ALL DONE!

Yes, we’ve come to the end of the decorating, lounge, kitchen, hall and porch are now finished. Throughout it all I felt as if I was living in a municipal tip. Nothing was where it should be. I couldn’t find anything that was urgently needed ... when I wanted certain items I wanted them there and then, not in the middle of next week. Duh! It was all very frustrating.  And I was hell to live with. Nothing was right for me ... I’m lucky Joe didn’t chuck me out.

First to be done was the lounge, which meant finding a home for everything except the bigger furniture. That was uneventful as it turned out; putting it all back was the biggest hassle. I mean, we just aren’t experienced picture hangers and ornaments just didn’t look right in their usual places. Time for a rethink and a change!

We liked the spaced out leaves on this paper.
Picture is 3D decoupage, angels cut out from giftwrap. 

After a week’s grace, the guy returned to start on the kitchen. Oh Wow! Most of the counter top stuff ended up in my office, complete with all the cups and kettles needed to keep the decorator (and us) going, plus plates to eat off. As it turned out we only had to eat off the plates on the first day... the rest of the time we went out for a pub lunch. It felt like Saturday everyday!

Kitchen wallpaper.
Picture will be described on future post.

Close-up

Weighing it all up I’m not sure which bit of redecoration was the most inconvenient. Even the hall, which isn’t exactly littered with stuff, was a problem. There are so many doors, you see; rooms leading off plus a cloakroom made nine doors ... and you can bet your bottom dollar there was always some reason to go in every room. I bet the decorator was fed-up as well. I learned a new way of walking, arms hugged in front, skirts tucked between the knees, the only way I knew to avoid all that wet paint.

Hall paper.
Preserved leaves have since been removed!

It all looks very clean and fresh and for that I am truly grateful.

I didn’t realise I had so much stuff but, hey, what a perfect time to replace or dispose of things we’ve had for years. I’m one of those people who likes everything to hand when cooking, consequently there is a considerable amount of gadgets and utensils within easy reach that can also be classed as decoration. Well, not any more. I made a vow NOT to arrange pretty biscuit tins on the tops of cupboards, NOT to litter the lovely windowsill with ornaments and plants, NOT to hang flower baskets, or ornamental fruits, or strings of imitation onions. Hmmm the next decorating job should be a doddle if I manage to keep all those vows. Help, what am I saying ... WHAT decorating job! OVER MY DEAD BODY! 

A SUMMER CHILL, CHAPTER 15

Brian kicked the door with his heel and waited for the latch to click before moving away. He dumped his bags of groceries on a wooden shoe chest and sank wearily beside them. He massaged his inflamed palms where the plastic handles had dug in. The pain was searing. Shopping was not a favourite pastime. In fact, it was an expedition he would avoid if he had the choice. He had bought enough today to save making repetitive journeys for mundane items and having constantly to work out which were Audrey's half-days.

Manipulating his knuckles, he sighed at the loss of bygone days when he popped in the store for the sheer pleasure of seeing her. For a minute or two he allowed himself to reconstruct the happiness she tried and failed to hide whenever he walked in; she, too, replete with the previous night's lovemaking, but not wanting the whole village to know. Those former joys were so inbred that he only had to close his eyes and he could almost hear her wonderful giggle, catch the exquisite scent of her body. He sniffed the air as if to catch it now and so rapt was he that the first creak of floorboards was lost somewhere in the recesses of subconscious. But the second thundered into his mind like an ambitious bullet finding its mark. It came from upstairs. Wood thudding against wood, followed by the squeak of the loose board on the landing which he meant to fix and never got round to. Whoever was up there had gone in and come out of the guest room.

           

Too quickly, forgetting where he was, he shot up. The plastic bags collapsed, tins and jars clattered onto the quarry tiles, making enough din to give skeletons a headache. Instinctively creeping, he went to the foot of the stairs, paused to take stock. Should he rush up, or lie in wait? Deciding on the latter, he held his breath and sneaked round the balustrade. The noise came again. Brian was conscious of a figure emanating like an apparition from the upper floor's shadows. He looked towards it and was flabbergasted to see David on the landing, ready to descend; clutching what looked like a dinner plate in his hand.

