misheard

This is the first story I have posted that Gail has said she absolutely hates.  I don't hate it  so I'm posting it but I will probably write another to theme.

Miss Herd

It was a sweet thatched and lead glazed cottage, picket fenced and nudging the village green.     Sylvia and George had fallen in love with it the minute they drove through the iron gates of Lady Monde’s estate.  There were the usual delays and frustrations but within weeks the house was theirs and they started to do the repairs any old building needs.  

The villagers were welcoming to the new arrivals and approved that George was beautifying the exterior of the old cottage as the first stage of his renovations.   By way of its sumptuous thatch and fresh paint the cottage was again a key aesthetic to enhance one's stroll on the village green. 

George did fancy himself as a capable sort of fellow and undertook the job of stripping the internal walls and ceilings and removing the old kitchen and bathroom.  He had discovered it was best to wear a glove to pull at rubble while a bare hand was best to feel the weakness or solidity of the plaster.  To this one glove affectation Sylvia had sung him the Robert Palmer classic ‘you might as well face it you’re a dick with a glove.’ They’d chuckled at the old joke, Sylvia often got songs wrong and this was a classic George had corrected, embarrassingly, when they had first met.

The strip-out was turning into a much larger job than George had anticipated.  Areas he had thought fairly sound had turned into whole rooms of dust filled demolition.  His mood often failed and Sylvia’s cheery singing was a strange relief when ever she bought him a tea.  He smiled as she approached this time, he could hear her singing that ‘the ants are my friend, they're blowing in the wind’, that Dylan classic from the 60’s.
‘Hiya hon,’ George grinned at her and wiped the dust from his eyes. ‘You do know that you're singing your words to that song again don’t you?’
'Yeah, probably. ... When are you going to be through making this mess? The builder just rang me asking for start dates’. 
George sat on a pile of broken plaster and looked around his disaster. ‘You know, I don't think we can afford him to fix all of this.’
‘It’ll be okay, hon.’  Sylvia had no idea how it would be all okay but things had always had a way of working out. ‘You’re just spending your every spare moment in this muck, … what you need is a little break’
‘Yeah, maybe, but this won’t move itself into the skip’
‘Well, I can help, but you need a rest, let’s take a walk into town.’
George sipped his tea, stared at the rubble, the cracked plaster still clinging to the walls and decided a short walk in the fresh air may just be the best thing.

A typical day in Monde’s town is quiet at the best of times but on a Sunday the street is deserted, the shops that do open for the morning all close well before noon.  The high street was empty and they spent time looking through the general store window, at the charity shop's display and reading house prices in the local real estate agent.  Turning the corner they strolled beside the original facade of the bank, redundant now.  A modern glass entry on the new High Street provided the required security entrance now.  George liked these huge old carved doors which still hung proud but were only retained as a fire exit.  He stepped up off the pavement to run his hands over the fine carving and sadly pitted brass-work.  To his surprise the heavy doors gave to his touch. ‘Hey, look! Frank has forgotten to lock the back door!’    
‘Well just pull it shut then.’
George peered inside, the internal doors were also ajar.. He called out ‘Hello? You in here Frank?’ then turning to the street ‘Every door inside the place is open Syl, I’m going in to have a quick look.’

‘Just shut the door George, I’ll ring up and report it.'

‘Yeah, okay, you call Frank but I’m going in to check and make sure no one’s hurt in here.’ He pushed open the inner glass door and walked into the old marble lobby.  It was deathly quiet inside this old building.  Ornate brass-edged glass cages surrounded the four teller counters and George noted their security doors were open as well.  Behind the counters, the clerk’s desks and manager’s office were clear of any papers but every drawer and filing cabinet was open.  Strange, George thought, this isn't a robbery scene, there’s nothing strewn about, everything neat and tidy, but open.  Maybe this was how the bank was always left after closing time.

In the low light his eyes became dry and he rubbed some grit from their edges and at the same time George began to feel strange,  like something  was stealing the wetness from his mouth. ‘Hey, Syl. there's a weird smell in here, no-one's about and everything is open.   

‘Yeah, well leave it all alone and come out will you? ‘

‘I think the dust has finally got to me, I’m as dry as a nun.  Just going to find a drink of water.’ 

‘Okay, Hon. ‘there’s a bathroom on the right’ she sang the old Credence tune through the open door.  George would have laughed but he was feeling light headed as he set off to the tap.

Sylvia’s phone rang just as she was about to put her head inside and call out to George.  He had been taking a while to drink. ‘Hi Sylvia, Frank here, I got your message, the pest guys must have forgotten to lock it and put the sign up on the back door when they finished.  Make sure you stay away, we are fumigating the place, it’ll be super toxic in there…..’

Sylvia’s  scream was heard throughout the town and the fumigators packing up their gear at the main entrance to the bank were the first to get to her.  Donning their hazmat suits they saw George slumped beneath the hand basin, water running from the tap.  

                                                                        ~~

It was a pleasant sunlit afternoon when they retrieved his body and laid him on the green..  Sylvia's sobbing form was buried into George's chest, the scene of dismay disrupting the view of the picturesque thatched cottage with its dusty leaded windows.

                                                                      ~~~~

(okay, notes for the uninitiated; a Mondegreen is a word coined about 140 years ago by Sylvia Wright who misheard a poem's line which was written.... and they 'laid him on the green'.  She heard 'Lady Mondegreen' and memorised the poem as such. For the curious amongst you, google it. 
My favourite mondegreen is the tenth of Santas reindeer, Olive.  As in ... 'Olive, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names')