The Herman Condition
By Tom Johnstone
Day One
It came in a plastic box with a plastic lid and a recipe. The old woman who gave her the box at the foodbank talked about its contents as if it were a person, a little boy perhaps, or a man. It had a name, Herman.
“What do I do with it?” Susan asked, eyeing it warily. More stuff to deal with when the new flat was still full of boxes. Peeling a corner of the lid open, she glimpsed a slime of water, sugar and micro-organisms, smelling like the beer brewery where he worked, the smell he used to bring home. Wrinkling her nose, she let it snap shut again and tried to hand back the unsolicited gift, pleading shortage of space.
“Take it,” the old woman whispered, pushing the box back towards Susan. “There’s always room for Herman. After all, microbes take up over half your body’s cell count.”
Susan looked back at her blankly.
“Never mind,” the woman added with a sigh that made Susan feel like a child who was slow to learn, reminding her of teachers who had quickly written her off at school. “You look after him, and he’ll look after you.”
“But how do I look after—him?”
“Just keep him fed and make sure he gets plenty of air,” the old woman said, handing Susan a piece of paper. A swift glance told her it was a recipe. The title read “Herman the Friendship Cake,” and she needed friends. Maybe the old woman could be one. Susan smiled, thanked her, and took the piece of paper and the box that went with it. The old woman smiled back, warmly, sweetly, with a twinkle in her eye, apparently happier now Susan had given up resisting her gift.
“You look like you’ve been in the wars, dear,” the woman said, peering at Susan’s face in a way that made her want to disappear. The signs of his love still hadn’t faded after all these weeks.
But that was over now, she reminded herself. The nightmare was over.
She was glad of the starter dough. It gave her something to do other than unpack and otherwise sort the new place out. Also, it made her feel less alone. It seemed apt as well, a new starter for a new start.
Returning to the new flat, she smiled at this thought and set to work transferring “Herman” to a bowl and covering him with a tea towel, as the piece of paper instructed. “Your granny’s old tea towel will do,” the instructions clucked in their cheerful, folksy way, but Susan only had one of the drab, faded ones she’d thrown into a bag when she’d left. As she spooned the mixture into the bowl, that beery smell hit her, and instinctively she drew her free hand back to the part of her jaw that still felt sore.
Day Two
After a morning of taking her CV from door to door, around every café, pub and shop she saw, Susan returned home and collapsed into an armchair, her feet tingling with fatigue. Her stomach complained. She hadn’t eaten yet today, putting it off because she wanted to make the food she’d collected at the foodbank last for as long as possible. Finally, she made herself get out of the chair and try to prepare a meal, or at least a snack, with the bread, eggs, butter and other assorted groceries in the cupboard and fridge. She tried to ignore the boxes still lying unopened on the floor of the combined bedroom and living room and went through to the kitchen.
The bowl still sat there on the kitchen counter, with a tea towel covering it.
The instructions next to it told her Herman needed some TLC, “just a little stir with a wooden spoon.”
She lifted the tea towel, flinched at the yeasty smell, lowered it again. That aroma had associations she wanted to forget. She’d learned to detect the subtle differences in the smells of fermented hops when the door opened, and he came home; two variants principally: the brewery and the pub. The first meant sullen, surly silences she learned not to break for fear of the consequences if she interrupted his television viewing; the second almost guaranteed those consequences no matter what she did.
She lightly touched the tender spot on her jaw and abandoned the bowl to tend to her own needs, cracking a couple of eggs into a bowl to beat.
But before she could begin melting the butter to scramble them, a voice hissed in her ear.
Suzy…
It was what he used to call her— “Suzy the Floozy”, either when he was jealously accusing her of infidelity, or trying to wear down her resistance to sex, his voice heavy with innuendo. Oh, go on, Suzy the Floozy, you know you want to, really.
The voice wasn’t his though. It had certain similarities in intonation, the sardonic cadence he used when he made sly little digs and putdowns. But it sounded more liquid, slimy, as if bubbling frothily in her ear. It was muffled, the way someone’s voice would be if their face was covered with a cloth.
Or a tea towel.
Susan tried to ignore it, began melting the butter for her breakfast.
But it came again.
Just a little stir, Suzy…
The parody of her husband’s voice—her ex-husband’s voice, she reminded herself—made her turn cold inside. She shook her head to try to make it go away. It couldn’t be real. It must be the effect of exhaustion and hunger playing on her nerves. Before she knew what was happening, she found herself stirring the gooey mixture with a wooden spoon.
That’s better… Mmmm, that feels nice…. Ooooh, that feels lovely…
She ignored the gross lasciviousness of the voice, going on stirring the sourdough starter, which seemed to squirm obscenely in response to the spoon’s motions. The rhythm of the action was so hypnotic, she couldn’t stop, but she was vaguely aware of another smell competing with the yeasty odour of the starter, growing stronger, drowning it out with its sharper, more urgent insistence.