           

'Hello, Dad.' David Porter's white trainers flashed as he ran lightly to ground level, his dark, lank hair flying at an angle to his neck.

           

After the shock of seeing his son, and an accompanying feeling of foolishness for tiptoeing round like an overzealous cop, Brian's greeting, though not hostile, was definitely on the cool side. He strove to comprehend why David was there. In his absence, the boy would have let himself in with his key and he might have gone to piss in the bathroom, but the route there avoided completely the insecure floorboard, not forgetting the fact that apart from bathroom requirements there was no need at all to go upstairs. Fleetingly, Brian regretted giving him the key. He had provided it under pressure from Maggie who felt the boys should be allowed to infiltrate their parents' homes without having to be invited. Against his greater judgement, principally for the sake of peace, he had given in.

Still puzzling over the reason for the unexpected visit, Brian piled the shopping on the ancient hall-stand. Had it been Malcolm up there he would have challenged him for an explanation, but he had long ago ceased to question his eldest son. He preferred not being on the receiving end of his vindictiveness. David seldom dropped by, professing in his supercilious fashion to dislike the obscure memories which came to life whenever he saw familiar things. So why was he here? And how would he like it if all and sundry paid unsolicited sojourns to his tawdry apartment.

           

'I took this off the wall,' David said, breaking into his father's abstracted musing on the wisdom of trusting shiftless kids. He was holding a silver shield, an old school prize earned by completing an orienteering course. 'I'm afraid it's left a white patch on the paper.'

           

Much as he would have liked to, Brian couldn't complain about David taking his own property, though he was more than a little curious about why he wanted it now.

           

'It's nice to see you,' David said.

           

That'll be the day, thought Brian as he carried the bags to the kitchen. He was aware of his ungracious judgment yet unable to change his view. Notwithstanding, he quashed the sentiment and fractionally softened his voice when he invited his son to take coffee.

*******

           

David shrugged off his black windcheater and draped it on a chair, then rolled the sleeves of his white shirt as if preparing for a fight. 'Don't forget, no sugar.'

           

He's as skinny as ever, Brian noted, spooning coffee into two beakers, but he made no comment. David was old enough to take care of himself. If he didn't, then he just had himself to blame. He filled the mugs with hot water, and decided it would be wiser not to interfere. It would only provoke David's anger and produce one of his distressing tantrums. He carried the mugs to the table, where David was closely vetting the shield, scratching it here and there with his fingernail and breathing on the inscription before rubbing it with the corner of the tablecloth. By design, Brian ignored his cheek. 'It's not real silver, you know, if you were thinking of selling it?'

           

'I want it for my wall.'

           

'You could have asked.'

           

'I know,' David said, a hint of skittishness showing through.

           

David rented a small lock-up shop in a sleazy alleyway in Redhampton, not far from his two-bedroom apartment. He sold second hand goods, furnishings, silver and jewellery. No garments, for he believed them to be untouchable habits of either the luckless or the dead. Brian found the place distasteful. He was repelled by the smell which he likened to an inhabited grave. Though recognising that decent money could be made from dealing in unwanted chattels, he couldn't help feeling it was a waste of good education.

           

Elbows on the table, hands clasped round the body of the mug, David slurped his coffee. His resemblance to his mother was uncanny, particularly those amazingly beautiful eyes and thick lashes. Brian wondered if his countenance would be less feminine if he had inherited the Porter features rather than Maggie's - like Malcolm had, and he was all right. From the number of on-off romances he enjoyed, his sex life would appear to be thoroughly normal.

           

The silence was getting on his nerves but Brian didn't know how to end it, so he slit open a packet of biscuits and offered it. David's flaccid wrist action as he selected one, and the way the little finger stood rigid, reinforced Brian's belief that he would never get used to his son's lifestyle. A single man, now thirty, David had never had a serious liaison with a girl. Short lived affairs with students were soon abandoned for the company of young, attractive men. Brian saw him once in town, holding his paramour's hand like lovers do. He was so disgusted he hurried away in the opposite direction, fearing he might disgorge his breakfast or whatever meal had preceded that repellent spectacle.

