"Elsie," Charles called out in frustration, and then again with much more urgency, "Elsie!"
It had seemed like a good idea not an hour earlier but now he was regretting the whole thing and he held his wife entirely responsible
The day had begun like most of their Sundays seemed to nowadays with her small hand seeking out his bear-like paw somewhere deep under the bedclothes, and then one or other of them initiating a cuddle. He rather preferred it when she snuggled up against his back, her lips pressing lightly against his neck as they both continued to wallow in that heavenly space between sleep and awake. But he wasn't immune to the alternative of using his strength to gather her to him, her face nestling into his chest as he kissed the top of her head and drank in the sweet scent of her shampoo. He hadn't a thought as to what herbs or essences it was that delighted his senses but nor would he deny making a note to himself of when she washed it, just so he could be sure to take full advantage.
The world outside their window had been damp and cold and they'd been in no rush to get up and hurry to church. They did usually go, Elsie particularly felt it important to attend regularly, but with no shared appetite for donning their heavy winter coats and boots it had been easy to persuade themselves that they had much to do around the cottage and that should be their priority.
"Besides," she'd said in continued defence of their decision, as she presented him with a neatly written list of jobs to be tackled, "Next Sunday is Advent and we'll be sure to be there then."
The first couple of tasks had been simple; a few potatoes dug up from the vegetable patch and left in a basket for her to wash and store in the pantry, the spider who'd moved into the bathroom and refused to be tempted down from the ceiling by a feather duster duly caught and rehomed. However, the third task, one that required certain tools and a stepladder had him swearing profusely and calling out her name.
"My, my, what a sight!" Elsie remarked as she entered the kitchen. Whatever it was she'd expected to see it certainly hadn't been Charles' firm behind sticking out from underneath the sink.
"I'm looking for the secateurs," he growled in reply, not turning around. "The tool box was under here but they must have fallen out as they're not in there now."
"Well, I don't see how," she countered, pulling out a chair from underneath the table and taking up a position from where she could enjoy the view. It wasn't often she had a chance to see him from quite this angle.
"There's a hole in the floorboard.," he explained, "They must have fallen down there."
"Or, you forgot to put them away the last time you used them," she suggested.
Charles' indignation at this suggestion caused him to bang the back of his head loudly against the pipe that had already been perilously close to causing him injury. He swore loudly and began to reverse out of the small space, reaching his hand up to rub at the pain. Elsie successfully managed to smoother her laugh as she moved towards and past him and, taking a cloth from the side, proceeded to dowse it in cold water before wringing it out. By now, Charles had managed to get himself up off the floor and into the chair, his face red from the effort but his hand still tending his head. She quelled his movements, taking his hand in hers and pressed the compress to the large red welt that had appeared.
He accepted her tender care with silent gratitude, too cross and in too much pain to be gracious. They stayed this way for several minutes, Elsie turning the cloth a few times to avoid it becoming too warm from the heat that radiated from him. And then, just as she was about to move away, her task concluded, he slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her a little closer.
"There now," she breathed, enjoying how his hand nestled in against her hip, "All better."
Charles merely nodded before releasing her and the moment had passed.
Sighing, Elsie set about tidying away the cloth and returning the items that had been dislodged in the search for the missing secateurs back to their proper place; a tin bucket, spare mop head, and half used bottle of Vim powder all efficiently stowed away. She glanced around the kitchen and, satisfied that it looked as it should, went to return to the task she had been attempting before he called to her, that of dusting the sitting room shelves. As she crossed the small hallway she almost walked into the protruding backside of her husband who this time had his head and shoulders buried in the cupboard under the stairs.
"This is becoming a habit," she said teasingly, "Surely you don't expect to find them in there? It's nothing but coats and shoes."
She stepped back as he exited the compact space, his face set into a frown.
"I was looking for these," he said gruffly, waving his outdoor shoes in her direction to emphasise his point, "They were not where I left them."
Elsie gave a wry laugh, "Well no, because they don't live on the doormat."
He harrumphed at that and, brushing past her, headed towards the backdoor. Stopping briefly to slip on his shoes, he wrenched open the door more harshly than he meant and stepped outside. The chill in the air hit him with a suddenness he hadn't expected and immediately regretted the lack of an overcoat but couldn't be bothered to go back. All he'd wanted to do was trim back the hedge that was growing around the front door. The branches were growing at an angle that it was becoming increasingly difficult to unlock the front door without being hit in the face. It was a simple task that should have taken no more than 20 minutes, 30 tops, and yet it was proving unnecessarily difficult to start.
Bracing himself against the cold, he headed for the small potting shed at the end of the garden. He had an idea that if he'd not put the bloomin' things back in the toolbox then he must have left them there. It had been some weeks since he'd pruned the last of the rose bushes. He'd only thought to do so because he'd noticed the ones in the Abbey garden had been cut back and, whilst he would never admit as much publicly, he had a good deal of respect for the talents of all those who served his Lordship, knowing him to hire the best of men. As it was, he'd made a fair job of it but now, searching amongst the bags of compost and seed trays, he felt sure he had taken them back into the house with him after all. Defeated, Charles stood and looked back toward the house through the thin window that ran the length of the shed. He could see Elsie moving about, going about her chores as was all too familiar, imagining her hums of contentment when a little job was completed, a sharp tut as she discovered another. She made their cottage a home at no mistake, and for that he was grateful.
At length, he exited and turned to pull the door closed. The handle seemed to jam in his hand, refusing to turn and the lock with it.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" he exclaimed in frustration, "There's always something!"
He wrestled with it for a minute or so, twisting it this way and then the other, but it proved fruitless, other to confirm that it was stuck. He rested his forehead briefly against the frame, breathing deeply to gain control before stepping back into the shed. His eyes roved along the cluttered shelf. Given he'd only had a home of his own for a few short years, and a shed even less so, it was surprising what he'd manage to acquire. Amongst them were tins of paint from when the bedroom window had leaked and he'd needed to deal with the resulting stains on the sill and most of the wall; small boxes of screws and nails of varying size that had come in handy more times that would have previously imagined; a paint kettle with an assortment of brushes carefully cleaned and stowed, soft side up; and any number of bottles and cans. Pushing one or two things aside he found what he was looking for, a lubricant of some kind whose label indicated its likely usefulness for unsticking things. He stepped back outside to read the instructions on the back, the writing almost too small for him to make out. Squinting and angling it to make better use of the dull wintery light, he was interrupted by a call of his name from the direction of the house.
Turning he saw Elsie standing on the back step, a smug look on her face as she held something up in her hand, the missing secateurs. His relief of their discovery was tinged with the realisation that not only did he now have two jobs to complete before he could consider the morning a success but, as was inevitable, her title as the chief finder of things remained resolutely intact.
*Vim scouring powder was first sold in 1904 and was one of the first products developed by Lever Brothers, the company we now know better as Unilever. Oh, how I've missed my 1920s disappearances down the rabbit hole that is the internet!