Mrs. Barge peered into the bath. There was an ingrained tide-mark looping about six inches from the rim. Almost gouged into the enamel: the strongest astringent would have no possible purchase upon it.
Mrs. Barge’s first-born baby, now grown-up, barged around the house in a lonesome game of blind bluff. Her husband, even at this moment, was grunting in a far-away closet. The other babies were braying in the empty scullery, eager for something to eat. Even the kitten looked old.
Returning from a holiday was always like this.
Mrs. Barge did not question the ugly bath-mark, despite nobody having been in their house for a whole fortnight. Probably burglars, one of whom had taken a bath, instead of their more usual stigmata.
Nothing appeared missing except a large chunk of her memory. The house was far too shiny for a fortnight’s dust-filled emptiness.
“Mummy, Mummy!” A baby had run into the bathroom.
“Yes, Dear.” Second nature to respond.
“Daddy says the house smells of clean things - like wax polish - and air-wick - and pine disinfectant - and suds - and coal-tar – and…
...“
“Yes, Dear.” The same reply but said differently.
Something was in the air, amid the warmth rising from the radiators. It was in the churning pipes that fed the benighted house and emptied its deepest slurries. It was in the shadow-beams of dust. It was in the bath.
Mrs. Barge vowed never to go on holiday again, because it always made coming back worse than ever. Holidays were hell.
She ignored the wave of dirty darkness as it swept from room to room, seeking the sluice trough of its own spent dreams. Each dust particle a baby one.
(Whispers From The Dark 1995)
