Hobbinol

To celebrate this midwinter, we're proud to share Jay Taverner's Prologue to Rebellion. 'In a feudal world of aristocrats and peasants, The Lady Isabella and her gamekeeper's daughter, Hope, are girls of sixteen. From high society through highway robbery and alongside the perils of war, Hope and Isabella share a passionate coming-of-age.'

'

The candles leapt and guttered, and they were in the room. 

Bell shivered. She had been afraid of the horned men all her life. When she was a tiny girl, Sir Walter had tossed her into the arms of their leader, laughing, asking a blessing on his youngest, and she had smelt the village smells of soot and dirt, and over them the strange acrid herbs of the face paints, and the rot of ancient fur. The horned man had grinned at her, and his teeth were huge as the antlers branching out of his eyes. 

She looked for him now; but there was no man amongst them so large as Jack Smith. She had found out he was really the smith long ago, but it made no difference to the terror he carried in his horns and huge, ribboned skirts when he came at the turn of each New Year. Now the six dancers stamped their clogs on the flags, and horns and ribbons shook.

They were masked strangers. 

Their piper stood in the doorway, and began the dancing tune; as they tilted their heads and brought stiff hands to their waists, the piper ran in small and lithe, and began to step a way between them, round them, and then out in a sinuous line to weave the spectators into their spell. The pipe shrilled. Bell watched the line pass behind the servants in the flickering dark under the gallery: Ben and Matt, John Dickson, Mistress Johnson, Dolly - the piper was no taller than the women of the household, but strange, in white breeches and shirt stiff with ancient embroidery; and flesh all green. 

The inhuman face came slowly towards her, down the line of her kin, ducking in front of Sir Walter, but not with deference, no bow, more as if daring the family to answer the music's call. She tightened her hands in her lap. The piping tune came to her, passed close in a wisp of air warmed by the prancing body, danced behind her, shrilling, mocking. She held her neck rigid as a board. The little winding melody came close; in the corner of her eye the green head and hands reappeared – leaning over her shoulder, playing right into her face, then whisking away. Bell gasped; she had been holding her breath. As the tune retreated, the piper dancing, leading the others towards the far door, she found she wanted them to turn and come back. As if called, the green face turned towards her, and stood still. The dance was over, the stamping and the music stopped; the pipe was lowered.

Sir Walter applauded and called for drink for the Mossmen of the Moor. Benchley carried in the big old wassail bowl, and the Lord touched it to his lips, and handed it to the dancers. They were half themselves again now, villagers standing awkwardly in the Manor hall; but still the pride was in them and their horns. The piper drank last, and carried the bowl back to the household. Sir Walter said, 'Do you offer it to my family, Hobbinol: all mine shall drink with you.'

Bell saw James's lip twitch in disgust, but he could not refuse the custom; he smoothed his ruffles down and touched his fingers to the bowl, and his lip to the brim opposite the place where their paint had spread an oily half-moon. As he let go, his eyes flicked suddenly at the green face; the piper turned quickly and came to Bell. Their eyes met. The surge of response came up in her belly again; but it was not fright, as when the smith had enveloped her in his strangeness, nor did she share her brother's distaste.  She put out her hands, and held those that held the bowl, drawing them towards her. She could scarcely swallow the warm cider.

The spell was quickly broken by James's snicker, and a whisper to Alistair at his side; the piper swiftly bowed, leaving the bowl in her hands, and darted away into the darkness outside the candles; the dancers with a final clatter of clogs trooped out. 'I see our sister is spellbound,' said James in his low voice, 'Perhaps a good thing Hobbinol was a wench this year.'

Something that wasn't allowed

We're so pleased to have a further instalment of The Incident by Maggie Redding to share with you today. If you'd like to read the preceding episodes, just check for Maggie's tag and they'll show up in the archive. Intriguing stuff is developing over coffee in the staff room of Hill Common School...

Elin Lewis Jones was visiting Hill Common School again the following morning. Vida saw her as soon as she went into the staff-room.  With that hair, she was recognizable from far away and wearing a turquoise top, she could hardly be missed..  Vida’s instinct was to withdraw but she was too late.  She’d been spotted.  Elin strode over to greet her.

