Bob At Home

Robert counts five rings before picking up. “This is Robert Whiteside.”

An unfamiliar voice greets him. “Good morning Mr Whiteside, and how are you today?”

Robert considers the question, searches for flavour in the voice, but finds none. “I have to feed the cat.”

Undeterred, the caller invites Robert to imagine how much better life would be if he were to have replacement windows. Taking a moment to examine his current glazing and, facing a conversation of uncertain destination, Robert gently replaces the receiver.

In the kitchen, he carefully cleans a small ceramic bowl and measures out seven spoons of cat food from a freshly opened tin. Setting the bowl down on a brightly coloured plastic mat, he checks the time and returns to his front room to take up position at the window. Owen the fisherman will be passing soon on his way to the boat; this may be the day he brings his tax return, and Robert prepares himself to answer the door.

On the window ledge is a framed photograph of an elderly man and woman, staring awkwardly as if, in the moment of capture, the camera’s shutter had frozen them in some unnatural act. In the foreground, a young boy with thick rimmed glasses and unruly hair cradles a dozing white cat.

Robert’s fingertip brushes against the image: Sleep tight, Thomas. You’ll have let your food go stale again.

A flash of colour and Owen rounds the corner, walking with purpose into the wind and rain. Robert holds his breath as Owen looks towards the house but, without hesitating, strides on. Robert exhales, misting the inside of the window, while heavy raindrops smack at the outside.

Looking through the glass, he can see the effects of the weather—flailing umbrellas, flapping raincoats—but no attendant sound reaches him.

Robert and the outside world, divided by the double glazing’s silent void.


Peter Drobinski

Bob The Books

With watchmaker’s precision, Robert inscribes an inverted ‘V’ against the final figure on the bank statement, rules a red line beneath it to mark the month’s end. The bank account, adjusted to allow for cheques still uncleared, agrees with his total in the café’s cash book; reconciled to the penny, the weights of debit and credit in perfect balance. Robert Whiteside, negotiator of numbers, reconciler of differences, returns the ledger to its shelf in the windowless back room with a quiet reverence.

Now his mind is free of the accounts, noises from outside begin to find their way to him. Human voices and mechanical maneouvres; the random chaos of the café. Chelsee will be hot and bothered, boiling with endeavour.

It’s time to go home. Robert feels the first small waves of panic lap against his temples; a coolness above his upper lip. He forces himself to control his breathing as he clasps his hands around the door handle. A short walk, that’s all it is.

Three, two, one…

Zero.

Robert snatches the door open and steps into the disordered stew of clientele. If he keeps his glance aimed straight ahead he has a chance of escaping without incident. And yet disorder claws at the periphery of his vision: the new woman by the radiator, her car with the number plate not in the middle of the bumper: he’d seen it outside the B&B and couldn’t walk past it. The other two with their shrieky voices and cloying scents; Chelsee, distracted again.

“Bye, Bob,” reaches him as he finds the door. “See you tomorrow.”

He’s outside, head down, counting the paving stones.

One, two, three…

A cacophony of gulls swooping above him, swirling with the wind, clamouring for the attention he refuses to give.

…nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

His key in the lock, unlatching, pushing open the door; and then turning, shouldering it shut against the chaos. Closing his eyes and feeling the calm order of his home cocoon him once more.

The cat will need feeding. Seven spoonsful.


Peter Drobinski