Sheelagh Kelly - An Unsuitable Mother

He gave a mirthless little laugh. ‘I’ll have to see if Mr Precious can do anything with it – he does a lot of delicate work with instruments so he might be able to. Well, I reckon I oughta go …’ Implanting a last wistful kiss, then holding Nell at arm’s length and gazing into her eyes, he pledged that they would see each other before too long. ‘Keep your chin up, gel.’ Then, reluctantly, his hands released their hold, and their owner made tracks for his billet.

Unable to bear the poignant departure, her suitcase in hand, Nell immediately turned and hurried for home.

‘Ah, the wanderer returns!’ announced her father in a pleased manner as she entered. ‘We can go to bed.’ But as he turned off the wireless and rose, he thought to ask, ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ Then he chuckled at her mother. ‘From the colour of her face it certainly looks as though she did.’

‘Oh yes, it was smashing,’ replied the luminous Nell. ‘But I’d better not keep you and Mother up any longer.’ Case in hand, she made for the stairs. ‘I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’

‘We’ll look forward to it,’ supplied her mother, rising to pat the cushions. ‘Heavens, your skin does look angry – dab some calamine on before you go to bed.’ Then she made a pensive addition. ‘You know, you wouldn’t think a weekend is long, but we really missed you, didn’t we, Father?’

Touched, and rather guilty at deceiving them, and already pining for Bill, Nell felt her eyes start to burn. Hence, she increased her pace. ‘I missed you too – goodnight then!’

A lump in her throat, she tried her best not to let it get the better of her as she undressed and climbed into bed. But the moment she laid her head upon the pillow, the image returned of Billy walking away. Then she buried her face under the covers, and quietly sobbed.

The next day it was boring old work as usual. Nell was thankful that there would soon be a new career to take her mind off things. But there was a week to get through before then.

How time crawled. It felt like a year had gone past and it was still only Monday teatime. Ever despondent over Billy’s departure, Nell sat at the table, nibbling on the home-grown salad, trying to take her mind off him by watching her parents, wondering what was going through their minds as they ate in silence – had it been just herself and Billy at the table she was sure they would have never stopped chattering. Drat! There she was, thinking of him again already.

Only the clicking of Father’s false teeth was annoying enough to lure her mind away. Mr Spottiswood had developed the ability to clean the underside of his artificial palette without removing the dentures. Using his tongue to whip any debris from beneath, he rolled the clackers from cheek to cheek and around his entire mouth, giving them a thorough vacuum before fitting them back into place again. Why did he persist in doing that, as if it were some sort of art form? Skilful it might be, but the way it warped his face, the dentures jutting forth as if to pop from his mouth at any minute and making him look like a camel, and that awful clickety-clacking they made, it was so uncouth. Did he assume he was being discreet in not actually removing his teeth, or did he just not care?

Nell’s eyes flickered to her mother, who found it as irritating as she did, she could tell that by the slight flare to her nostrils. Yet her mother never dared criticise him, even when he did it at someone else’s house. Poor Mother, dying to be considered as a pillar of the community due to her prominent role with the WVS, purchasing its uniform so she could stand out from lesser women, yet brought down to earth by a husband who did not know how to eat in polite company. And that was not all. Mother had tried to allude that it was not the done thing to sit at the table in one’s shirt sleeves, but there was Father, lord of the manor, with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Nell could not say she blamed him in this heat, but it obviously grated on Mother. How awful to feel that way about someone you were married to: wanting to change them. Nell couldn’t ever envisage being annoyed by anything Billy did. She loved the way he walked and talked and ate, the way his giggles shook his entire body – he was a proper giggler, her Bill – all his little fads, such as picking the strands of orange peel out of the marmalade before spreading it on his toast …

Trying not to sigh, she crunched the last radish on her plate, laid down her cutlery, and attempted to make conversation.

‘One of the girls at work said they found a German parachute in the field at the back of their house after the other night’s raid.’

‘And would she know what a German parachute looked like if it fell on her?’ enquired her father in a supercilious tone. ‘No. You want to tell her to watch it, or she’ll find herself locked up for spouting such rubbish.’

‘It’ll be fifth columnists who’ve planted it,’ explained her mother. ‘Don’t let it frighten you, dear.’

Nell gave a nod and fell silent again. Then, when her parents had also finished, she helped her mother to clear the table, whilst Father seated himself in his armchair with the evening newspaper.

Her mind far away, wondering whether Billy had reached London yet, she was helping her mother to wash the pots when a disgusted exclamation drew both women’s curiosity, and they wandered back to the sitting room.

‘What is it, dear?’ Thelma asked her husband, tea towel still in hand.

Nell’s father regarded her for a moment, the expression on his face turning from annoyance to disgust, as he announced in a tart and slightly melodramatic voice. ‘I was going to ask what you enjoyed best about your weekend in Scarborough, but I won’t trouble you now, for it’s quite evident!’ And he bequeathed the newspaper, suitably folded to display a laughing photograph of a group of young people in swimming costumes, with Nell at their centre, under the banner: Girl with the most sunburnt back .

Nell’s heart leaped as her father stabbed a finger at the dark-haired man beside her in the photograph and mouthed sarcasm. ‘One didn’t imagine your friend Barbara to be so hirsute!’

Her frowning mother snatched up the press and exclaimed, ‘Why, that’s Billy!’

Wilfred turned on her. ‘You knew what she was up to?’

‘No! But I know him – he was at Ronald’s party.’ And his wife joined the attack on Nell, saying, ‘Someone had better explain themselves!’

Nell twisted her fingers as she fought to deliver an explanation. ‘I didn’t enter the competition. The photographer just snapped –’

‘That is not what we’re objecting to, and you know it!’ interrupted her mother. ‘You didn’t think to mention there’d be chaps amongst the group! Did you arrange this at the party, invite Billy along?’

‘No!’

‘Look at him with his arm around you,’ stuttered her father, ‘and you with barely a stitch on!’

‘I’d never have let you pack your bathing costume had I known!’ railed Thelma. ‘You let me assume it was an all-girl group – although those other young ladies leave much to be desired!’

To Nell’s astonishment, she realised then that her mother was under the misapprehension that the strangers in the photograph were part of the fictitious Barbara’s group. This being so, things were not half as bad as they could have been. ‘It was all girls!’ she strove to convince her parents. ‘We bumped into Billy by accident and he tagged along.’

‘To ruin our daughter’s reputation!’ Wilfred was livid with Nell. ‘What have we done to deserve this? There’s our Ronald, doing his bit for King and country, his parents proud as punch, showing off the photo of him that appeared in the church magazine, and what sort of pictorial keepsake do we get of our child? This decadent rubbish!’ He slapped the newspaper onto the hearth. ‘That’s only fit for lighting the fire!’