‘Good to see you again,’ she said. ‘Shall we sort out some coffee and continue our chat?’

‘Our chat?  What about?’  Vida frowned.  She was less than eager.

‘You were telling me how you came into teaching.’

‘I don’t recall telling you much.’

‘Exactly. I’d like to hear more, about your mother wanting you to be a teacher, for instance.’

Elin spotted the two upright chairs, in a corner, unoccupied.  She led the way over to them. 

‘My mother,’ Vida began as she sat down, ’she was a machinist, in the fashion industry, in north London.  She and her friend were fast, highly skilled, much in demand, well-paid, too.  That was some time ago. We weren’t poor, but life was difficult for her.’  

She looked at Elin and had to look away again, not knowing why.  ‘Mum wanted a better future for me, you see.  A job that’s non-manual, she used to say. Actually, me being mixed race, she wanted to be able to show off about me, not be ashamed, as I think she was.  But she wasn’t prepared to make the required effort.’ 

‘But, teaching?  Was she right?’  Elin leaned forward a little. ‘Was it a good move?’ She seemed not to want to know the reason for her hardly veiled bitterness about her mother’s ambitions for her.

‘I have grave doubts now.’  She gazed out of the tall window. An unblemished blue sky evoked memories of past late spring days, free of all that trapped her now.  Yet there had been other traps in those days.  She preferred not to dwell on those. ‘It breaks my heart, at times,’ she said, all caution dismissed in the presence of someone who understood, ‘the way the pupils are spoken about. And spoken to.  I don't know whether it's ever too late to help anybody.’    She glanced at Elin shyly.  Could she trust her with confidences?  Would Elin laugh at her ideas?  This was an intense conversation to have with a complete stranger.   She hoped none of the staff around them heard the exchange. She guessed that Kelly would have little sympathy for her views. They seethed, her colleagues, they floundered in the staff-room, like a restless sea, their repressed rage justified by a confidence, an arrogance. The room was stuffy. The windows were all closed to keep out the noise of unconstrained pupils yelling in the grounds.  

‘You're an optimist about the pupils, then,’ Elin said.  ‘Or maybe the whole of humankind?  However, in my case, with my job, the gesture of helping them, trying to remove impediments to learning, has to be made. The poor little sods are thoroughly fucked up by both parents and teachers by the time they get to secondary school, if not before that.  Then it’s too late to help, I think.’  Elin turned to look at her with a relaxed, friendly expression. ‘What do you think?’

‘Not being a parent myself, I don't feel qualified to blame them.  I’m frankly not impressed with the way some teachers treat pupils.’  

‘I have never wondered where bullying in schools originates.’  Elin spoke with satisfaction before taking a sip of coffee. 

‘You mean with us, with the teachers?’

  She nodded then made an impatient movement with her whole body. ‘I've a good mind to bugger off to Wales, to live on fresh air and views.  Starvation can't be worse than the expectations put on me.’  She glanced at Vida, smiling again.  Her eyes were soft, warm, a pale green, interesting, interested, all-seeing eyes. Her eyelashes, paler than her hair, were barely visible.  

‘Excuse the language,’ Elin was saying, ‘frustration, poor vocabulary plus a healthy dose of your previous Head of Department‘s cynicism.  How long have you been teaching?’ 

‘Nearly ten years in total.  It feels like a lifetime.  I had a break when I looked after my mother before she died.  But what else can I do?’

‘Become an Ed. Psych?’

‘You’ve just put me off that.  Besides, I like the kids.’

Elin was kind, she encouraged her to talk.  She understood her attitude to teaching, to the school, to the pupils.

‘You could always foster children,’ she said.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Vida said as an image of Peter rose in her mind. Peter was not keen on children. To her relief, further discussion was avoided by the bell for the end of break, destroying the peace of mind of anyone in the room who had that rare commodity. Harassed faces with set jaws were sucked to far reaches of the campus, as the staff abandoned mugs, biscuit crumbs, strewn papers, and books on every surface. Chairs were left in disarray.