           

'I roamed round a bit while I was waiting,' David said, without unveiling even a trace of guilt. 'That snap of Malcolm and me, was it taken at Blackpool?'

           

'Which snap? There's two.'

           

'The one in the silver frame on the mantelpiece. Him on the donkey. Was it taken at Blackpool?'

           

'Yes.'

           

'And the plaster figure of a boy archer which Malcolm won at the fair, was that the same year?'

           

'I think so.'

           

Brian recalled that fair: colourful, gay and deafening. Maggie had been terrified on the waltzers, especially when the attendant spun their car for an additional thrill. Out of the blue, Brian was gripped by nostalgia and the longing for a sight of the past sent him scuttling to fetch a box of old snapshots which he could never bring himself to destroy.

           

The single stone in David's signet ring sparkled as he riffled the jumbled heap. Choosing one of Malcolm toddling along Menorca's huge marina, he said, 'I was thinking about dear brother earlier.' He tossed back a lock of hair. 'Remember the miniature helter-skelter we had in the yard? I can still hear him crying because he was too scared to let go. I pushed him extra hard once and he squawked all the way. That gave him a something to cry about.'

           

'You two never got on,' observed Brian. He was examining a picture of his sons, aged two and four: Malcolm on a blanket, happily holding a beach ball, David glowering behind him. 'I hoped the bond would improve when you grew up. I assumed when he moved in you'd outgrown your differences.' Malcolm had shared David's home for eight months, but after a massive argument he returned to live with their mother.

           

Instead of answering, David studied a snap of his parents posing in Brighton, thoughtfully inverting it to look for a date. 'I get an impression of angry words when I look at this. Hadn't you been there previously?'

           

There had indeed been a veritable reservoir of angry words. Brian had been there on a prior occasion, with Audrey, for a sinful weekend they dubbed sex in the sun. Without thinking he had let slip a local snippet which he ought not to have known and on which Maggie had pounced as if unearthing a jewel from the sand. The ensuing bitter quarrel took months to overcome.

           

David sauntered to the window and, with his back to Brian, he said, 'Do you rendezvous with Mum when you go into town?'

           

It was a mystifying query considering the numerous years since the divorce. Brian wondered, as he took a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket, why David had asked. He took his time lighting up. 'We bump into each other periodically,' he said, wafting the blue smoke with his hand. 'In the supermarket, mostly. We've had coffee there a few times.'

           

David came back and straddled the seat, blowing away a circle of smoke. 'She's lonely, and frightfully unhappy,' he said, twisting his hair round his fingers. 'She doesn't ever say so, but I know she is. It's my opinion she misses the nooky. I thought if you went to see her ....'

           

'There's nothing I can do about it,' Brian exclaimed, utterly horrified that David should even mention his mother's personal inclinations. 'As for being lonely, that's bloody poppycock. She's got plenty of friends, as well as your do-gooding aunts. I presume they're still around. And Malcolm's there to keep an eye on her.'

           

'Him! He couldn't help himself let alone Mum.'

           

The remark was uncalled for, no matter what their relationship. Brian fiercely defended his second son. 'Your brother's regard for your mother's welfare is commendable. He does everything for her.' Grinding the half smoked cigarette in the ashtray, he added, 'She doesn't have to lift a finger.'

           

A rising high colour indicated David's annoyance. 'Not like when you were married to her, eh?' He slammed his hand on the table. 'She had to do everything then. You were never there. Supposed to be working.' His voice conveyed resentment. He stabbed Brian's hand with his finger and growled, 'You forced the situation on her. You owe her a little support.'

           

Altogether confounded by this attack, and especially the unforeseen change in David's attitude, Brian fiddled with the metal ashtray, viciously shovelling ash into a heap with the squashed nub, desperately needing to repossess his composure and not show that he was riled. 'What are you trying to do, Dave?'

           

David got to his feet and stared down at his father, the sudden emotional flare-up apparently subsiding. 'I didn't mean to get on my high horse. It's just that I worry about Mum's mental state. Malcolm ...' Seeing Brian was about to interrupt, he held up his hand. 'Let me finish. Malcolm's capital with physical jobs, but he doesn't understand her psychological needs.' And with that peculiar statement, he snatched up his coat and slung it casually over one shoulder, saying, 'I'd better go.'

