‘The Blurred Bride’

This is the only picture I have of Katie on her wedding day. It’s blurred because I snapped it on my phone over the hedge at Kendal Leisure Gardens from a distance of about fifty feet.

My lips pucker involuntarily whenever I look at it, knowing I could have been there and that the clearest item in view is the hat I loaned Laura, my daughter-in-law,  who was a witness for the happy pair.

But don’t think I’m bitter. I’m more aggravated than aggrieved as  the new Mr and Mrs Gerard Lewis gave Peter and me every chance to attend.

Katie said Gerard’s convinced we wouldn’t go because we resent him for being 15 years older than her and a staunch Methodist. He won’t be persuaded that it’s an internal family argument because Katie must always have her own way.

She says that as an independent woman of  34 and a junior partner in a successful accountancy practice, she does not need our permission every time she needs to blow  her nose!

But Peter and I maintain it’s our right as parents to make her wedding; have a say in the guest list, venue and food.

On the day of our row, she made things worse, first by announcing  that the wedding was about her, not us.  Then - quite nastily - she reminded us that she and  Gerry were paying for everything themselves and that many parents would be thrilled to be chief guests rather than anxious hosts at a party celebrating the most important day of their daughter’s life.

Some weeks later, she sent us a glorious bouquet and another invitation to the ‘do’ but we didn’t respond. We wanted her to visit us to talk about it. Instead, when we met by chance in the street near the grocer,  she said they were entitled at least to an acknowledgement of their gift and invitation. This would have been the sort of good manners we had taught her! Cheeky puss! Fancy my little girl talking to me like that!

In the end, wanting to do right, we sent her a cheque for £25.00 with a note signed “love from Mum and Dad.”

Now we’ll let her get on with her life without any help from us. Not even if things get rough; which they will. No-one gets away scot-free. Nowhere; no way.

 

 

 

 

 

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 23 June 2012)

 

‘When Rupert Died …’

When Rupert died there wasn’t a moist eye in the house.

“That’s that. Good riddance to adulterous rubbish,” announced his widow, Moira.

“Two-faced  – six-timing – bastard,” said his long-suffering girlfriend, Katherine.  “Thanks, Moira”, she added between noisy bites of fruit cake, “you’ve laid  on a great funeral tea.”

“Yeah,” nodded Eileen, wiping her palms theatrically.  “Nice nosh! Good on ya, luv! All the old sod dished up for me was insults. ‘Crude’, ‘crass’ and ‘coarse’ is what he said on the night I chucked him out. Bloody cheek, too, when I think what he liked to do in bed!”

“I’ll tell you worse,” said Dawn. “He got me pregnant; refused to help and then screamed blue murder when I had an abortion. What was he like?”

Angela, Rupert’s P.A. chuckled. “Dunno about that. No hanky-panky with me. I was just there to straighten his tie. But he managed to rook his clients blind without actually breaking the law. What’s more,  I’ve counted that he chaired 25 civic and social welfare committees and never did a stroke of work for any of them. Now those nits at the town hall are thinking of putting up a plaque and even arranging an annual lecture in his name. Huh! He fooled them all.”

When Rupert died there were floods of tears at the cemetery.

Gail had hidden behind an oak tree during the burial and was now kneeling by the grave-side clutching a bouquet of weeds.

“How could you, Dad?”, she moaned, aiming a clump of something at the newly-turned earth with every word she uttered.

“Why did you hate us -  your women - so much? You betrayed Mum over and over and I’m still paying for my one mistake. Chrissie was only six weeks old when you made me give her away. I traced her, desperate to give her a past; to tell her about Johnny and me. But Families United - one of your pet projects - say she doesn’t want to know. I wish you everything you did to me, Dad. Enjoy yourself – wherever you are.”

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 15 June 2012)

‘Jubilee Cake’

Denise pushed herself off the sofa to switch channels. The TV remote was long past repair but her husband would not replace it.