Uneasy, now that she’d revealed herself in a way she’d never done before, Vida wandered to a classroom full of, as yet, mostly unspoiled, twelve-year-olds. She’d opened-up, to Elin.  She was as comfortable as if she had been naked. She wished she hadn’t spoken so freely. Her own opinions were disturbing to her, as though she’d said something that wasn’t allowed.

Despite this private angst, the exchange with Elin Lewis Jones was the most pleasant encounter since she’d joined the school. Kelly was lovely, but someone to be wary of when it came to views on education. Elin wasn’t part of the staff-room politics that so bothered Vida.  She had an easy-going manner, Elin did. 

Veil of Tweed

We're re-posting this wonderful poem by Maria Jastrzębska today, as Maria has a new anthology coming out in October 2022, Small Odysseys (click the title to order a copy from Waterloo Press). She's a Polish-British poet, editor and translator, the author of sell-out drama Dementia Diaries and a founding member of Queer Writing South. The poem is from her collection Everyday Angels.

Maria says: 'Can you imagine, or do you remember how little information (let alone anything like positive images) there was about the lives of women who loved other women (or women generally) back in the 60s and 70s when I was growing up? This poem references two classics: The Killing of Sister George a play from 1964 about a “slightly sadistic masculine woman” adapted into a film in 1968 and made nastier and also more explicitly lesbian and Les Biches a French film from 1968 about bisexuality, “tortured” relationships, etc.'

VEIL OF TWEED

 

 

Behind a veil of tweed, through a smoke-screen 

of bravado I know too well, pouring out gin 

in your jodhpurs or PVC, Sister George

you don’t scare me, but you did once.

 

I fled from you into the arms of a biche

with long lashes, sulky lips. At least 

her hair was long, even though it all ended 

in tears. It might as well have been me 

 

slumped, sobbing face pressed 

against a bathroom door, behind which 

Anouk Aimée made love with a real man.

I wouldn’t cut my hair. Wore a frock 

 

to the hairdressers in case I looked like you 

when I walked out. At eighteen 

how afraid I was of being mistaken 

for a man. How afraid of being old.

Maria Jastrzębska

from Everyday Angels (Waterloo Press 2009)

 

www.mariajastrzebska.wordpress.com

The Ponies

Weird Sisters are so pleased to share another poem by Maria Jastrzebska with you today. We must admit, it evokes some rather scary memories of introducing partners to disapproving parents...

The Ponies

My mother scrutinises

everything about you, leaning forward 

to see better 

as if she could not believe

her eyes.

I've brought some photos

of our recent holiday:

amateurish shots

of the New Forest, leaf and fern

just starting to turn bronze,

the two of us wearing warm jackets,

piglets rooting and of course

the ponies.

In all the guide books it tells you:

Remember these are wild ponies.

Never stand between a mare

and her foal.

And you are sitting on a chrome chair

in the new Polish cafe we've all come to,

waiting for pierogi stuffed

with cabbage and wild mushrooms,

under the arty sketches 

of semi-nude women, your chair

between my mother's chair and mine.

   Maria Jastrzębska 

                            From Syrena (Redbeck Press 2004)

My dreams of you were vivid ...

This ballad by Sylvia Daly is meant to be sung - yes, really - and the Weird Sisters once had the pleasure of hearing her do it. Remember the tune to Lili Marlene? Well, that's the one. We hardly dare wonder what inspired these lyrics. Could it be based on a true story?

The Novice Mistress

by Sylvia Daly

I went into a Convent, I thought I heard the call.

That’s when I first saw you, standing in the hall.

You glided towards me silently,

You welcomed me, and offered tea -

My Lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Those weeks and months together, we studied canon law,

You were to me a mentor, and I of you in awe.

The love that I felt began to grow,

I was afraid that it would show.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

My dreams of you were vivid, I knew not what to do.

If I declared my love, I would surely startle you.

Then braving your wrath at last I spoke,

I saw you gasp, I heard you choke -

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

The scandal was tremendous – you were sent to Rome.