           

Lulled into a sense of sentimentality, Brian ignored David's extended hand and pulled him close, completely forgetting for a moment the discrepancy of genes. The fleeting contact was like drowning beneath a pounding breaker of mushrooming embarrassment and the force with which they shoved each other away signified that the devastating experience was mutual.

           

At the front door, though keeping his distance, Brian made a last attempt at fellowship. 'I didn't see the motor when I came in. D'you want a lift?'

           

There was no comment about the car nor gratitude for the offer. All David said was, 'I'd rather use the bus.' At the gate he stopped. 'By the way,' he sneered, returning to the vitriolic style his father loathed. 'I like the photo.'

           

'Which one?' There were so many.

           

'The bitch by your bed.' The venom in David's utterance was odious, but his malice wasn't sated for, as he twisted on his heel and strode away, he scurrilously yelled, 'Man's best friend, she who only fucks married men, the one who pinched you off my mother.'

           

Solidly stupefied, Brian started to chase after him, but David was too quick. He was out of sight before he reached the gate. Brian stood there, surveying the empty road, knowing it would be futile to try and catch him up. Though he was stronger and could easily crush David, he was responsibly aware that battles were never won with fists. And he reluctantly admitted that David's command of scathing language was far too vigorous for him to compete with. He went into the house and crashed the door so hard that a vase toppled from the adjacent sill. It hurtled to the floor. He disregarded it, went instead for the whisky, gulping it in one before racing upstairs to check on Audrey's picture. It was in its rightful position, facing the bed, not mutilated as he had feared it might be. He ran his forefinger over her lips, outlining the welcoming smile. 'He won't get away with maligning you,' he said. 'I'll see him in hell first.'

*******

Armed with a glass brimming with scotch, Brian slumped in his armchair and agonised over all aspects of the visit. Nothing would have been achieved by explaining that he and Audrey were no longer a twosome, even supposing David had a right to know. Taking a long swallow, he threw his leg over the chair's arm. Thanks to David he was now encompassed in a low spirited hopelessness which was akin to grief after death.

(to be continued)

Monday Mirth

Two blondes walk into a building ... you’d think at least one of them would have seen it.

 

Phone answering machine message:  'If you want to buy marijuana, press the hash key...'

 

A new book has confirmed a theory that I first proposed in 1987, in a column explaining why men are physically unqualified to do housework.

The problem, I argued, is that men -- because of a tragic genetic flaw -- cannot see dirt until there is enough of it to support agriculture. This puts men at a huge disadvantage against women, who can detect a single dirt molecule 20 feet away. This is why a man and a woman can both be looking at the same bathroom commode, and the man -- hindered by Male Genetic Dirt Blindness (MGDB) -- will perceive the commode surface as being clean enough for heart surgery or even meat slicing; whereas the woman can't even see the commode, only a teeming, commode-shaped swarm of bacteria.

A woman can spend two hours cleaning a toothbrush holder and still not be totally satisfied; whereas if you ask a man to clean the entire New York City subway system, he'll go down there with a bottle of Windex and a single paper towel, then emerge 25 minutes later, weary but satisfied with a job well done.

When I wrote about Male Genetic Dirt Blindness, many irate readers complained that I was engaging in sexist stereotyping, as well as making lame excuses for the fact that men are lazy pigs. All of these irate readers belonged to a gender that I will not identify here, other than to say: Guess what, ladies? There is now scientific proof that I was right. This proof appears in a new book titled "What Could He Be Thinking? How a Man's Mind Really Works".

I have not personally read this book, because, as a journalist, I am too busy writing about it. But according to an article by Reuters, the book states that a man's brain "takes in less sensory detail than a woman's, so he doesn't see or even feel the dust and household mess in the same way." Got that? We can't see or feel the mess! We're like: "What snow tires in the dining room? Oh, those snow tires in the dining room.''. And this is only one of the differences between men's and women's brains.

