Higher – Script 3
Writing Exemplification – October/November 2010
Level: Higher
Genre: Creative
Diminished Responsibility
A brisk wind ran its fingers through the tall hemlock down by the riverbank, causing it to sway perilously. She sighed as she looked out of the window. The garden was neat and orderly, as was the house – she made sure of that. The little gate at the end of the lawn rattled in the wind, and she noticed the dustbin lid had been blown off. She must see to that. It was 8:15, and Catherine was tidying away the dishes of a breakfast in which they had shared petty formalities, and the marmalade.
The day had started like any other. At eight o’clock he would fetch his car keys from the sideboard, curtly kiss her on the left cheek, and shut the front door behind him with a force that caused the little gold letterbox to shake. She would listen for the sound of crunching gravel as he reversed the company car out of the driveway, and then proceed with her day: duly carrying out the mundanities that made up her life.
It hadn’t always been like this. At twenty-one, Catherine had been swept off her feet by his good looks, charisma and confidence; he being ten years her senior. Much to her parents’ disapproval, they married shortly after, and the two of them moved out of the maelstrom of crowds that was London, to raise two boys of their own. She settled into village life well: school events, village fetes, and always being there. She seemed to be the perfect mother and wife. But inwardly, Catherine had always yearned to do something more.
No one suspected things were so bad – not even the boys, who had both flown the nest some years ago. Instead, Catherine was left to struggle with the albatross around her neck; that of drudgery, and unfulfilled dreams. And hatred.
Him.
Work was a passion of his. He aspired to attain a position of power in business, and, as a result, she had found herself entertaining corpulent bosses who sported dainty wives; affluence personified. She resented him for putting her through such evenings – they would sneer when she said she hadn’t a career, and stayed at home. Catherine wasn’t like the wives of the other businessmen: she was aging, plain. But these fresh, young twentysomethings adorned their unprepossessing husbands – husbands whose sole attractive feature was his wallet. But in time these women would be traded in, replaced with a newer model when the men desired sexier pastures. She had seen him gaze longingly at these luscious women, desiring one himself. She was not oblivious to what he got up to. Many nights he had returned from work, somewhat later than usual, armed with the claims of a new client. But the palpable reek of cigar smoke and lingering perfume told otherwise.
At 8:25 Catherine walked up stairs to their bedroom, where she straightened out the sheets of that frosty marital bed. He wouldn’t touch her anymore. He wouldn’t even look at her. Turning his back, the only thing to pass between them was a stiff “Good night”. For the second time that morning she sighed, and carefully placed the thick duvet over the bed, before bustling back downstairs. She took the hoover once around the house, encountering trouble while trying to haul it up the stairs. She was getting older; more weary. As she was hoovering behind the bed, a distraction arrived in the form of the telephone. It was him: he was going to be late home from work again. Dragging the hoover downstairs, she decided it was time to head into the village.
Catherine donned her blue anorak and headed out the back door, locking it behind her. As she crossed the lawn, she felt the bitter wind slap her cheek, and lowered her head. The grass was wet from last night’s rain, and the water began to seep through the soles of her shoes, dampening her socks. She pushed the little gate open, its hinges squeaking in protest, and made her way down the two worn steps and onto the muddy track that ran alongside the river. The riverside used to be their retreat, in the younger days of marriage. Together they’d walk along this path, holding hands, and sit on a small wooden bench where, like teenagers, they had carved their initials. Catherine came across that bench now – it was tired, and covered in yellow lichen; their markings obscured by the pockmarked condition of the wood. A raven circled overhead, screeching loudly; its hoarse cry causing a flurry of movement among the trees. Catherine started, and hurried along the little pathway towards the village.
The trees were becoming more sparse, the drone of traffic louder, and not far ahead there were rooftops in sight. A little way on, the path ended, and she turned right along the road that led to the row of shops. Somewhere to the west a bell tolled, its chime resounding off the buildings. There were people around her now; hurrying about their own busy lives. Catherine shuffled into the small supermarket that perennially smelt of bleach, to collect milk, bread, and other sundries. She didn’t see anyone she knew; as had been the case for years. She had never really formed any friendships since moving here; he had always been great company. But now she was left with no-one; every face unfamiliar. Once she had done all she needed to in the village, Catherine trundled home; the heavy shopping bag in her left hand weighing her down, off-balance. The tall hemlock was dancing beside her, its delicate white flowers contrasting sharply with the dark green leaves. It started to rain. She turned left into the garden, splashed across the lawn, fumbled for her keys, and unlocked the back door, dropping the bag on the floor. She hung her damp coat on the back of the kitchen chair, and swung the door shut, then began to put the shopping away. Catherine made herself a meagre lunch, and nibbled it slowly. She put her cup and plate into the dishwasher, and walked towards the cupboard under the stairs, where the ironing board resided.
She paused in front of the hallway mirror and examined herself. Years of travail had taken their toll. She was sad, old and tired-looking. A lined face stared back at her: two eyes, which had once sparkled with life, now bore into her; cold, barren, remote. She couldn’t continue. She hated her life – trapped as the stoic spouse; the demure little wife. She had thought about leaving him, but had nowhere to go. Catherine had to be the one to end it. Turning towards the kitchen, she saw the way ahead …
She fingered the scissors in her pocket; the shiny, hard handle pressing cold against her skin. “It’s the only way,” she told herself. “The only way.” Her feet carried her towards the familiar wooden bench, and she sat herself down. A few metres in front of her, the river surged; unstoppable. Catherine gazed down into its icy depths, contemplating what she was about to do. Reassuring herself it was just, she stood up, and withdrew the scissors from her pocket, her heart racing. The light bounced off the blades as she slipped her delicate fingers into the handle and reached for a branch of the tree.
[1223 words]
Higher Script 3 – Diminished Responsibility Page 1