to retrieve her missing shoe ( they were so expensive, darling ).
My hero, she smiled as he placed her gently on the pavement. My hero, she said and Gordon was lost, drowning in her whisky eyes. The age of chivalry, bomb-dusted Eliza murmured, is alive and well. And is called?
‘Gordon, Gordon Fairfax.’
Wonderful.
‘Bit of a rush do, eh?’ Madge’s bank clerk husband winked, at no-one in particular, and Eliza swooped on him from nowhere and said, Darling, are we really family now? So hard to believe, and he retreated under a cascade of Hempstid vowels. ‘Hoity-toity, that one,’ Vinny said to Madge.
Eliza had dark, dark hair. Glossy and curly. Black as a crow, a rook, a raven. ‘A bit of the tarbrush?’ Vinny mouthed across the wedding cake to Madge. Madge semaphored amazement with her sherry glass and mouthed back, ‘Wop?’ Eliza, who could lip-read at a hundred paces, thought her new sisters-in-law looked like fish. Cod and Halibut. ‘Plummy,’ said Vinny dismissively to Madge over the sherry-toast to bride and bridegroom. ‘Fruity,’ said Madge’s husband, raising a lecherous eyebrow.
Really, Eliza said to the bridegroom, anyone would think I was a piece of wedding cake, and Gordon thought that he’d like to eat her up. Every last crumb, so that no-one else could ever have her. What wedding cake? grumbled the Widow, for this was a wartime cake made with prewar dates found at the back of the licensed grocery’s store-room. A hasty affair, ‘an expensive do,’ the Widow said to her fish daughters, ‘for a cheap you-know-what.’ Why have they married so quickly? ‘Something fishy,’ said Vinny-the-Halibut. ‘Suspicious,’ said the Widow. ‘Highly,’ said Madge-the-Cod.
Do they know Queen Victoria’s dead? Eliza asked her new husband. ‘Probably not,’ he laughed, but nervously. The Widow and Vinny lived in the Dark Ages. And they liked it there. Eliza said she couldn’t decide which would be worse, to be Vinny in Willow Road or to be Madge-in-Mirfield. She laughed loudly when she said this and everyone turned to stare at her.
Charles was born on a train, an event due to the capriciousness of Eliza who decided she needed an outing to the Bradford Alhambra when any normal woman in her condition would be sitting at home with her feet up, resting her piles and her varicose veins.
‘Premature,’ the Widow said, warily cradling tiny Charles in her arms. ‘But healthy, thank goodness.’ Softened, momentarily, by grandmotherhood, she attempted a smile in the direction of Eliza. Vinny inspected Bradford from the ward window. She’d never been this far from home.
‘And big ,’ the Widow added, admiring and sarcastic and moved – all at the same uncomfortable time. ‘Just think,’ she said to Eliza, her eyes narrowing as the sarcastic won the battle, ‘what he would have been like if he’d gone the full nine months.’
Oh please – don’t! Eliza said, shivering theatrically and lighting up a cigarette.
‘A honeymoon baby,’ the Widow said speculatively, as she stroked the baby’s cheek. (‘Whose honeymoon though? Eh?’ Vinny wrote to Madge-in-Mirfield.) ‘I wonder who he looks like?’ Vinny wrote to Gordon. ‘He certainly doesn’t look like you, Gordon!’ No-one had more artificial exclamation marks than Vinny! (No-one had written so many letters since the decline of the epistolary novel.)
He’s an absolute cherub, Eliza said and, Oh God, I’d give anything for a gin, darling.
Charles’ arrival even made the papers –
GLEBELANDS BABY BORN ON TRAIN
the Glebelands Evening Gazette wrote possessively. That was how the Widow found out about her grandson, Eliza having neglected to send a message from the hospital where she was taken when the train finally pulled into the station. ‘Trust her to make the headlines,’ snapdragon Vinny sniffed.