Another difference involves a brain part called the "cingulate gyrus" which is the sector where emotions are located. The Reuters article does not describe the cingulate gyrus, but presumably in women it is a structure the size of a mature cantaloupe, containing a vast quantity of complex, endlessly re-calibrated emotional data involving hundreds, perhaps thousands of human relationships; whereas in men it is basically a cashew filled with NFL highlights.

In any event, it turns out that women's brains secrete more of the chemicals "oxytocin" and "serotonin", which, according to biologists, cause humans to feel they have an inadequate supply of shoes. No, seriously, these chemicals cause humans to want to bond with other humans, which is why women like to share their feelings. Some women (and here I am referring to my wife) can share as many as three days' worth of feelings about an event that took eight seconds to actually happen.

We men, on the other hand, are reluctant to share our feelings, in large part because we often don't have any. Really. Ask any guy: A lot of the time, when we look like we're thinking, we just have this low-level humming sound in our brains. That's why, in male-female conversations, the male part often consists entirely of him going "hmmmm." This frustrates the woman, who wants to know what he's really thinking. In fact, what he's thinking is, literally, "hmmmm."

So anyway, according to the Reuters article, when a man, instead of sharing feelings with his mate, chooses to lie on the sofa, holding the remote control and monitoring 750 television programs simultaneously by changing the channel every one-half second (pausing slightly longer for programs that feature touchdowns, fighting, shooting, car crashes or bosoms) his mate should not come to the mistaken conclusion that he is an insensitive jerk. In fact, he is responding to scientific biological brain chemicals that require him to behave this way for scientific reasons, as detailed in the scientific book "What Could He Be Thinking? How a Man's Mind Really Works", which I frankly cannot recommend highly enough.

Sunday Scenes from Vigo

This is Vigo

Peaceful, warm and, yes, wonderful

Shot taken from the coach

Don't ask ... it's just a passing shot!

This and the following are shots from the coach.

And, of course. the inevitable crane ... there's always one!

Saturday Special

For your entertainment

Family Relics

Many years ago hubs and I lived in a huge 5 bedroomed house with stained glass windows, a staircase more suited to a crinolined lady, and a huge hall with a picture shelf all the way round. It was on that shelf that I displayed my collection of glass bottles, all shapes and sizes, ages, and colours. They were fun to collect, not so much fun to keep clean! If we saw a village market I just had to stop and see if any ancient bottles were for sale.

However, the collection had to be curtailed when we moved to a bungalow which was fairy-like compared to the big house. Nowadays it is known as downsizing.  As years rolled by the assortment of bottles diminished, some were broken and some given away until I was left with a few miniature relics of days gone by.

Having a house decorated does wonders for sorting out ones belongings and that’s how I came to study six of those relics. So the question arose ... chuck or not to chuck? The answer was ... No. Here's the six items in question. 

Mackenzie Smelling Salts

Original Bovril Bottle

 A very old medicine bottle (with measurements)

A bottle of Venos lightning cough cure 

A small bottle of Spike Lavender oil made by Boots, the Chemist, with some oil still inside.

Original Eye Bath

Two items, smelling salts and Spike Lavender, had belonged to my aunt, sadly no longer with us, and to discard them would be like removing her presence from my memory. So I made them into a display piece, gluing each item into a wooden box I just happened to have. It once contained packs of herbal and fruit teas, a gift from Australia, and was exactly the right size to hold a few vestiges of the past.

What do you think?

TEA FOR TWO, PART 4 (repeat)

George was feeding a gaggle of Canada geese and talking reassuringly whenever one ventured to take the bread from his hand. He obviously discounted the steady drizzle for his soft-felt hat was squashed into the pocket of his Barber jacket. Much good will that do him, Gentle thought, as she huddled into her paisley umbrella. Leaving the path, she stepped across the grass to where George was shooing the geese away.

           

'That's all, boys and girls,' he said, bestowing Gentle with a sheepish grin. 'Hello, m'dear. Wasn't sure you'd wander out on such a miserable day, especially after my discourteous exodus.'

           

In spite of Gentle's determination to keep her cool, she thrust her hand in her pocket to bring out the grey wallet. Stitches popped as she wrenched it out.

