Fandango in the Apse! Read Free

and common people,’ she said, on
numerous occasions.  She liked to think herself a cut above; I think it was to
do with her job as a senior planning officer for the council.  She had power
and knew how to wield it.  I heard it said, in the first six months after her
retirement there was an unprecedented flurry of new building and extension
plans submitted to the planning office, followed by an unprecedented flurry of
new buildings and extensions appearing around the town.  It’s safe to say her
job, combined with her Chairmanship of St Bartholomew’s Church Restoration Fund,
gave her delusions of grandeur. 
    The cabinet held two services, the ordinary everyday set and a hideous
Royal Albert red and pink flowery creation, which she classed as “best”. The
lounge was a perfect fifties throwback, all spotless nylon carpet, itchy sofas
and G-Plan.  Two lamps, their shades still wrapped in the original cellophane,
stood either side of a brass crucifix on the sideboard. 
    I can’t tell you the amount of times I wanted to rip off that cellophane,
I mean, what is the point of buying two lamps with perfectly good shades and
then keeping them covered?  To me, it’s like having your hair done and then
wearing a hat; mind you, old women do that as well, don’t they? 
    I did my best to avoid my mother’s wrath, mainly because in full meltdown
she was like a stealth bomber; you didn’t see her coming until you got blown
away by the blast.  I’ll give you an example or two, but before I do, you need
to know my mother didn’t believe in outright violence.  What she did believe in
was far worse, and honestly, there were times when I would have much preferred
a swift kick up the backside. 
    Picture this… it was a Sunday morning; I was sitting in the kitchen
dressed in my church clothes, trying to play with the cat while waiting for my
mother to come downstairs.  I didn’t like the cat; he was as cold and
unsociable as his owner, but periodically I liked to make an effort to remind
him he had once been a playful kitten.
    That morning he was particularly unresponsive and after a hiss of
annoyance, he jumped from my arms.  That would have been fine, except in his
rush his claws caught the tablecloth and dragged it, and a jug of milk, down
with him.  The almighty crash had my mother in the kitchen in seconds.  As she
stood in the doorway taking in the scene, I couldn’t help my heart beating in
time to the purple vein pulsating on her almost transparent temple.  I was in
deep trouble and stood transfixed by my mother’s distorted features, awaiting
the inevitable.
    ‘You stupid fool,’ she growled. ‘What have you done now?’ 
    ‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ I whispered, bending to pick up the broken shards.
    ‘Get up, you gormless idiot! You’re getting milk on your dress!’ she
shrieked, as she swept past to get the dustpan and brush. ‘Dear Lord, why did
you see fit to saddle me with this imbecile?’ she whined into the pantry, as if
she fully expected the Lord’s answer to come from behind the tins of baked
beans.
    She turned around and the sight of me standing there with milk dripping
from the bottom of my Sunday best sent her into overdrive.
    ‘This is just typical of you.  Get out of my sight and change your dress,
you useless lump!’ 
    I murmured another apology as I headed for the door.  I’d have done
better to keep my mouth shut.
    ‘You’re sorry, you’re sorry?’ she sneered in a singsong voice.  ‘You will be sorry, you hateful child, make no mistake about that.’
    By this time, I’d had nine years’ experience of my mother’s
vindictiveness and had reached the conclusion that she made a conscious effort
to dream up the nastiest punishments she could think of.  I’d had them all – my
mouth washed out with carbolic soap until I vomited, for telling a fib.  The
time I had to stand outside for ages, barefoot in a bucket of cold water in the
middle of winter.  I got chilblains