Born on a train. People falling over themselves to help, the guard upgrading her to First so she had more room to grunt
My hero, she smiled as he placed her gently on the pavement. My hero, she said and Gordon was lost, drowning in her whisky eyes. The age of chivalry, bomb-dusted Eliza murmured, is alive and well. And is called?
‘Gordon, Gordon Fairfax.’
Wonderful.
‘Bit of a rush do, eh?’ Madge’s bank clerk husband winked, at no-one in particular, and Eliza swooped on him from nowhere and said, Darling, are we really family now? So hard to believe, and he retreated under a cascade of Hempstid vowels. ‘Hoity-toity, that one,’ Vinny said to Madge.
Eliza had dark, dark hair. Glossy and curly. Black as a crow, a rook, a raven. ‘A bit of the tarbrush?’ Vinny mouthed across the wedding cake to Madge. Madge semaphored amazement with her sherry glass and mouthed back, ‘Wop?’ Eliza, who could lip-read at a hundred paces, thought her new sisters-in-law looked like fish. Cod and Halibut. ‘Plummy,’ said Vinny dismissively to Madge over the sherry-toast to bride and bridegroom. ‘Fruity,’ said Madge’s husband, raising a lecherous eyebrow.
Really, Eliza said to the bridegroom, anyone would think I was a piece of wedding cake, and Gordon thought that he’d like to eat her up. Every last crumb, so that no-one else could ever have her. What wedding cake? grumbled the Widow, for this was a wartime cake made with prewar dates found at the back of the licensed grocery’s store-room. A hasty affair, ‘an expensive do,’ the Widow said to her fish daughters, ‘for a cheap you-know-what.’ Why have they married so quickly? ‘Something fishy,’ said Vinny-the-Halibut. ‘Suspicious,’ said the Widow. ‘Highly,’ said Madge-the-Cod.
Do they know Queen Victoria’s dead? Eliza asked her new husband. ‘Probably not,’ he laughed, but nervously. The Widow and Vinny lived in the Dark Ages. And they liked it there. Eliza said she couldn’t decide which would be worse, to be Vinny in Willow Road or to be Madge-in-Mirfield. She laughed loudly when she said this and everyone turned to stare at her.
Charles was born on a train, an event due to the capriciousness of Eliza who decided she needed an outing to the Bradford Alhambra when any normal woman in her condition would be sitting at home with her feet up, resting her piles and her varicose veins.
‘Premature,’ the Widow said, warily cradling tiny Charles in her arms. ‘But healthy, thank goodness.’ Softened, momentarily, by grandmotherhood, she attempted a smile in the direction of Eliza. Vinny inspected Bradford from the ward window. She’d never been this far from home.
‘And big ,’ the Widow added, admiring and sarcastic and moved – all at the same uncomfortable time. ‘Just think,’ she said to Eliza, her eyes narrowing as the sarcastic won the battle, ‘what he would have been like if he’d gone the full nine months.’
Oh please – don’t! Eliza said, shivering theatrically and lighting up a cigarette.
‘A honeymoon baby,’ the Widow said speculatively, as she stroked the baby’s cheek. (‘Whose honeymoon though? Eh?’ Vinny wrote to Madge-in-Mirfield.) ‘I wonder who he looks like?’ Vinny wrote to Gordon. ‘He certainly doesn’t look like you, Gordon!’ No-one had more artificial exclamation marks than Vinny! (No-one had written so many letters since the decline of the epistolary novel.)
He’s an absolute cherub, Eliza said and, Oh God, I’d give anything for a gin, darling.
Charles’ arrival even made the papers –
GLEBELANDS BABY BORN ON TRAIN
the Glebelands Evening Gazette wrote possessively. That was how the Widow found out about her grandson, Eliza having neglected to send a message from the hospital where she was taken when the train finally pulled into the station. ‘Trust her to make the headlines,’ snapdragon Vinny sniffed.
Born on a train. People falling over themselves to help, the guard upgrading her to First so she had more room to grunt
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