           

'Brilliant,' George exclaimed. 'You found the wallet. I couldn't think what had happened to it. Didn't realise I'd left it behind. Thought I'd lost it in the bank, but the manager said not. At least he said no-one had handed it in.'

           

An unbearable wave of disquiet circulated Gentle's internal system. There was no question it was Gilbert Mellish's wallet; the initials confirmed it. So what was George doing with it? George was holding out his hand, palm upwards, waiting for her to hand it over. Idiotically, she thought how deeply-etched his life-line was and how red the flesh embedding the shank of a gold signet ring.

           

'Are you all right, m'dear?'

           

By degrees, Gentle's wits returned. Indubitably, there was a lucid explanation. 'I thought it belonged to Gilbert Mellish,' she said, offering the wallet. 'He was ... is my benefactor. There was a photograph of you. I thought ...'

           

George reddened, and there was a lull so intense that Gentle thought his malady had recurred. 'It looks as if I have been found out,' he said, and Gentle was surprised to see him grinning. He plucked the photographs from the wallet and leafed through until he came to the one of him. Perusing it briefly, he inserted it behind the one of the woman and child. He pressed his lips firmly together as though subduing an additional comment.

           

Gentle was exhaustively flummoxed. She tilted the umbrella and tested the air with her hand. The rain had stopped. A military jet streaked through the sky, observed by children in a nearby school-yard. It was home-time for them. They knew where their homes were. Gentle wasn't so sure. She wasn't convinced of anything any more.

           

George stowed the prints in the wallet and snapped it shut. Thoughtfully, he contemplated Gentle as if deliberating what to say, while Gentle furled the umbrella and endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to envisage what the eventual upshot would be.

           

George confessed: 'My real name is Gilbert Mellish. Gilbert George Mellish.'

           

The stunned silence that succeeded the extraordinary pronouncement was eventually broken by Gentle's belated gasp. Her umbrella thudded to the ground. So dumbfounded was she that she could not speak. She simply gawked.

           

'I hoped you would never find out.'

           

'Why?' she whispered, meaning why did he give her the house, but George thought she was responding to his last statement and he replied that, rightly or wrongly, he had reckoned it in her best interests not to know.

           

'Come,' he said, examining the dull sky. 'Let's take shelter before the next deluge. He picked up the paisley umbrella, took her arm, and escorted her to the deserted bandstand. It smelled damp. Puddles lay where rain had filtrated the punctured tarpaulin cover. The floor was littered with sweet papers, ice cream cups, and a pizza box. A baby's pink bootee was wedged in the rails. The perimeter bench was cluttered with crushed Carlsberg cans and George had to dispose of them before they could sit down.

           

IT WAS AT THAT DESOLATE SITE THAT GENTLE APPLEYARD'S ENTIRE EXISTENCE WAS PULVERISED AND REBUILT, THE SCRIPT REWRITTEN WITH A CHANGE OF CHARACTERS. IT CAME TO LIGHT THAT GILBERT GEORGE MELLISH, ALIAS GEORGE TENSING, HAD A BIGGER ROLE TO PLAY IN GENTLE'S LIFE THAN SHE COULD EVER HAVE GUESSED.

           

George had got to know Gentle's parents at a local youth club. They played table tennis and participated in tournaments. Matilda had been the strongest player and pretty soon outdistanced her artistic boy friend. She progressed to champion level, but did not win a title. Her head at that time was filled with ideas of betrothal and her concentration lapsed. She was unable to resist the attentions of the handsome academic.

           

'Seems like a hundred years, looking back,' George said. 

           

Gentle listened intently, unaware that she was corkscrewing her handkerchief, damp now from continual swabbing of raindrops in her hair. She did not interrupt. She was anxious for details of her parents' early lives, for neither had shown an inclination to air their past. Both were unresponsive to their children's curiosity. It was as though mortality had not commenced until they met. They were orphans, she knew that; they met in an orphanage in Birmingham. Perhaps that was why they didn't recount their exploits, or describe their romance, or spoke of friends, electing to forget the lamentable events.