She looked up from her task, saw the smoke rising from the frying pan where the butter was burning.
Quickly she let go of the wooden spoon, leaving it in the mixing bowl. The yeasty broth let out a sigh of protest, what could be Ooohhh… Don’t stop! Susan wasn’t sure, couldn’t hear it over the screeching of the smoke alarm, too busy rushing over to the tiny Baby Belling cooker to take the blackened, burning butter off the heat before it caught fire, plunging it into the sink, turning on the tap, making it sizzle.
Can’t do anything right, can you, Suzy? The water poured on troubled oil hissed, searing her ears with its scorn.
You’re only good for one thing, it added with a malicious gurgle, as she flapped around trying to find a broom she could use to shut off the screaming alarm on the ceiling and appease the neighbours banging and shouting their displeasure through the wall.
Day Three
When Susan woke up, the whole flat still smelled of smoke. She checked her phone, which was also her clock, to see what time it was. When she saw the missed call and text notification, she went straight to the kitchen to check the sourdough starter and see what the instructions said to do with it today. It was as good a way as any to avoid reading the message, which she could see was from him.
Day three’s instruction was the same as the one before: “Give Herman another little stir—to let him know you haven’t forgotten about him.”
She was about to take hold of the wooden spoon, still propped up against the edge of the bowl, the end of it embedded in the mixture, when she remembered the smell of the yeast and the traumatic memories it had triggered the day before, the disembodied voice mimicking his mocking sneer and taking apparent perverted pleasure in what should be the innocent activity of stirring the sourdough starter.
No, she thought. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll leave it today.
But, as she pulled her hand away from the bowl and spoon, Susan heard the wet voice again.
Please, Suzy, just one more little stir… To let me know you haven’t forgotten about me.
“No,” she said, aloud this time. “Just leave me alone!” She edged away from the bowl, as if it contained some kind of lethal threat, muttering, “No one’s going to die if I don’t stir you today—and neither will you.”
Slowly, she retreated into the bedsitting room, holding her breath in expectation of another assault on her sanity.
Alright then, whispered the voice she’d come to think of as belonging to Herman (better that than think it was actually her ex-husband’s), I’ll leave you alone… In fact, from now on you’ll always be alone.
It was the kind of thing he was always saying: that she’d never leave him because she couldn’t cope without him and no one else would have her. Well, she’d found this flat, hadn’t she? She’d even started job-hunting.
No one’s got back to you though, have they? Herman hissed. And d’you know what? They never will… After all, who’d employ someone who they can’t even count on to do a simple thing like stirring a little bit of sourdough?
She dismissed the taunts. She’d only circulated the CV yesterday. And as for being alone, Herman was a friendship cake, wasn’t he? It said so on the recipe. “Before you make your own cake from the starter, set aside four portions for other people.” She could give them to her neighbours in the apartment block—the ones she hadn’t annoyed with the smoke alarm. “You’re never alone with a Herman cake!” the instructions gushed.
It was a shame Herman’s voice was so unfriendly, sneering at her job prospects and chance of a social life.
Well, she’d show him!
With a defiant toss of her head, she abandoned the bowl and went to check her phone, see if any prospective employers had responded to her CV. She saw a dozen missed calls and seven text messages. Susan wondered why she hadn’t heard the calls, then noticed she’d accidentally put her phone on silent. She began to panic, wondering if an employer had been trying in vain to get in touch with her and had now decided she was too flaky a prospect. She already felt at a disadvantage because of the big gap in her employment history: He had insisted she stay at home, arguing he could keep them both, saying he didn’t want her going to work in some pub or café where other men might come on to her. But none of the messages and calls were from possible employers.
All were from him. She sat down in the sofa bed to read them.
—You better come back right now or I will find you and kill you
—Forget that last message of course I didnt mean it I guess I love you too much babes thats why I got so angry
—Where are you Suzy Im really worried about you I know you cant survive out there on your own
—WHY WONT YOU ANSWER ME!!!
—Okay this silly practical joke has gone far enough grow up will you you silly cow
—Im going to make you regret this you bitch
The messages made Susan experience a number of emotions, from pity and terror to despising herself for the way she felt weirdly gratified both by his desperation and his spleen. But the final one, the icing on the cake as it were, was both plaintive and chilling.
—No point to anything now cant stand being alive anymore going to do something really bad now dont worry not to you you will be fine but you will have to live with this for the rest of your life you wont have to see me again ever that is what you want right goodbye Suzy…
Susan slammed the phone down on the table in cold fury. This wasn’t the first time he’d made veiled threats to kill himself. It was just another weapon in his armoury, but she knew from experience it was an empty threat, unlike the ones he made to her. While she was prone to turning her own anger inward, he was all too willing to take his out on her.
