Still Waters

Blisters, same size as your hand. Huge, they were. Alien, fluid-filled sacs of skin – fit to burst his
whole leg off if they'd popped. With the shape and wobble of a mastectomy prosthesis, they looked
real bad. Real painful.

Served the bugger right. Karma, I thought. Wasn't about to waste my sympathies on the fool – his
own stupid fault anyway.

Mind you, I was concerned at the time. Kind of surprising, under the circumstances. Even reacted
in a way that a wife would be expected to, although I have to admit, it was pretty much an
automatic response; knee-jerk, no judgement, no forethought at all.

So there we were, parked up in Como, right by the shore of the same named lake. Dark waters,
gently lapping a muddied, sandy beach. Tranquil vistas on all sides; so calm, so peaceful.

My back was killing me, what with stooping over a sink, and cooking on a diddy two-burner
stove. Not to mention all that shuffling of tat, from one end to the other, somehow trying to make
space, make room. But there was none. No room to move that is, and the strain of travelling six-up
in a tiny camper for three months, was beginning to take its toll. That, and his shouting, of course.
And his bullying. Yeah, and his drinking.

Another argument, another ripple, broke the surface tension.

I had to get out – leave him to it. Leave him to work out how to prepare, and assemble a meal in
our cupboard-like 'home'. I'd been doing it for weeks – high time the lazy sod did something for a
change. Besides, we had a minor gas leak somewhere, the fumes of which were making me feel
queasy. And slightly nervous.

Abandoning the 'kitchen', I took take the kids to the park instead – knew I needed to escape the
claustrophobic, steamed up, interior of our lives. Against the flow of early evening joggers, we avoided the cracks, and admired hairy caterpillars, whilst he cooked, in the cramped confines of our
Sherpa. A less than ideal arrangement, as it turned out. Me and the kids hung around on the swings, killing time, gazing at the smooth waters. But the light was fading fast, and with our bellies rumbling, we soon headed back, real slow.

Coming up to the car park, we heard what sounded like a loud bang, followed by unholy screams,
and could see an orange glow in the back window of the van. An instant later, their dad was
scrabbling out of the driver's door, still screaming, and proceeded to wrench his trousers – baggy tracksuit pants – down around his ankles.

At this point, the two small children attached to my hands, erupted into a spontaneous screaming
of their own; the older two, stunned into a shocked silence. The only intelligible word I could
make out, between my ex's screams and groans, was 'burn'. Catching sight of the flickering orange
in the window again, I immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.

With visions of the gas bottle exploding at any second, and all of us being blown sky-high, I
shouted in my best attempt at Italian, 'Fuocco! Fuocco!' – hoping like hell that it meant 'Fire!' –
to catch the attention of the patrons in a nearby bar.

Our combined shouts, and screams, certainly succeeded in bringing people running over. But when confronted with the scene before them – woman and kids, crying and screaming, in the presence of a sweating, red-faced, trouser-less man – they, not surprisingly, also jumped to the wrong conclusion.
In a desperate bid, to prevent my former husband from getting his head kicked in, I yelled out
'Blesse! Blesse!', which is French for 'injured', and leapt in front of him to physically bar their way.
Scratching their heads, in the universal gesture of bemusement, they eventually sauntered off in the
cocky, hip-thrusting way that Italian men do, returning to their birra, and televised football; no
doubt discussing the ins and outs, of these 'Crrrazy Ingleesh'.

Meanwhile, I had a casualty on my hands. Story was, he'd been kneeling before the cooker, full pan of water ready for the pasta on the boil, when the backboard had fallen down – knocked the whole lot straight onto his lap. The board, that he'd failed to clip into place properly, before starting. Lucky to have missed his genitals, but nonetheless, painful, in the extreme. So no gas leak, no fire – just soft candle glow, magnified through the glass. Still, a serious burn; one which needed sorting.

The obvious, and most immediate first aid, was close to hand, so I can assure you that I took the
greatest of pleasures, in telling him to 'go jump in the lake'.

Unfortunately, it didn't work. After half an hour in the water, he staggered back to the van – just managing to crawl through, and collapse on the bench seat. I swear, I thought he was a goner. Beads of sweat, balled above his top lip; skin, as grey as week old mashed potato. Then I saw the blisters. Clear jellies, that clung to his thighs like parasitic growths. We sat, motionless, staring in horror at these things; convinced, we were about to see a man die.

Snapping out of it, I packed up in double-quick time, ready to get the van moving. All a bit of a blur really – how I negotiated the traffic, made our way to the hospital. I'd always hated driving, especially on the continent, and those Italians were the worst. Honestly, it's as if they had a deathwish or something. Must've been more than their catholicism saving them – take more than a few bloody Hail Mary's to survive those roundabouts.

The doctors were great; no questions asked, and charged bottom dollar. Just as well. We were
down to our last few lire – had been counting on some good busking in Como.

He healed remarkably quickly, and was soon back to his normal bastard self.

I'll never forget those blisters; never forget that lake. If I had my time again, I'd take a pin I would.
For years, I used to dream of popping those buggers, and watch him drown. In fluid-filled lakes.