The Sting

Once upon a time – for isn’t that how stories begin? – I was married to a very rich man.

He desired me from the moment he saw me – when I was waitressing at a party thrown by the Mayor, preening that he was the one who inaugurated the Playing Field, and not his predecessor, who had started the ball rolling by sussing out the site, getting the necessary permits, and pulling strings.

Anyway, he got my phone number from the owner of the company I used to work for (because when I started dating him, he told me it would be infra dig – for him! – for me to work), and he called me. I assumed it was my brother-in-law, playing one of his elaborate pranks. But when he recounted what had happened at the party, including who was present, and what he had whispered in my ear, I believed him.

I’d had to scrimp and save all my life; the idea of being wealthy beyond dreams of avarice, attracted me. But when we got married, I discovered that money does not buy happiness. I had everything I wanted, and more, indeed – except for freedom. He checked my telephone logs, my Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, and Instagram accounts… and grumbled if meals were not on time, or not to his liking. At first, he nit-picked good-naturedly… but after some months the carping, sarcasm and hurtful words became as near enough constant as did not matter.

I got fed up. Fed up to the back teeth, and even farther back than that! I hate doing housework, and there is a limit to the amount of insipid soap operas one can watch. I preferred to read, anyway; the ladies at the Charity Shop would have a bag of books ready and waiting for me, whenever I turned up. They even put a black dot inside the back cover, so that they would not give me books I’d already have read.

Once, they gave me a set by Terry Pratchett [Discworld] and another by Rick Riordan [Percy]; I was instantly addicted. That morning, I just curled up in bed, and devoured the books. I didn’t even wash or eat, let alone cook. I only realised it was 6.00p.m. when the street-lights came on. Oops-a-daisy! I had just an hour and a half to conjure up lunch and do chores and make myself presentable.

I put a kettle of water to boil, and, meanwhile rinsed out two chicken legs out of the freezer, in water with lemon juice. I put frozen onions in a pot, a pork stock cube, the chicken, and two carrots. Meanwhile the water had boiled, and I poured it into the pot, and put it on the burner on high. I opened a can of green beans, tossed them with garlic, and put them in a bowl. I cut up a few tomatoes and onions, and put them in a matching bowl with black and green olives and capers, garnishing them with parsley.  

I wrapped a floor-cloth around the squeegee, and went over the corridor and hallway. I turned on the fans, so the floor would dry quickly. I showered, spritzed on some scent, and changed into clean clothes. I cut some flowers from the greenhouse, to decorate the table. I went down to the basement to fetch a bottle of wine, and noticed that there was a wasps’ nest. Something in my brain clicked. In the meantime, the chicken broth had cooked to perfection, so I put a handful of pastina in it, let it come to the boil again, and switched off the stove. I turned off the fans, and sat down with a book, feigning the homely housewife attitude.

The following day was a Friday. When my husband left for work, I changed the sheets, and put the used ones in the wash. I poured some honey into a garbage bag, and went down to the basement. I dragged the table under the wasps’ nest, and put a chair on it. I could reach the nest comfortably, without stretching, so I carefully placed the edge of the bag around it, and began prising it off the ceiling. The wasps went crazy – but when they smelled the honey, they quietened down. Holding the bag tightly closed with one hand, I got down and put everything back in place again. I went to the greenhouse, and carefully, I placed the garbage bag behind the door, let go, and promptly closed the door so that when they come out of the bag, they would not attack me.

A few minutes later, I opened the door just a crack, and eased the garbage bag out. I hid it in a paper bag, and discarded it in a bin on the other side of the village.

On Saturdays, my husband would spend the morning in the greenhouse, and I would go to the Delicatessen at the Supermarket. When he left the house, so did I. The woman behind me in the queue asked whether she could go next, as she only needed two things. I shrugged; it was a good way as any to while away the time. On my way home, I saw one of my neighbours running toward me, gasping, come… husband… ambulance… hospital.

My original plan had been to get home, and call my husband from the intercom to ask whether he wanted fresh orange juice, so I could find out what happened. This was so much better.

I grabbed her by the arm, told her to calm down, and asked her to tell me what had happened. She told me she was hanging out the clothes on the roof, and heard screams and the sound of breaking glass. She looked down, and saw my husband swaying about in the middle of the street, calling for help. Meanwhile, someone called for an ambulance. My husband had whispered my name and “supermarket”.

Apparently, since the attack on my husband happened in an enclosed space, the wasps turned on him all at once. The death certificate states that he died of a heart attack after an anaphylactic shock; a reaction to the stings of the wasps.