[1305] The Grownups Are Talking

crit [1802] : https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/ccLdS3S0Mk

A little humorous short story I wrote recently with an idea that came to me in a car journey listening to the demob happy song “who should I say is calling” which includes the title in its lyrics (great song btw you should listen). Any critique is welcome— be harsh!!

The Grown-ups are talking
It is the worst fate in the world for a seven-year-old to be sent from the sitting room “out to play”. Normally playing is his favourite activity. It tops even eating ice cream and staying up past his bedtime. But when the grownups, one moment chatting merrily about work and wines and all the things a seven year old finds unbelievably boring, suddenly begin speaking in hushed tones and nodding at each other, eyes wide, their lips pressed into barely concealed smirks… Then, to be sent to play is an absolute abomination.

This unfortunate fate befell Johnny Conners on Wednesday. He was sitting on the sofa next to aunt Mildred, his legs swinging to and fro as he picked at the threads in the sofa. His little body was positively tingling to be out on his bike in the July sun, until something happened that made him want to stay exactly where he was.

His Mother had stood up to get something from the cellar. She was almost at the door, her hand hovering over the handle, when she stopped dead. Johnny’s head shot up like a bullet, he stopped picking at the sofa and gaped at his Mum.

“Oh my God Jason!” She spun on her heel, clasping her hand to her mouth.

“You will never believe what I found out about Steve’s wife the other day!”

Johnny’s father opened his mouth to reply—

“What Mummy? What?!” little Johnny shouted. He was bubbling with anticipation. Mother never called Father by his real name. Only when something wonderful or terrible was about to happen.

But his Mother only frowned at him.

“Oh it’s nothing that you’d be interested in Johnny, only boring adult stuff— go out and play while we grownups have a little chat. Go on, there’s a good boy.”

Johnny’s fist plummeted into the cushion beneath him, making the springs groan with the impact. He pouted.

“But I am interested Mummy! I won’t say anything, I’ll just sit here and listen I promise! And I’m basically a grownup already! I’m almost 8!”

That last comment was met with raucous laughter that made poor Johnny red around the ears. It was a fact that he was nearly 8— and that was a good lot older than 7. The 8-year-olds at school learnt about the Nazis and how babies were made, and Johnny couldn’t imagine that anything more grown up than that!

“I’m sorry dear but this just isn’t for your ears. Rodger’s out there on his new bike— look, you can see him out the window. Go and see if he’ll let you have a go.”

Johnny wanted to protest but his mother was already pushing him out the door. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide and pleading, but was met with only wood staring back at him.

“Humph!”

“I hope I don’t hear any moaning out there!” came his mothers voice from the sitting room, and Johnny knew there was no point in complaining any further.

He started towards the garden, a pout still painted across his lips. The sound of his light-up trainers scraping against the wood floor formed a backing track for his thoughts. How unfair it was to be a little boy. He was sure that no one had ever faced such injustice. He hoped a car would hit him or a bear would eat him or something else horrible would happen in the garden— that would make his parents sorry!

Wait—

A small smile began to spread across Johnny’s cheeks. He stomped down the corridor, flung open the back door… and closed it again. Then, pushing himself up onto his tiptoes, he began walking, ever so slowly, ever so quietly, back to the sitting room, and pressed his ear against the door.

“Well. I doing some gardening the other day, just minding my business…”

Yes! The voice was muffled through the wood, but Johnny could make out his mother’s words, clear as day! It was all he could do not to punch the air in triumph! He really was a clever boy.

“Anyway, I happened to look over at Steve and Florence’s house, and I saw a movement in the living room that seemed to me very strange. It looked like a fist or something banging against the window, like someone was fighting in there or trying to call for help. Of course I was terrified, I thought I’d better ring the police immediately—“

Fighting! Johnny was in for a real treat. He imagined Uncle Steve and his wife rolling around the floor like in an action film, knocking over vases and causing all sorts of disruption in their tidy little house. Maybe Uncle Steve was a detective and he’d found out Aunt Florence had committed a murder! He always knew there was something noble about him, he wouldn’t hurt a fly if it wasn’t in the name of justice!

“But then I second guessed myself, you know, I can sometimes let my imagination run away with me—“

“You can say that again.” interrupted Johnny’s father.

“So I thought I’d better go and have a look myself, there was probably some perfectly ordinary explanation.”

Johnny’s teeth sunk down into his lip.

“Anyway, I walked over to the window, just to make sure everything was okay.”

Was it? Was it?

“And I saw… You’ll never believe it, but I saw—“

“Tell us Marg, tell us!” shouted Aunt Mildred.

Yes! Tell us Mummy, tell us!

“Well first I saw Florence kneeling on the floor, I would, of course, have looked away immediately— I’m no voyeur! But then I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a wisp of ginger hair.”

What? Who fights kneeling on the floor? Adults only kneel to pray. Johnny was beginning to think this might not have been worth his time after all.

“Ginger hair? But Steve is bald!”

“Precisely! I couldn’t look away then, I peered around the curtains, and sat there on the sofa…was the postman!”

A gasp could be heard from inside the sitting room. Johnny frowned. What was so shocking about the postman praying with Aunt Florence? We are all God’s children after all. That’s what they say in assembly anyway.

“Was she really—?“

“Yep. Sucking on him like a good’un.”

What?! Johnny reeled back from the door. Sucking on him?! He could see it in his mind’s eye. Aunt Florence opening her little pursed mouth, wider and wider, it stretching and morphing into a huge red cave. He flinched in horror as the Florence of his imagination pounced on the poor postman like a snake, swallowing him up in one big bite and rolling him around in her mouth like a boiled sweet, one lone strand of ginger hair hanging from her gob.

“So she was giving him head?” Asked his Father, his voice disturbingly even in the face of this horrifying revelation, “That’s more than I get!”

Johnny’s heart beat even faster. Giving him her head?! It was inhuman!

The postman was released from Aunt Florence’s colossal jaws now. He lay, drool covered and cowering, in a pile on the floor. Johnny saw her head shrink back to normal. Then, slowly, she clasped her hands around her chin and began to pull. It popped off like a cork, blood spurting in every direction from the mangled mess of muscles and arteries now exposed in her neck. He imagined her still animated body rolling it like a football across the floor, the eyes lolling around sightlessly in their sockets. Dry, rhythmic thuds ringing in his hears as the nose smashed repeatedly into the floor.

He clutched his own head and began to scream. It was horrific. It was repulsive. Was this what the adults got up to when he wasn’t around?

He would never listen at the door again.