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Authors: Gilda O'Neill
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now, her fists tucked tight into her waist. ‘D’you know what’s really sad? You’ve got the chance to get on, just like me, ’cos his mate Chas really fancies yer. But yer too scared to take a chance. Just like you always are.’
Evie stepped out into the street and slammed the door behind her with an almighty bang, making the photograph of her and Babs as identical cuddling five-year-olds jump off its nail in the hall and go crashing to the ground.
Babs closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before bending down to clear up the broken glass. She held out the bottom of her apron and dropped the shards into it, then picked up the photograph. It hadn’t been damaged but it looked forlorn and faded without the shiny covering of glass. The clips and wooden backing were still intact so she hung the now dull picture back on the wall and then walked slowly, head down, back to the kitchen. She stood in the open doorway and looked at Georgie slumped in the chair by the hearth, his legs stuck out in front of him, flicking half-heartedly though the Sunday paper.
‘All right, Dad?’ she asked softly.
Georgie folded the newspaper back on itself. ‘Full of bloody war again,’ he muttered furiously, his lips tight. ‘What’s wrong with people? Yer’d think they was looking forward to it.’
‘D’yer wanna go in the front room and have the wireless on?’ Babs asked over her shoulder as she wrapped the pieces of glass in an old blue sugar bag and put it in the rubbish bucket outside the back door. ‘I can do the washing up later on,’ she said.
‘No,’ he sighed, tossing the newspaper onto the floor. ‘You go in and listen if yer like.’
‘Tell yer what, I’ll turn it up so we can hear it in here, shall I?’
‘I said
no
,’
The anger in his voice made Babs flinch. ‘Sorry, Dad, I only thought—’
‘It don’t matter. It’s that Evie – she’s got me right hot and bothered. Just like her bloody mother, she is.’
Silently, Babs reached over and took her darning mushroom and a grey woollen sock down from the crowded mantelpiece. She sat down at the table and started mending the hole in its heel. She was going to suggest that they might take their chairs and go and sit out in the street instead, but she thought better of it considering his frame of mind and knowing that he was still recovering from one of his boozy lunchtime sessions in the pub.
Georgie carried on speaking, although he seemed hardly aware of Babs sitting there sewing. He wasn’t really addressing his daughter at all. ‘I’ve always said it,’ his words dripped venom, ‘there’s needy and there’s greedy, and then there’s the no-good sods like your no-good mother and that fancy no-good feller of hers. Just like that no-good bastard Albie Denham and the rest of his stinking family.’
Babs sat quietly darning, trying to lose herself in the rhythm of working the grey thread back and forth while Georgie ranted and raved about life’s injustices. Gradually his bellowing subsided and was replaced by loud alcohol-induced snores as he lay back in the chair, his mouth open, a line of drool dribbling onto his unshaven chin.
When she was sure he was sound asleep, Babs put the mended sock in her apron pocket ready to match up later with its partner in her Dad’s tallboy and stood up. She put the darning mushroom back on the mantelpiece then picked up the newspaper, folded it neatly and put it on the table close to Georgie’s chair.
‘Right,’ she said to herself. ‘No point sitting about. Someone’s gotta do it.’
She boiled some fresh water and finished the washing up. Then, when she had put all the dishes away, had wiped round the sink and draining board and was satisfied that the kitchen was tidy, she sat down at the table to have a look at the paper. Neither she nor her twin usually bothered much with the papers, and the news on the wireless always made them groan; as far as they were concerned the only
Evie stepped out into the street and slammed the door behind her with an almighty bang, making the photograph of her and Babs as identical cuddling five-year-olds jump off its nail in the hall and go crashing to the ground.
Babs closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before bending down to clear up the broken glass. She held out the bottom of her apron and dropped the shards into it, then picked up the photograph. It hadn’t been damaged but it looked forlorn and faded without the shiny covering of glass. The clips and wooden backing were still intact so she hung the now dull picture back on the wall and then walked slowly, head down, back to the kitchen. She stood in the open doorway and looked at Georgie slumped in the chair by the hearth, his legs stuck out in front of him, flicking half-heartedly though the Sunday paper.
‘All right, Dad?’ she asked softly.
Georgie folded the newspaper back on itself. ‘Full of bloody war again,’ he muttered furiously, his lips tight. ‘What’s wrong with people? Yer’d think they was looking forward to it.’
‘D’yer wanna go in the front room and have the wireless on?’ Babs asked over her shoulder as she wrapped the pieces of glass in an old blue sugar bag and put it in the rubbish bucket outside the back door. ‘I can do the washing up later on,’ she said.
‘No,’ he sighed, tossing the newspaper onto the floor. ‘You go in and listen if yer like.’
‘Tell yer what, I’ll turn it up so we can hear it in here, shall I?’
‘I said
no
,’
The anger in his voice made Babs flinch. ‘Sorry, Dad, I only thought—’
‘It don’t matter. It’s that Evie – she’s got me right hot and bothered. Just like her bloody mother, she is.’
Silently, Babs reached over and took her darning mushroom and a grey woollen sock down from the crowded mantelpiece. She sat down at the table and started mending the hole in its heel. She was going to suggest that they might take their chairs and go and sit out in the street instead, but she thought better of it considering his frame of mind and knowing that he was still recovering from one of his boozy lunchtime sessions in the pub.
Georgie carried on speaking, although he seemed hardly aware of Babs sitting there sewing. He wasn’t really addressing his daughter at all. ‘I’ve always said it,’ his words dripped venom, ‘there’s needy and there’s greedy, and then there’s the no-good sods like your no-good mother and that fancy no-good feller of hers. Just like that no-good bastard Albie Denham and the rest of his stinking family.’
Babs sat quietly darning, trying to lose herself in the rhythm of working the grey thread back and forth while Georgie ranted and raved about life’s injustices. Gradually his bellowing subsided and was replaced by loud alcohol-induced snores as he lay back in the chair, his mouth open, a line of drool dribbling onto his unshaven chin.
When she was sure he was sound asleep, Babs put the mended sock in her apron pocket ready to match up later with its partner in her Dad’s tallboy and stood up. She put the darning mushroom back on the mantelpiece then picked up the newspaper, folded it neatly and put it on the table close to Georgie’s chair.
‘Right,’ she said to herself. ‘No point sitting about. Someone’s gotta do it.’
She boiled some fresh water and finished the washing up. Then, when she had put all the dishes away, had wiped round the sink and draining board and was satisfied that the kitchen was tidy, she sat down at the table to have a look at the paper. Neither she nor her twin usually bothered much with the papers, and the news on the wireless always made them groan; as far as they were concerned the only
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