“Kenny, if you don’t mind, I’ll watch the BBC for a while. Alastair Bruce is too posh for me.”

“No, it’s not O.K. Sky News is a far better service. Anyway, I like Bruce. He’s giving the Jubilee some ‘gravitas’. And while you’re up, you’d better put the kettle on.”

Denise Fletcher had spent a fortnight preparing a splendid Royal Jubilee afternoon tea with a five-tiered iced cake as its triumphal centre-piece.

But her husband had derided her  plan for everyone to eat as they watched the Royal Family on their river cruise.

“Now it’s too late,” she crooned to herself in the kitchen. “Even with my children and baby grandson around me, I’m not to be queen of my  household. Not once on a diamond day.”

So as their single daughter, Nancy raced into the house to yell that Jack and family were pulling up outside,  she heard a thud and then a crash. Her father was glued to the seat of his greasy old wing-chair, slap-bang in-front of the television. And Mum?

Denise was  on the kitchen floor,  floating in a wreck of   cake crumbs, broken china and tears.

“I’ve had enough,”  she announced  most regally. “I’ll stay with you to-night, Nancy – and your Dad can tidy up himself.”

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 15 June 2012)

‘A Word With The Boss’

It’s late Friday afternoon and I’m riffling through a rarely opened book.

“Hello. I don’t often see you here,” says an oddly familiar voice.

“Er, Mum …?”

“Do I really sound like your late mother?”

“No. It’s just …” and as the enormity of the interview begins to penetrate, my own voice trails away.

“Nu?”

“Thanks for asking. I’m desperate to find a publisher. Even my Facebook chums  never mention You.”

“So, you’re here for the first time in ages – having stayed at home even on Yom Kippur – and you expect Me to help you now? That’s chutzpah!”

“But – You’ll give me a few tips? Right?”

“First, it would be nice if you’d use a generally preferred soubriquet when we chat.  ‘Hashem’ is now very popular.”

“But I can’t stand that word. It’s cheap. Look how it translates into English: ‘The Name’. Beg pardon, but it makes You sound like a Jewish Mafia chief. As no-one dares ask for Your real one, I can’t see the harm in addressing or referring to You by the ‘G’ word – and without the dashes and commas.

“’Mafia’? In modern Hebrew that could also make Me a bakery manager. As you’re not too far from Safed, maybe we could compromise. How about ‘Mystic Pizza'?

“Or ‘Muffin Man’? You know, I can’t help myself. Jewish or not, my generation of Brits still sees You as an Englishman. I can’t imagine Your getting heavy with a tephillin (phylacteries) bag stuffed with ammo and yelling: “’Daven – pray – three times a day. Keep strict kosher. Love your parents – or tonight you become gefilte fish!’”

“You’re spot-on. I do protection, not protectzia. But people of all faiths also say that I help those who help themselves.

“So, do yourself a favour. Meet Me half-way. Sit down and write yourself a story!”

 

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 15 June 2012)

‘A Poet’s Heart’

“Funny how a fine poet might make a good doctor,” mused Annie. “After all, it has already happened - sort of upside down.

“Who, for example,  would have said what,    if Stanislaw Lec had met  Anton Chekhov?

“’M’ dear Lec, it would be a good thing if I could tear my heart out of my breast, that heart which has grown so weary of life.’

“’Dr Chekhov. Please. Don't trust the heart, it wants your blood!’

“’A nice aphorism, Lec. But can it help me spot a ‘silent’ heart attack? On tip-toe, it  creeps among patients in  hospital wards,  pouncing  with quiet tread on some hapless woman as she lies breathing gently in the wee hours.  Upstairs, downstairs, snooping in my lady’s left chamber – noting where she wouldn’t say her prayers - swinging gaily, first on a  gimcrack snore - then on a tiny trickle of vitality  as it floats through, then  out, one delicately  flared nostril.’” 

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 08 June 2012)