Dad has invited Cher to the birthday meal. I can tell by the way my mother is icing the cake, slapping on the cream as if adultery itself was hiding inside ready to jump out and surprise her.
‘It’s not even his birthday, it’s MINE.’ Slap goes the icing. Slap, slap, slap. She finishes the job by throwing the good knife (wedding present) into the kitchen sink, cracking a tea saucer (wedding present.)
It’s then I notice a velvet-covered horse on the windowsill turned so it looks out over the vegetable patch to the further field where two figures can be seen, deep in conversation.
Mum catches my gaze and strikes a sticky finger in the direction of the horse,
‘And that, that is her gift to me.’ She’s frothing at the mouth as she snatches it up, stamps a foot on the pedal bin and lobs it in.
I wager other things will be thrown before the night is over.
‘Twenty-five years of marriage and he brings home Cher! Bloody Cher! ’
Time not so much turned back as flung hysterically out the door with a packed suitcase.
I worry about the horse and fish it out the bin when my mother isn’t looking.
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