Legging It (Short Story)

I so-wish I was a better housewife. My attention to those chores other women seem to keep so effortlessly under control is, at best, spasmodic. In my defence, when conscience finally goads me into action, and armed with a selection of cleaning products I go into battle, I do a thorough job of it. Total wipe-out, and take no prisoners.
    It was on one of my rare, determinedly fired-up campaigns, I discovered Sidney. I have no idea how long he might have been there, for it was months since my last serious war on the cobweb community. He was possibly a veteran of previous skirmishes, surviving by holing up in some far distant corner while his fragile web fell victim to the vicious suck of my hoover nozzle.
    I hesitated, brought up short by an unexpected pang of pity. We sized each other up. He was quite a big specimen, at least leg-wise, a couple of inches across. One of those long black legs tapped, like he was counting the seconds while waiting for me to make a move.
    Thinking it would be a charitable act to find something to scoop him into, then introduce him to the vast outdoors, I searched for a handy pot. There was nothing close by. I considered braving it — using my bare hands, then remembered a friend’s experience with spider bites while gardening. While none of our native species is poisonous, they can all bite, even the tiny ones. She got a nasty rash. Best not chance it, then. While I was out of the room, Sidney legged it.
    He can’t have gone that far, I reasoned, so I’ll just keep an eye out while I clean, and take some care when moving objects to tackle the debris that had fallen and heaped behind them. Sure he’d turn up, I kept an empty yoghurt pot within reach. I made a systematic sweep of the room, wiping surfaces, hoovering and tidying as I went. I found dead flies, a few desiccated moths and pill bugs (possibly the remains of past spider meals), but no Sidney. It was oddly disappointing. However, having salved my conscience with this energetic burst of spring cleaning, I resumed my more laid-back slovenly approach for a while.
    One night, only a week or so later, I pulled back the duvet to get into bed, radio already tuned for ‘A Book at Bedtime’, and there the not-so-little black beastie was — crouched in the middle of my pillow. I had no doubt it was Sidney — a tapping front leg confirmed his identity. I’m pretty sure he recognised me, too. We stared at each other, just as before.
    I grabbed at the glass on my bedside table, but he was too quick for me. Boy, can these critters move! He raced off that fast he was a blur. I didn’t stand an earthly. My screech was one of frustration.
    By the time my husband came in, all the bedclothes were on the floor while I examined every possible hiding place.
    ‘What are you looking for?’
    ‘A bloody great spider!’ I grunted, heaving pillows this way and that.
    ‘Well, I can get you one from the garden, if you like!’ He grinned.
    ‘Oh, very funny!’ But I laughed along with him. It was, after all, silly and absurd to react quite so maniacally. He helped me put the bed back together. Mentally, I dared Sidney to play the same trick again.
    He didn’t. He went with tradition and chose the bathtub. I imagined that was game over — he would have trouble scaling the shiny sides to escape. But I wasn’t counting on faint tidemarks (oh, slutty me!) that gave him sufficient purchase. He climbed like a speeded-up cartoon spider, my yoghurt pot cupping empty air in his wake.
    Having reached the lip of the tub, he leapt onto my sleeve, dashed up to my shoulder, jumped again onto a towel hanging on the rail, then away up the wall, round the corner of the door and gone from sight. All this achieved in hardly more than an eye-blink.
    I lay in my bath, relaxed and marvelling, and admitting it was looking pretty unlikely I would ever be successful in evicting him. I would have to resign myself to sharing accomodation for the forseeable future.
    Perhaps it occurred to him he should lay low for a bit because I didn’t catch a glimpse of him for months, and almost believed he’d moved on to pastures new. Then one evening, when we’d been invited somewhere I considered posh enough to warrant dressing-up for, I decided to root out my reserved-for-best and horribly expensive handmade Italian black patent leather court shoes. Kept wrapped in tissue, and in their original box, they languished in the bottom of my wardrobe ready for the next time my nerves felt strong enough to totter along on their five-inch heels. I reached for them reverently, and caught movement in my peripheral vision.
    ‘Is that you, Sidney?’ I whispered, my tone non-aggressive, not wishing to spook him. I moved the shoe box slowly, scattering a small snowstorm of wings and other insect parts. He’s been feasting off the clothes moths that were constant intruders, and that various ecologically approved repellants had failed to entirely discourage, so Sidney was at least earning his keep. A more thorough investigation also found a closely-woven silk cocoon anchored very firmly in a corner, close to a knothole that clearly allowed all these creepy-crawlies access. It was, I recognised, an egg bundle, which meant Sidney was in fact a lady spider.
