His fist slammed onto the kitchen table, causing a boiled potato to bounce from his plate onto the floor, where Dolly, our very over weight Jack Russell, grabbed it and waddled to her bed in the corner. Nobody moved. Mum, my sister Mary and I sat staring at him, waiting.
For as long as I can remember, Dad talked with his fists, not words. I grew up, terrified of him and the pain he would inflict on myself and Mary, for something as small as not finishing our meal, or leaving a toy in the wrong place.
Mum was used to it, I don’t envy her, the marriage she had. Why she stayed, I don’t know, don’t think I will ever understand.When she was away from the house, away from Dad, she was a different person; she talked more, she laughed, but once she stepped back into this house, it was as though a mask came down, a sad, tired, defeated mask that hid her pretty smile.
When Mary and I reached our teens, Dad no longer scared us. Sure he still gave us a slap, kick or punch now and then, (if he could catch us), but we became stronger and stood up for ourselves, we had to. Mary, three years older than me had the softer side to her nature, whereas I was the one with “the mouth” and the determination to stand up to him. It was my responsibility to protect Mary, I always would.
Mary and I grew up, having each other’s backs, no one else was there to do it; we had the usual silly fights over the years, like who was going to be Agnetha or Frieda from Abba, as we sang into our hairbrushes, nothing major, but we had plenty of good times too.
We both took after our Mother in the figure department. As I was once told, by a Doctor, “if you were born in the 18th century, people would’ve loved your figure”.
Oh, thank you so much, that is really nice of you, would it be possible to get a prescription for a fucking time machine?
What I am trying to say is that we both had good child bearing hips, small waist and huge, and I mean huge boobs! No regular, pretty bras for us, oh no! What we wore, you could tie to two trees and call it a bloody hammock. It seemed as though I developed them overnight, at age eleven. From that day forward, my nickname at school, was, sadly, “Bessie Big Boobs”!
School swimming lessons will be forever etched in my mind. Always a little side boob sticking out, from the cheap, flimsy swimsuits, I wore. We didn’t have a lot of money. I shouldn’t even mention gym…. Don’t let anyone tell you that masking tape will hold them down, tried it, have the rash to prove it and can vouch that it does not work.
So here we are, sitting around our old, rickety, kitchen table, in a room that hasn’t changed much over the years. Same dark brown cabinets, nicotine stained orange and yellow wallpaper and cream linoleum covering the floor, dog bed beside the fridge. Home!
I was trying so hard not to fold my arms across my chest, as that always annoyed Dad!
Staring at the food on my fork, trying to let him have his say and not interrupt, he yelled,
“Ye drop this bombshell on us now, ruining our tea when your mother has slaved all day to make it”?
I love my Mum, I really do, but I highly doubted she had been standing at the cooker since first thing this morning considering the meal consisted of fish fingers, boiled potatoes and peas, but decided now would not be a good time to say this! I liked my head where was…. On my shoulders.
It seemed as though the temperature in the room had risen quickly, beginning to get uncomfortably hot, and it wasn’t from the oven that was left on. Dad scraped his chair back, hitting the radiator on the wall and yelled,
“No daughter of mine is leaving home at eighteen to join the bloody Navy, no way, not if she wants to be welcomed back into my house”. Mmm, tough decision, (I thought to myself, sarcastically)!
