by Paul Whybrow
Chapter 5—Damage Control
Bella gathered Bea and Bianca to her. “We're doing this together. Come on, some damage-control—keep Mum calmed down. Mind you, she looks like she's turned into a waxwork dummy—she's just sitting there. Bianca, go and get a large brandy and lovage from the bar and bring it over.”
The sisters joined their mother at the head-table, shielding her from the gaze of the dancers, who were resuming their revelry. Barry was sensitive enough to modify his selection of tunes and play some safe middle-of-the-road hits, which weren't too outrageously happy or slushily romantic.
People were putting their heads together, talking about the stunning turn-around of events they'd just witnessed. A few of the more gentle souls took the opportunity to escape. No doubt the story would be circulating through the neighbourhood like wildfire. Lots of mobile phones were being used. Had anybody used their smart- phones to record the incident? Would it be on You Tube?
Bertha squeezed out a few hot tears, which coursed through her pancake make-up like acid. Her daughters couldn't remember ever having seen her cry before—not counting the fake emotion she displayed at curtain-calls. The wife-part of them felt sympathy with Bertha for the humiliation and betrayal she'd just undergone. But their feelings as her children were different. Their Mum had always been a tyrant, and if truth be told she was the main reason that all three girls left home as soon as they could. Who could blame Dad for escaping?
As human-beings, Bella, Bea and Bianca felt like they'd just witnessed their family's equivalent of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
Bertha downed the strong spirits in a couple of gulps, and Bianca went for another. Maria and Milly were back from the car-park squirming with anticipation at what they had to tell their mum. Dropping their voices to a stage-whisper, and casting sneaky looks at their grandmother to make sure she wasn't looking, Maria and Milly went into a huddle with Bella.
“Granddad and his girlfriend drove off in a new car—it's a lovely silver Range-Rover. He said grandmother can have the old Rover—but she can't drive, can she? How's she going to get around now? She's too fat to walk….”
Maria giggled at her cheekiness, as Milly continued, “Granddad said that he'd phone you tonight, to make sure that everything's all right. He looked ever so happy, and I really like Florence—she's pretty—well, for an old lady she is. Oh, and he gave us £20 each, and told us to buy something special.”
Bella sent her daughters off to find food—and definitely no alcohol! Bea and Bianca were flanking their mother, who was polishing-off her second brandy and looking rather flushed. Her tears had evaporated, and she wore an expression on her face that spoke of martyrdom. She'd played the leading role in an execrable production of Shaw's play Saint Joan, so knew all of the moves.
Bella didn't expect her mother to descend into depression or to throw hysterics at being abandoned, but could she cope with her being wearisome and sanctimonious as a woman wronged?
Perhaps she'd take to drink, balloon in size, become Sumo-wrestler huge, a lock-in who they'd need to knock the walls of the house down to get to hospital—or to the funeral-home.
What was she thinking? Mum probably had years left in her yet. Only the good died young, remember, and she was mean enough to live forever. One thing was certain—she was never going to come and live with them!
Bella looked around at the guests speculatively. Had any of them recorded her Dad's declaration of independence and great escape?
She'd love to see it again.
The End