proper game of knock-a-door-run. He ran into the house and through the lounge. She wasn't in the kitchen. 'Mum,' he called.
'Where are yer?' The biscuit tin was on the table and he thought about raiding it but he wanted to show her first what he'd made. He'd worked on the pincushion nearly all term. It was in the shape of a daisy, with a yellow centre cross-stitched into the middle.
'Mum,' he shouted. He tackled the stairs like a rock wall, using his hands as well as his feet. 'Come on.'
He raced into her bedroom, thanking his lucky stars that Jen had gone round to Bev's after school. Now he would get Mum all to himself. He slid right into the foot of the bed, banged his shin and dropped the pincushion. He bent down and when he straightened up again she said, 'Arise, Sir Gabriel,' and touched his shoulders with a curtain rod.
Gabe stood puffing and panting, chiefly out of surprise.
Mum laughed. 'Stop your gawping, Gabriel. And tell me what you think.'
She was twisting and turning in front of the mirror, wearing a pair of frilly bloomers, a skirt that seemed to be made of metal hoops joined by some sort of gauze, and a corset that pinched her breasts together. Her cheeks were pink as candy floss and she had ringlets, just like Jenny's porcelain doll. She twisted some hair around a finger and said, 'Rags. Nana used to do them for me, every Sunday for church. Know what?' she said, straining to see her back in the mirror, 'I used to hate them then.'
'Mum,' said Gabriel. 'You look ...'
'Get away,' she said, 'wait 'til you see the whole thing.'
'Whole what thing?' said Gabriel, sitting down on the bed.
'The dress, you dummy. Haven't even got that yet.' She shrieked and jumped on top of him and tickled him under his arms.
'Well, I think you look right lovely,' said Gabriel, when she finally let him go.
Mum sat next to him and adjusted her corset. She held his face between her hands. He could see the bedroom window, the half-pulled curtains, reflected in both her eyes. Her long, slim nose was flecked with powder. The nostrils flared slightly as she breathed.
'I was born wrong time, wrong place. I've told you that before.' Her laugh was like a scatter of silver pieces. She jumped up and curtseyed, long and low, and held out her hand which he took. 'No wonder I'm never on time for anything,' she said, looking solemn. 'I'm a whole two centuries behind.'
They went downstairs and danced in the kitchen to whatever came on the radio, Val Doonican, Perry Como, the Beatles, The Who, moving in what they imagined to be the stately fashion of courtiers, breaking out occasionally into a frenzy of rock and roll. Dad came home, trailing Jenny and a cloud of poison gas. 'It's past six o'clock,' he said, his ears colouring.
Mum clamped her hands over her breasts as if she feared they would be confiscated. 'Don't,' she yelled at Dad. 'Don't tell me who to be.'
She burned some sausages and made chips that were oily on the outside and raw in the middle. Dad stood over Gabe and Jen until they'd eaten everything on their plates. 'It's good food, that. Yer mum's made it.'
Everyone had to suffer.
Mum had her dressing gown over her corset and crinoline; her ringlets looked greasy and damp. She stood at the sink, smoking, while the rest of them choked down the food. Jenny got up from the table, went out to the back yard to be sick and came back and ate the rest of her chips. Gabe heard her being sick in the night. The costume came out again a few times. Mum talked about what colour the dress would be, with how many ribbons and bows. Then Dad got a promotion and they moved away from Astley Street, up to Plodder Lane, and Mum cut up the crinoline and Jenny played hula with the hoops. Gabriel found the pincushion under the bed, when everything had been packed away. 'I made that,'
he said, blushing. 'Did you, dear?' said Mum. He didn't remember seeing it again after that.
Plodder Lane sat at the north-east edge of Blantwistle looking down on
'Where are yer?' The biscuit tin was on the table and he thought about raiding it but he wanted to show her first what he'd made. He'd worked on the pincushion nearly all term. It was in the shape of a daisy, with a yellow centre cross-stitched into the middle.
'Mum,' he shouted. He tackled the stairs like a rock wall, using his hands as well as his feet. 'Come on.'
He raced into her bedroom, thanking his lucky stars that Jen had gone round to Bev's after school. Now he would get Mum all to himself. He slid right into the foot of the bed, banged his shin and dropped the pincushion. He bent down and when he straightened up again she said, 'Arise, Sir Gabriel,' and touched his shoulders with a curtain rod.
Gabe stood puffing and panting, chiefly out of surprise.
Mum laughed. 'Stop your gawping, Gabriel. And tell me what you think.'
She was twisting and turning in front of the mirror, wearing a pair of frilly bloomers, a skirt that seemed to be made of metal hoops joined by some sort of gauze, and a corset that pinched her breasts together. Her cheeks were pink as candy floss and she had ringlets, just like Jenny's porcelain doll. She twisted some hair around a finger and said, 'Rags. Nana used to do them for me, every Sunday for church. Know what?' she said, straining to see her back in the mirror, 'I used to hate them then.'
'Mum,' said Gabriel. 'You look ...'
'Get away,' she said, 'wait 'til you see the whole thing.'
'Whole what thing?' said Gabriel, sitting down on the bed.
'The dress, you dummy. Haven't even got that yet.' She shrieked and jumped on top of him and tickled him under his arms.
'Well, I think you look right lovely,' said Gabriel, when she finally let him go.
Mum sat next to him and adjusted her corset. She held his face between her hands. He could see the bedroom window, the half-pulled curtains, reflected in both her eyes. Her long, slim nose was flecked with powder. The nostrils flared slightly as she breathed.
'I was born wrong time, wrong place. I've told you that before.' Her laugh was like a scatter of silver pieces. She jumped up and curtseyed, long and low, and held out her hand which he took. 'No wonder I'm never on time for anything,' she said, looking solemn. 'I'm a whole two centuries behind.'
They went downstairs and danced in the kitchen to whatever came on the radio, Val Doonican, Perry Como, the Beatles, The Who, moving in what they imagined to be the stately fashion of courtiers, breaking out occasionally into a frenzy of rock and roll. Dad came home, trailing Jenny and a cloud of poison gas. 'It's past six o'clock,' he said, his ears colouring.
Mum clamped her hands over her breasts as if she feared they would be confiscated. 'Don't,' she yelled at Dad. 'Don't tell me who to be.'
She burned some sausages and made chips that were oily on the outside and raw in the middle. Dad stood over Gabe and Jen until they'd eaten everything on their plates. 'It's good food, that. Yer mum's made it.'
Everyone had to suffer.
Mum had her dressing gown over her corset and crinoline; her ringlets looked greasy and damp. She stood at the sink, smoking, while the rest of them choked down the food. Jenny got up from the table, went out to the back yard to be sick and came back and ate the rest of her chips. Gabe heard her being sick in the night. The costume came out again a few times. Mum talked about what colour the dress would be, with how many ribbons and bows. Then Dad got a promotion and they moved away from Astley Street, up to Plodder Lane, and Mum cut up the crinoline and Jenny played hula with the hoops. Gabriel found the pincushion under the bed, when everything had been packed away. 'I made that,'
he said, blushing. 'Did you, dear?' said Mum. He didn't remember seeing it again after that.
Plodder Lane sat at the north-east edge of Blantwistle looking down on
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