    Finding he was actually one of the girls, my feelings softened further, and whilst I wasn’t keen on the idea of having a wardrobe teeming with baby Sidneys, however cute, I thought a rescue and rehabilitation scheme was appropriate. But how was I to achieve this without separating mother and offspring? Would it be disasterous to break this bond? Fearing it might be so, I had to come up with a way to catch Sidney and transport her, plus her brood, to a suitably safe location. I plumped for our greenhouse, it being out of the weather, quiet and free of spider-eating predators, so an ideal nursery. Plus, I could check up on their progress from time to time.
    With all these pressing plans to think through, I was naturally a little distracted over dinner, causing my husband to nudge me several times during the often tedious speeches. His quizzical expression jolted me into giving a dismissive ‘bit of a headache’ excuse, while clapping in all the right places. These Round Table affairs can be a bit of a trial in the formality stakes, but the food is unfailingly wonderful. I couldn’t, of course, introduce my current preoccupation into general conversation, even when Lady Fairburn-Wallace asked ‘And what are you up to these days, my dear?’ Personal relationships with house spiders would hardly be judged suitable dinner table talk. Plus Sidney appeared to be a single mum. A subject best avoided, even if not socially taboo. Anyway, I kept my reply short and simple, telling her I was putting a new collection together for exhibition later in the year. ‘Oh, that’s splendid! Do send me a ticket, dear, won’t you?’ She patted my arm and moved on. I would, if I remembered, not that she would attend, naturally. She was just being polite.
    We left a little earlier than on previous years, me being anxious to get back and check on things. While my very slightly tipsy husband was in the bathroom, I carefully opened my wardrobe door. Sidney sat with her legs spread protectively over her silk-wrapped eggs. ‘It’s only me’ I told her, ‘no need to dash off.’ I closed the door again, not bothering to put my shoes away.
    Hubby meandered in brandishing a yoghurt pot. ‘What’s this doing in the bathroom, and who’re you talking to?’
    ‘Ah, that’s where it went ... recycling ...’ I grabbed it from him, ignoring his baffled expression. ‘Think I’ll get some water — d’you want some?’
    ‘Mmmm — okay. But why’s there a yoghurt pot ...?’
    ‘Won’t be a tick.’ I ducked out, took my time getting a glass of natural spring, sipping it on the way back upstairs, and betting he’d be asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. I was right. Gentle snores greeted me as I opened the bedroom door. Good. That meant I didn’t have to face any awkward questions as to why I had a glass of water in one hand and a long empty pasta jar in the other.
    The idea had come to me in the kitchen when I opened the cupboard to get a glass. On the shelf above, I noticed one of the pasta jars — the longest one — held only a few, probably stale, strands of spaghetti. I tipped them out, thinking the tube might make an effective spider trap, always provided Sidney was a strongly maternal creature, which my plan entirely depended on.
    With hubby’s regular snores as accompaniment, I put the plan into action, and opened the wardrobe door once more. But there was no Sidney. I sighed and swore softly into the shadowy cedar-smelling depths. Well, maybe it’s best if she’s not there to see her offspring being kidnapped, I decided, and got to work on very carefully loosening the cocoon from its anchorage. It took me a while, the strands of silk being so very tightly strung and incredibly tough. I felt like a vandal, albeit a very considerate one. At last I got the sticky little bundle free and encouraged it gently into the pasta jar with the aid of a pair of tweezers. So far, so good. By this stage it was past two o’ clock, and I was flagging badly. Plus, I was seriously beginning to doubt my strategy would work but, having come this far, it would have been truly defeatist to have given up.
    I wedged the jar on its side directly below where the nest had been suspended. When Sidney returned from wherever her nocturnal perambulations had taken her, I hoped she would track down her missing egg sac, enter the pasta jar to retrieve it, and I could then quickly cap it with her trapped inside. Transporting them to the sanctuary of our greenhouse should then be relatively easy. That’s if Sidney returned, and if I was still awake to witness the reunion.
    I was woken by my bleary-eyed husband who, quite understandably, wanted to know why I was asleep on the floor in front of the open wardrobe, the beam from my torch picking out an empty pasta jar lying just inside it. I checked — no Sidney, no bundle. Once again, she’d out-smarted me. Grabbed the kiddies and legged it.
    I never saw Sidney again, but wish her well, and all her family. These days, I’m very respectful of cobwebs, never removing them until I’m sure their owners have vacated. Still not the best of housewives, I’m a true friend to all squatters of the eight-legged variety. In fact, we have become a spider-friendly household since my husband bought me a very large and furry toy tarantula as a sort of consolation. A handsome beast, a good ten inches across, I’ve called him Harry.