But what if she was wrong, and this time was different? She’d never done anything like this before. Maybe she’d pushed him too far this time. It was true what he’d said. How could she live with herself if he did something stupid? She found herself reaching slowly for the phone, but just as she was about to give in to the impulse to return his call, she stopped herself. No, she mustn’t, otherwise all her courage in getting away from him, in making a new life, would have been for nothing.
It was such a relief to make that decision that she sat back on the sofa bed and sobbed.
Then she heard the wet yeasty voice say, All you had to do was give Herman a little stir, and you could have saved him.
Hearing the voice, she tensed up.
Maybe if you give me a stir now, you still could.
Why not? Surely it couldn’t do any harm.
She dried her eyes, rose from the chair, went through to the kitchen, lifted the tea towel, and stirred, trying to ignore the sensation of nausea both from the beery smell of the sourdough and the sensual gasps and sighs she could hear as she made circles with the wooden spoon.
Day Four
“Herman is hungry,” the recipe told her. “Herman needs feeding.”
Susan didn’t know whether this reminded her more of the man-eating plant in The Little Shop of Horrors or the Tamagotchi she remembered from her childhood, but apart from babysitting younger siblings, this was the closest she’d come to the experience of looking after a baby. She’d never had kids with him, which was just as well. That would have made her escape even more difficult and given him another stick with which to beat her. A child would have kept her bound to him even more tightly than before.
That reminded her: There were texts from him waiting for her attention. Perhaps she shouldn’t read them at all. Their very existence seemed proof of life, confirming he hadn’t gone through with his threat. It had taken all her strength not to respond to the apparent suicide note, enduring an almost sleepless night in the process. But in the end, curiosity got the better of her and she read the two new messages.
—Hope your having a great life with your new boyfriend whoever he is probably having a good old laugh at me I bet well he is welcome to you you dirty bitch
—He will soon get bored of you then I cant wait to see you come crawling back to me because no one can love you like I do
She burst out laughing at his self-pity and self-regard. He was lashing out, verbally rather than physically, because that was all he could do now.
He loves you really, you know, the yeasty voice piped up.
“Shut up, Herman,” she snapped, “Or I’ll let you starve.”
But Herman’s hungry, the voice whined.
“Oh, I know – ‘FEED ME!’ Well, you’ll have to wait. I’ve got to go back to the food bank and get…” She reached for the recipe. “… self-raising flour, sugar and milk.”
Anyway, she needed to go somewhere, just to talk to another human being. She must be really desperate for company if she was bickering with a sourdough starter.
At the food bank, the old woman was there again. Susan made a beeline for her.
“I came to get more ingredients for Herman,” she explained, brandishing her bags of sugar and flour and the carton of milk.
“Oh, yes, dear. I expect he’ll be getting hungry.”
“Where did you get him?”
“From a friend.”
The old woman didn’t elaborate, but she seemed to sense the disquiet behind Susan’s question and added, “Why do you ask, dear?”
“Oh, it’s nothing really. It’s just… I don’t know. I’ve been hearing things… Voices. It’s probably my nerves. I haven’t been sleeping very well, you see. I just left my husband, and…”
Suddenly, she was weeping. How embarrassing and shameful—in a public place, in front of a total stranger. The old woman patted her sympathetically on the shoulder and gently led her out of the foodbank, seemingly to give them both some privacy.
“There, there, dear,” she said. “I understand. It was him who did that to your face, wasn’t it?” Susan nodded tearfully. “Well, Herman can help with that. He’s old, this starter, very old indeed. A sourdough can last a long time, and this one’s been in my family for years, handed down from one generation to the next. He’s got some very unusual properties. Now you go home, dear, tend him and feed him and share him with your friends, and everything will come up roses—just you see if it doesn’t!”
Day Five
Having added the milk, flour and sugar the day before, it was time for another stir today. But Herman was stirring, too.
Mmm, that feels nice… Ooh, you do look after me, Suzy. Maybe if you’d looked after him better, he might not have got so angry with you.
Susan gave Herman a sharp talking-to after that, but she was still thinking about his words when the text came.
—Look Suzy been doing some thinking I havent always treated you fairly and I want to make it up to you please come home
She let out a bitter laugh. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that.
Maybe he means it this time, Herman whispered.
This was getting ridiculous—taking relationship advice from a blob of bacterial sludge. Nevertheless, despite having no intention of responding to the text, she kept checking her phone for further missives, looking fondly at the text, which she had to admit was rather sweet.
Day Six
She gave Herman another stir, like the recipe told her. She was spending longer and longer on it, partly to take her mind off the lack of any more texts or calls, either from him or the employers she’d approached. Tomorrow she would give out more CVs and chase up the previous leads. But for now, she had stirring to do—two or three times a day, the instructions said. If she went out trudging the streets again, she might be too tired to stir.
