy man.

      That afternoon his thoughts and memories were interacting in a way that he considered somewhat peculiar. Then again, perhaps not. For it wasn’t unhappiness that he experienced when he entered his mother’s bedroom that morning twenty-four years ago and discovered that … well, she’d stopped working.

      Mrs Entwhistle was smiling and Sheridan smiled back.

      He bade her good morning and lowered her tea onto the bedside cabinet. He gave her shoulder a gentle rousing nudge and she rocked slightly, as if she’d tensed her muscles, and continued her smiling.

      Sheridan rubbed a sentimental knuckle across the cold, crushed tissue of her cheek and still smiling said, ‘Bye then, Mum.’ Then he made the phone call.

      It hadn’t been spoken about but it was more or less agreed that, when the time came, Sheridan and Jennifer would get married. After all, they had regular intercourse, exchanged I love yous, and quite frankly Sheridan would have been lost without a woman in his house.

      But when, in the Tudor Rose restaurant, Edingley, Jennifer took a small sip of her wine, smiled and said, ‘Sherry, I don’t think I’m ready yet,’ Sheridan nearly choked on his lamb cutlet. He snapped the ring box shut, submerged it in his pocket and carried on eating.

      ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said through his scorching face.

      ‘But, Sherry. I wouldn’t be adverse to us living together.’

      ‘Living together!’ he couldn’t help but exclaim.

      ‘Sherry, it’s 1970. Lots of couples are doing it. It’s a really trendy thing to do.’

      ‘Trendy!’ murmured Sheridan Entwhistle, straightening his tie. ‘Trendy. Well now.’

      Then he pictured it. Nonchalantly letting it slip at work. The perfect counter to his bald head had to be inviting a select few for exotic cocktails in one of the big new pine and glass pads in Edingley Hills Close.

      ‘Somewhere really modern?’ he asked, his eyes widening. She nodded frantically. ‘Really 1970s?’ She continued nodding.

      ‘Orange carpet?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Purple suite?’

      ‘No, Sherry, polka-dot beanbags. And one of those globby wax light things.’

      ‘Ahhh, Jennifer, Jennifer. You can get them. You can get them. I saw one on the goggle-box. A cocktail bar that fits into the wall and you pull it down for parties.’

      ‘Parties. Sophisticated parties. With quiche Lorraine and pasta.’

      ‘I can’t see why not. Pasta, eh?’

      ‘And piña coladas.’

      ‘Right.’ Piña coladas and quiche Lorraine. That would show his Double Diamond and Mackeson-swilling staff.

      Sheridan was grinning as he tucked the flowers and paper under his arm and dug for his key. He entered the hall and cheerfully announced his presence. Yet Jennifer did not greet him with the enthusiasm he’d expected.

      ‘What’s wrong, Sherry,’ she asked warily, automatically reaching for the kettle.

      ‘Absolutely nothing, my dear. On the contrary, everything is just splendid.’

      ‘So what are you doing home?’

      He handed her the flowers. She eyed them suspiciously.

      ‘You gave me flowers on Friday, Sherry. What are these for?’

      ‘To say … you know … I suppose I might quite like you – or something to that effect.’

      She cleared her throat.

      ‘I see,’ she said, looking at the kitchen floor.

      ‘Jennifer.’

      ‘What?’

      He walked up to her.

      ‘Come upstairs.’

      ‘Why, Sherry?’

      ‘Because I’ve come home to … to, well, make love to you.’

      ‘Oh no you have not. I’ve got tons, simply tons, to do.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Cleaning, cooking. You know. That sort of thing.’

      ‘My darling, it can wait.’

      ‘Oh no. Oh no, Sherry. Certainly not. Besides, the Unspeakably Behaved could come back on one of her revision periods. No, no. You sit down and have a cup of tea.’

      ‘Ah, that tried and tested method of contraception. One of Jennifer Entwhistle’s cups of tea.’ He wrapped an arm around her middle and kissed her cheek. She didn’t resist. Nor did she succumb.

      ‘Sherry,’ she said calmly. ‘It really is out of the question. In the first instance we’d have to draw the curtains. It would be like raising a flag for the residents. Besides …’