The Third Step

By Sheila Dawson

Grey clouds scud rapidly across the sky, the trees start to sway. The weather bureau predicts a deluge overnight. In the meantime, the humidity clings like a blanket. Every shuttered door and window is ready to fling open to welcome the cooling effect of the expected southerly.
Cathy, seated on the deck under an umbrella, surveys the wilting garden, melting ice chinking in a glass beside her. Murray comes heavily up the few steps. The third step squeaks. He flops into a chair, and sneaks a sip of her drink.

“It’s driving me mad, that step squeaking. When are you going to do something about it, Murray?”

“I’ll get ‘round to it later. It’s only a little job. Can I get you a refill?”

She nods. “If it’s such a little job why don’t you just do it? Then you won’t have to put up with me nagging at you all the time. You just don’t listen, do you?”

“No,” Murray admits with an endearing smile, and disappears into the house to replenish her drink, and bring himself a beer. “Now, which step is it again?”

“The third one. You said it was the heat last time I asked you, drying out the timber. Goodness knows how it can dry out with all this humidity.” Cathy is too enervated by the weather to row with him.

“Well, I was right last time, and I’m right now. If I try to fix it now the timber’s shrunk, I’m not sure what will happen when it rains. You didn’t marry me all those years ago for my handyman skills, did you?’

“If I remember rightly, you were very handy in other ways when either of us felt like it. Besides being a bit of a hunk,” she gently chaffs with the ease of long familiarity and love.

“Of course, I suppose I could fix it myself if it’s that simple.”

Murray chortles disbelievingly into his beer: “You?”

“Why not? I win prizes for my craft work. I can go to one of those home maintenance classes run by the Neighbourhood Centre. You’ve got a shed full of tools. I won’t need to buy a thing. All I need to find out is how to do it and have a bit of a practice.” Cathy beams with confidence. Murray knows it will be useless to try to dissuade her. She’s as stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something.

“Let’s wait till after the rain.” Murray is conciliatory. He must fix the step before she can set hands on his precious tools, or his shed. Inspiration strikes. “When it’s a bit cooler, let’s both build your own craft shed, air-conditioned of course, with lots of light. I’ll shout you some tools, even a kiln. You can use it for all your crafts. Have your friends round.” He knows he has averted the impending invasion by the delight on Cathy’s face.

“Gotcha!” she thinks triumphantly.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sheila Dawson has recently ventured into writing as a means of developing her left hemisphere. She is a voracious reader of most genres, and has a deep, longstanding love of language. She hopes in time to be able to express and develop her imagination rather than rely on self centric anecdotes. She has no ambition to write the Great Australian Novel.