Day Seven
Still no more texts from him or from prospective employers, so she went out with more CVs and asked the places she’d already approached if they’d looked at it, but they only said they’d be in touch. By the time she got back to the flat, she felt like collapsing on the sofa bed, but Herman wouldn’t leave her in peace.
Time for a stir or two, he whispered. You don’t want me to die, do you…?
“Okay! Okay!”
She stirred the dough, trying not to listen to the obscene, wet, sucking noises it made. Maybe Herman needed more flour.
No, the dough protested, the voice deeper somehow, less childlike, not today. Not until Day Nine. I’m not hungry today.
She glanced at the recipe and he was right. She just wished he wouldn’t micro-manage her so.
Day Eight
She spent the day alternating restlessly between stirring the dough and checking her phone. Still no more messages from either employers or him. She was worried he was angry, too furious even to send threatening or abusive messages. She was worried he was dead.
Worry about me being dead! Herman hissed, interrupting her thoughts.
She was worried about Herman, too. He didn’t seem quite himself. She’d noticed a strange black ichor forming on top of the dough.
“But I’ve stirred you loads of times,” she protested.
That’s the trouble—if you stir me too much, it might kill me, then you’ll be a murderess and you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life!
“Okay, okay.”
She really should get out and see other humans, but she was tired, so tired. She could do that tomorrow, which was Day Nine, the day when when the instructions said to divide Herman up into lots of Baby Hermans and spread joy and friendship around the neighbourhood, put a Herman-shaped smile on everyone’s faces.
Day Nine
Herman was hungry again.
Susan added more milk, sugar and flour, then assembled plastic boxes to put the four mini-Hermans in.
You know who else is hungry, whispered Herman suggestively.
“Me?” Susan asked.
Oh no, Suzy. I’m thinking of someone else…
“Who?”
Oh, you know… Someone who’s been living on takeaways and microwaved ready meals since you left.
“Oh, him. He wouldn’t want a starter dough. He hasn’t got a clue how to bake a cake.”
I’m not suggesting you give him a mini-me. I think you should just give him the final cake.
“But that’s supposed to be for me, right?”
So selfish, Suzy. Maybe that’s why he was always so angry.
She wondered for a moment if this was true but dismissed it as she made the mini-Hermans. She was, after all, sharing him with her neighbours. Nevertheless, she was still thinking about Herman’s words as she spooned portions of starter dough into the boxes. Maybe if she’d made more of an effort to please him, dressed like he wanted, not talked so much, not nagged, not fussed, not bothered him when he was watching his shows, things might have been different.
She went from door to door, giving out mini-Hermans to her neighbours.
One was a woman with a cowed look Susan recognized from the mirror. She glanced down at her neighbour’s arms. Angry bruises bloomed there like roses. Susan averted her eyes from the woman’s arms, smiled and handed over the box and the recipe, explained what she had to do.
Day Ten
“Herman needs a holiday,” the recipe cooed, “somewhere hot.”
Susan would have loved to have one herself if she could afford it. She preheated the Baby Belling so Herman could have his vacation. Unfortunately, the heat was also fatal to the yeast. Susan left the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to hear the liquid screams of his death agony. While she waited for the cake to bake, she got herself ready. She would wear something attractive but modest, demure and tasteful, nothing too loud or garish because he would think it slutty. Something traditional. He liked tradition, so maybe he’d like Herman.
Not too much makeup, either. He always said he preferred women without any makeup at all, but Susan secretly put a little on. She remembered how angry he got that time he found her secret makeup stash. If he could find it in his heart to take her back, she’d have to hide it better, because he didn’t actually like the way she looked without it, either, and that made him moody, too. She’d have to apply it subtly, so he didn’t notice.
As she busied herself, she sang, ‘If I knew you were coming, I’d’ve baked a cake,’ although of course, it was she who was unexpectedly going to visit him with one! The song made her feel like Doris Day and filled the silence left by the absence of Herman telling her everything she’d been doing wrong, so she followed it with other good, old-fashioned songs she remembered from her childhood: “Stand By Your Man” and “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do.”
Herman’s voice was still there after all. Now he was dead, burnt alive in the Baby Belling, his voice had crept inside her head. Now she knew how to be what her man wanted. Maybe the woman in the flat along the corridor would listen to Herman’s advice and make some changes in her behaviour, too, that would stop those bruises blooming. So, Susan had helped someone else as well as herself.
Soon, she would be knocking on his door, waiting for him to answer, wondering how he’d react when he opened the door. She wondered if he’d be angry and want to punish her for her childish behaviour in leaving, but Herman soothed these fears, telling her she’d made the right decision to go back to him, and he didn’t mean all those threats he’d made, and he would be so happy to see her, and things would really be different this time…