Homeward Bound

Homeward Bound Chapter 5

'What now?' mum asked me, as if she couldn't think for herself.

'How about, you dealing with lunch and I will deal with the rooms?' I suggested.

'What's wrong with the rooms?' she complained, as I fought the battle with Tibbles to the point that I gave her a sharpish shove out the way, while putting on some extra strong glamour cleaning gloves.

'Where is the vicar going to sit?' I pointed out.

'You think he will actually come in?' she exclaimed, now looking around at the mess like she was seeing it for the first time.

'Well, mother, he's not going to stand on the doorstep and discuss the future of dad's last stand,' I snapped at her.

'Oh, well I supposed a little hoovering might suffice,' she agreed, looking all pathetic at me. 'I would have done it, but with...' she gave a sniff, 'with him going like he did and the pain of losing him, I lost track of things. I would have done it, Cara, I really would have. He was forever telling me not to both and to sit down and enjoy life, now we're in our twilight years. I would really hoover but...'

'No, I don't want you to jigger your back, so you can deal with lunch and sort out some plates and cups to serve tea and cake,' I ordered.

'Not that stuff you insisted I bought. There is no way I can eat that with milk in it. I shall make something.'

I said no more because at least she was making progress towards the kitchen. Her first port of call was to turn the radio back on that local radio channel. I could bear that if she actually did something. The other great thing was that Tibbles went out the cat flap into the back garden.

Armed with gloves, cleaning stuff and a roll of black sacks, I set about the living room like I going into battle. It really felt that way, with the balls of tangled up wool, mostly of a pink colour, I have to say. I located the huge bag that they balls had come out of and there was the crochet blanket in question, in it garish form. At least she was doing something kind of productive now dad was gone.

With the wool now all back in the bag and hopefully would stay there, I set about removing the mountain of paperwork from the sofa, which mingled with what looked to be jigsaw puzzles that dad used to do, piled up photo albums and unopened hobby craft cross stitch kits, which had been another craze mum had jumped on the bandwagon to do.

I decided that the best move would be to put the jigsaws in a corner out of sight, the cross stitch stuff to be housed in her bedroom, which had stacks of rubbish in there too, and the photo albums to be put on the floor for later, when I supposed we'd have to choose a picture of dad looking less grumpy for his order of service.

I checked on mum before I went to find her hoover, some new bagless thing that looked like it needed clean before using. Mum seemed happy in her little world of baking, now she was doing it. It looked like she was going to attempt a sponge. Once she'd been a very good baker than cook.

The hoover proved to be a very noisy thing that I had to empty several times before I moved what had been dad's armchair out from its home to remove the dirt from behind it. It was while I was doing this that I stepped on something hard and unforgiving. I gave a shriek, which alerted mum to the fact that something had upset me.

She came waddling into the room, holding a spatula with cake mix on and looked at me, while I pointed to whatever it was on the floor, coated with dust and much more. It looked very unappetising, as I gave it a gentle tap with my big toe.

'What have you found?' she warily asked me, like she feared it would be something the cat brought in or had done.

'I'm not sure,' I replied.