           

'We lost touch when I went abroad,' George said. 'India. Five years, sketching the scenery and the people. Remiss of me not to ....' He broke off as two breathless juveniles appeared at the entrance, piloted by a heaving Alsatian puppy on a well-chewed lead.

           

'Sorry, mister,' the tallest boy said, intimidated by George's menacing glare. 'Majorette wanted a pickle.'

           

'Well, take Majorette elsewhere. There's enough moisture in here without adding more.' George winked at Gentle as the boys were led sharply away by the rumbustious hound. 'Majorette indeed. Ridiculous name for an animal. So, where was I?'

           

At Gentle's prompting, he continued his account. 'George and Matilda were married by the time I returned,' he said, wincing as he said it. He fell silent, hanging his head as if ashamed. 'I shouIdn't be discussing them with you.'

           

Gentle urged him to go on.

           

'They weren't as happy as one would have expected them to be considering how ardent they'd been at the start of their engagement.'

           

Gentle reflected on her parents' unhappiness, hearing once more the nocturnal arguments. Separately, they portrayed as kind, tolerant, and caring parents, leastwise to the outside world, but those characteristics could only be attributed to her mother. At other times, one sensed the sparks waiting to ignite. To their merit, they struggled to sustain near-normal behaviour so that the children would not be affected, maintaining an atmosphere so harmonious that no outsider would suspect anything was amiss. That was daytime. At night, things went terribly wrong. That was when, in the seclusion of their own space, their disputes ricocheted like exploding shells. That was when, converged in gloomy recesses, Gentle and her brothers encountered the qualms of insecurity. Notwithstanding, regardless of their trepidation and revulsion, Gentle and the boys respected their father and adored their mother. That's why their deaths were so painful.

           

With echoes of the past occupying her mind, Gentle missed a lot of George's nostalgic narration and by the time she tuned in he was reminiscing about the dinner he laid on for Matilda's birthday. 'I gave her a brooch. A butterfly. She prized it like it was a crown jewel. How radiant she looked when she opened the box. Her hair gleamed in the candlelight. The shawl collar of her chiffon dress encircled her throat like a soft cloud.' George moaned at the memory. 'She gave me permission to pin the butterfly to her lapel. I thought I would go insane with affection for her.'

           

'Where was this, George?'

           

'Why, at home, m'dear. Tensing House.'

           

A presentiment took shape in Gentle's overactive imagination, an inkling that it was because of her mother she had been given the house. Restraining herself from babbling, and willing now to receive whatever clarification came, she enquired if it was on account of her mother that he entrusted the house to her.

           

'I gave you the house, m'dear, to salve my conscience, because you are your mother's child. I would have provided for her and her family if she would have allowed it, but she dreaded the disgrace. No matter that your father's knowledge of her disloyalty converted him to a brute, or that he beat her unmercifully, she perceived that her children's innocence was of paramount importance.'

           

Finding the revelation distressing, Gentle twisted away and peered through the sheeting rain. A courting couple were canoodling by a broad oak, heedless of the inclement weather. What a pity her mother had not seen fit to turn a blind eye to her principles, thought Gentle, wondering how she hadn't discerned that she was a victim of domestic violence, or even that her mother had a paramour. Nor had she grasped the worthiness of her values. Gentle wrapped her arms around her body, swaying slightly as she embraced the dawn of understanding, and recognized the forfeits her mother paid. She had trodden a principled path in her denial of love and all for the sake of moral standards. Gentle challenged her mother's prudence in enduring beatings when a man like George abided in the wings, a man who idolised her, who would have comforted and sheltered her, and cherished her to the end of time.

           

Gentle's imagination was operating at such a pace she was losing the thread of George's revelations and missing significant details. The picture was almost complete, but she needed to backtrack, to the year her mother's birthday was celebrated in Tensing House. She swung round and asked. 'When was the birthday dinner? Was it long before she died?' She was thinking about poor baby Caroline.'

           

'Oh no, m'dear. It was forty-four years ago. The year before you were born.'

