‘I’ve a good mind to have a word with him.’
‘Please don’t,’ pleaded Rhiannon, spinning round and forcing a half-smile at her illicit lover as he reached the pavement, then suddenly took in who it was that had run into her at the corner.
‘Mam, you - you know Rhiannon, don’t you?’ Chris sheepishly enquired of his mother.
‘Of course I do, love,’ Anne responded. ‘Well, as your school-friend, anyway. Although she’s in the year below you these days, right?’ Chris nodded. ‘Well, any more than that and I guess you’ll have to tell me about it, won’t you?’
‘Eh? What’s there to tell you about?’ Chris asked, clearly getting tetchy. ‘We just had to come down into town to get - to get -’
‘Brushes for Art,’ Rhiannon told his mother firmly, sensing her boyfriend’s considerable embarrassment, and deftly producing a small bag from her coat-pocket which she waved at his mother by way of explanation, but which actually contained make-up.
‘Brushes! But your Dad’s got thousands of brushes,’ Anne told Chris, narrowing her eyes. ‘He practically smokes the damn things.’
‘But they’re for me, Mrs. Cillick,’ said Rhiannon, with a smile. ‘Don’t you know that I do Art with Mr. Cillick these days? But I would never ask a school-friend for - for gifts, or such like.’
Placated somewhat, Anne smiled back at her. ‘No, you don’t want to go doing that, do you, love?’ she told her. ‘You could give a boy the wrong idea completely by doing that. But then why is he out getting things for you, Rhiannon?’ asked Anne with a carefully composed smile on her face. ‘Why, you’ve got legs yourself, haven’t you? Don’t take offence like. I mean, I know you have two, like everyone else - even me - and very nice legs they are, too, dear. I mean yours, of course, not mine. But why is that? That’s what I want to know. Tell me, Rhiannon, please.’
All the time Chris’s mother kept gabbling on so, Rhiannon kept her body turned sideways and just smiled in a fixed, wincing fashion at her secret lover. And then, seeing him starting to stare down at the ground, and sensing his reluctance, or inability, to assist her in any way, turned and looked back at his mother, and, biting into her lip, and realising she was starting to perspire profusely, searched her poor, demented brain for a suitable reply - any reply - that might settle everything, and perhaps pacify the insufferable woman. But Rhiannon couldn’t think of a single one, and then found she couldn’t even remember what the question was.
‘My Dad says they were a gift from Nanny Beryl,’ Rhiannon suddenly told her tormentor, yet instantly sensing that the explanation she came out with perhaps wasn’t at all satisfactory.
‘The brushes!’ exclaimed Anne, bewildered. ‘But how could she? I mean, hasn’t your Granny Beryl been dead since - well, since long before you were born, dear? Explain, would you, because I have to say I don’t understand.’
‘My legs, I mean,’ replied Rhiannon. ‘My legs are hers , my dad told me.’ She suddenly realised that she was now beginning to feel faint, and believed she might even topple over onto the pavement any second. In truth, Rhiannon so wanted to just reach out a hand to Chris for some comfort, or assistance, but, for his sake alone, she decided she wasn’t going to let him down whatever happened, and whatever nonsense his infernal mother came out with, or whatever stupid face she might choose to pull in doing so.
Legs, brushes – this was becoming all too much. Rhiannon’s thinking mind seemed now to be just about on the point of closing down, and her slim, cold legs, that she had got from her Nan, suddenly seemed to be as much use to her as they were to that old, dead dear who had bequeathed them. In a fast darkening corner of her visual perspective she watched Lloyds Bank begin to suffer a similar fate to what she recalled its company had suffered a few years earlier,
‘Please don’t,’ pleaded Rhiannon, spinning round and forcing a half-smile at her illicit lover as he reached the pavement, then suddenly took in who it was that had run into her at the corner.
‘Mam, you - you know Rhiannon, don’t you?’ Chris sheepishly enquired of his mother.
‘Of course I do, love,’ Anne responded. ‘Well, as your school-friend, anyway. Although she’s in the year below you these days, right?’ Chris nodded. ‘Well, any more than that and I guess you’ll have to tell me about it, won’t you?’
‘Eh? What’s there to tell you about?’ Chris asked, clearly getting tetchy. ‘We just had to come down into town to get - to get -’
‘Brushes for Art,’ Rhiannon told his mother firmly, sensing her boyfriend’s considerable embarrassment, and deftly producing a small bag from her coat-pocket which she waved at his mother by way of explanation, but which actually contained make-up.
‘Brushes! But your Dad’s got thousands of brushes,’ Anne told Chris, narrowing her eyes. ‘He practically smokes the damn things.’
‘But they’re for me, Mrs. Cillick,’ said Rhiannon, with a smile. ‘Don’t you know that I do Art with Mr. Cillick these days? But I would never ask a school-friend for - for gifts, or such like.’
Placated somewhat, Anne smiled back at her. ‘No, you don’t want to go doing that, do you, love?’ she told her. ‘You could give a boy the wrong idea completely by doing that. But then why is he out getting things for you, Rhiannon?’ asked Anne with a carefully composed smile on her face. ‘Why, you’ve got legs yourself, haven’t you? Don’t take offence like. I mean, I know you have two, like everyone else - even me - and very nice legs they are, too, dear. I mean yours, of course, not mine. But why is that? That’s what I want to know. Tell me, Rhiannon, please.’
All the time Chris’s mother kept gabbling on so, Rhiannon kept her body turned sideways and just smiled in a fixed, wincing fashion at her secret lover. And then, seeing him starting to stare down at the ground, and sensing his reluctance, or inability, to assist her in any way, turned and looked back at his mother, and, biting into her lip, and realising she was starting to perspire profusely, searched her poor, demented brain for a suitable reply - any reply - that might settle everything, and perhaps pacify the insufferable woman. But Rhiannon couldn’t think of a single one, and then found she couldn’t even remember what the question was.
‘My Dad says they were a gift from Nanny Beryl,’ Rhiannon suddenly told her tormentor, yet instantly sensing that the explanation she came out with perhaps wasn’t at all satisfactory.
‘The brushes!’ exclaimed Anne, bewildered. ‘But how could she? I mean, hasn’t your Granny Beryl been dead since - well, since long before you were born, dear? Explain, would you, because I have to say I don’t understand.’
‘My legs, I mean,’ replied Rhiannon. ‘My legs are hers , my dad told me.’ She suddenly realised that she was now beginning to feel faint, and believed she might even topple over onto the pavement any second. In truth, Rhiannon so wanted to just reach out a hand to Chris for some comfort, or assistance, but, for his sake alone, she decided she wasn’t going to let him down whatever happened, and whatever nonsense his infernal mother came out with, or whatever stupid face she might choose to pull in doing so.
Legs, brushes – this was becoming all too much. Rhiannon’s thinking mind seemed now to be just about on the point of closing down, and her slim, cold legs, that she had got from her Nan, suddenly seemed to be as much use to her as they were to that old, dead dear who had bequeathed them. In a fast darkening corner of her visual perspective she watched Lloyds Bank begin to suffer a similar fate to what she recalled its company had suffered a few years earlier,
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