Page 90 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #2

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done to his toes.
marshmallow-like singer who reminds Susan of Maureen Lovage, is ending the Billy Cotton Band Show with a spirited rendition of “Danny Boy.”
“Take Aunt Aggie’s place. Haven’t you noticed it always smells of Dettol disinfectant and cats?” asks Susan, daring to help herself to another chocolate.
“I do my best and all I get is complaints,” Edna’s voice is discordant as a knife scraping a china plate.
“I don’t know why she keeps those cats,” says Edna. “Your Dad nearly slipped in a pool of cat sick last time we were there.”
Susan swallows hard, trying to push chocolate down her throat. “It wasn’t a complaint, I was just commenting,” she wails.
“Yeah, but I bet she doesn’t notice the smell. ‘Cos it’s her own house. Tonight, when I came home, I noticed the smell — cooking fat and floor polish. Like a stranger’s house.”
“Well keep your commenting to yourself, up- setting your mother like that,” yells Bert.
Edna’s needles stop. Susan is aware of a halt in the progression of chocolate down her esopha- gus.
Unable to sleep, Susan feels as if she’s falling through the mattress. She hasn’t heard Fergus come in. What if Fergus is hungover tomorrow at Sunday lunch? No matter how she tosses and turns, Susan can’t stop the sensation that she’s plummeting through space. Fergus, hungover at the dining table and her mother resenting it ... Susan’s limbs are flailing in weightlessness. She hears the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. Susan feels the drop of her stomach as her body free-falls another thousand feet. There’s a low rumble of voices. Then the sound of measured, sober steps on the stairs followed by a flush of the toilet and a click as Fergus quietly closes his bedroom door. Susan slumps against the mattress with relief.
“A stranger’s house, is it?” says Edna, voice quivering with anger. “Well, little Lady Muck, I’m sorry you can smell our supper but we’ve got to eat, you know. And how do you expect me to keep the house clean if I don’t use pol- ish.”
Bert stirs. He always wakes in the same way. He gasps, and then gulps, his body shudders. Susan finds it alarming. Her father seems so fragile she can imagine his splutters could eas- ily be a death rattle.
“What’s the matter now?” Bert asks.
“I don’t know why I bother,” Edna mutters, teeth clenched.
As she drifts off to sleep, Susan thinks about
Susan tries to concentrate on the television — maybe if she doesn’t say anything, her mother will calm down. Tessie O’Shea, a blonde,