           

Confounded by the startling announcement and totally unprepared for its implication, Gentle was devoid of rational speech. She could only gape in astonishment. She'd had the notion that Caroline was his daughter, instead it seemed... Gentle swallowed. This was a new slant. It suggested that her creation was due to him and not the man who raised her. An echo of shouted words ascended from the past, when she and her brothers were sheltering in the dark, quietly querying what their father meant when he labelled their mother a whore, and why he was ordering her to pack her bags and go to her fancy man. And mother, exhausted by the years of bickering, insisting she would not leave the kids; and father, refusing to let them go. And the subsequent screams, their father bellowing, for some strange reason, his own name: George. Bloody George.

           

Gradually, as recollection faded, Gentle returned to consciousness. George was indulgently contemplating her.

           

'Are you telling me…'

           

'Yes, m'dear.'

           

'You are ... my father?'

           

'Yes, m'dear.' 

           

That night, while sipping a beaker of hot chocolate, George's leather-bound chronicles abandoned beside her on a mulberry chaise longue, Gentle finally admitted that, subconsciously, she had known from their first meeting that they were related. The fire was ebbing, the last fragment of charred timber ready to cave-in. Great-grandfather Mellish smiled benevolently from his gilt frame. The clock intruded on the quietness, its minute finger thumping around the hour, interrupted periodically by a faltering blip on the six. As an accompaniment, someone's car alarm rang out. The lounge was lit by a single lamp, ample to read by without disturbing George, who was dozing in the fireside chair. A velvet cushion supported his head. She had covered his knees with a tartan travel rug in case his slumbers deepened. He was worn out and no wonder, having borne the burden of confession that should have been endured by her mother. Gentle had begged him to stay, and they laughed when she did. Enjoining a man to stay in his own house had seemed hilarious. He had a singular sense of humour. He didn't deserve to have been so unfairly rejected.

           

Noiselessly, she slithered from her seat and kneeled alongside him, reaching up to stroke the edge of his beard. A whit more silky growth and he could play the part of Saint Nick and deliver gifts at Christmas. But his gift to her, the gift of belonging, could never be equalled or accepted so emotionally. Gentle searched his countenance, scanning the laughter lines and the minor imperfections: liver spots and a tiny scar on his brow. The affinity was so strong, so vibrant, it was surprising he didn't wake and catch her out.

           

She was thrilled with him. It was as if the other George, her pseudo Dad, had not existed. She wished her brothers could have known him. They, like her, would not have deduced that he had sired the entire Appleyard stock. What would they have said if they had known? Peter, the noisy one, often conceded his disgust for their father's arguing and yelling, sometimes mimicking the seething rages so well that Gentle fretted they could become immutable. Graham was a mystery, quiet and uncomplaining. Outwardly reacting as if the situation was ordinary family conduct, except that Gentle habitually heard him crying in the confines of his room. Caroline, poor mite, hadn't had the chance to learn any of it.

           

Returning to her seat, Gentle cupped her beaker and sipped the chocolate, letting the steam drift up her face. She lowered her eyelids and mused about her family, whose ghosts had taken alternative identities. Mother: a sweetheart and a mistress; siblings: all bastards; and father: a barbarous impostor. Primarily, Gentle understood his attitude. He must have thought the assaults were justified even though, according to George, the marriage was never consummated. Equally, she appreciated that her mother's frustration had driven her into George's arms. That she worshipped him there was no doubt, she had gleaned that from George's diaries, each entry infused with elements of rapture and delight, passion and enchantment, and the melodrama that accompanied each welcome birth - barring Caroline who died with her mother, she, too, a victim of George Appleyard's brutality.

           

Gentle drained the last mouthful of chocolate and selected another diary. The only one in white leather. Raising the cover, she saw more photographs of her grandparents and George in his knickerbockers. There was also a duplicate portrayal of the woman and child. She extricated it from the protective film and turned it over. A dedication was penned in black ink. At the foot, a squiggly arrow had been inserted to draw attention to a block of kisses the size of a postage stamp, below which was written: To dearest Bertie, with all our love, Matilda and Gentle. The date was Gentle's first birthday. With tears in her eyes, she looked at George and saw that he had stirred. He was smiling, and his smile depicted a contented soul, personifying a man who had, at last, achieved his rightful place in his daughter's heart. 

THE END