They said it was horrendous and ordered me back home.

I left you without a fond farewell,

I missed you so, it was sheer hell.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Standing by the lamp-post, near the Convent gate,

Waiting in the shadows for you to keep our date.

I’ve tickets for two to join the train -

We’ll run away, and love again.

My lovely Novice Mistress

Who taught me all I know.

EXTRAORDINARY QUEER

Sylvia Daly has kindly given us permission to share this poem. You know how coming out is often a challenge, always a relief? It's all the more so in later life.

No Ordinary People

I tried for many years to fit the

mould,

in dress and thought, in action to

conform.

Coerced my mind to

function, not

be bold,

be good, obey, blend in, not cause a

storm.

The effort was consuming, sapped

my will,

to squash emotions roaring

through my heart.

But thankfully I failed to make the

kill,

I took the chance to make another

start,

from soulless clone

to

technicoloured star.

The energy, zest for life was heady,

my soul felt it was rescued from

afar

to face the world, live life, I was

ready.

Don’t settle for grey lives you

live in fear.

Break out, and be

extraordinary queer.

Sylvia Daly

A Family Lunch

We love A Different Spring by Maggie Redding. This extract skilfully evokes memories of many a fraught Sunday Dinner, not to mention our own Coming Out stories. 

Lydia is lonely. She has been a widow for five years. She longs for her daughters, Ellie and Kate, to be of more significance to her, but they have busy lives. Kate and her partner Dan always have money troubles; and Ellie, well, she has her own kinds of trouble too. Her grand-daughter Polly still has time for her, but she's 16, busy growing up. After a fraught family lunch one Sunday, relationships break down completely ...

Ellie was in the sitting room. Tall, slender, in a black sweater and trousers, she looked neat, her fair hair in a new short style and brushed off her face. She leapt to her feet as her mother came into the room. They hugged each other, Lydia wanting to hold onto her longer because she had seen so little of her recently. 

'Are you okay, Mum?' Ellie said. She looked happy, radiant, even. 

'I'm fine, dear. You?' 

'Wonderful,' Ellie said. She seemed to want to say more but changed her mind. 'It's good to see you, Mum.' 

'I haven't seen you for ages, not since Christmas,' Lydia said, unable to resist the observation as Ellie already began to move away from her. She tried to hang onto her, one hand slipping along Ellie’s arm to her fingers as her daughter gently and gradually withdrew the grasp until only their fingers were loosely touching, then the connection was completely broken. 

'I know. Busy enjoying life,' Ellie said. 

'Well, so am I, which would explain it, wouldn't it?'  The up-beat comment disguised her disappointment. 

'Listen, Mum, I have some news. I want to tell everyone when we’re all together, sitting down for our meal.' 

'Good news, is it? You look as though it is. I have some news too.' She was getting a life too, a new life, and it was difficult. She needed support in the decision she was making. 

'Really? I can't wait for you to tell us.' 

Dismissed with the insincere words, Lydia had doubts that Ellie thought her mother's news was likely to be significant. Once past a certain age, you didn’t really count, if being a mother ever counted; unless of course, you stopped behaving like the all-caring, all-suffering mother and wanted to ‘get a life’, as Polly had put it. When she had got a life, with Peter, the disapproval never waned.  

Dan appeared, having changed into his old clothes now he had come home from work. Short and dark, he was never smart, even for visitors. He sloped about the house, hair dishevelled, slippers down at heel, as though he was in a dream. He greeted Lydia. She sat in one of the chairs that were low and uncomfortable. Her heart began to pound as tension built up in her. Doubts about her plans were magnifying. Was she doing this merely to be noticed by the family? This could be a new reason for abandoning the sale and purchase. She could summon a dozen other reasons. She must focus on the meal. Kate had gone to a lot of trouble. Herself and her agonising, she could analyse those later. 

Redundancy or not, Kate and Dan had truly gone to town with this meal. Lydia hoped they had not got into debt in the process. Perhaps Ellie had helped out financially. She wished she had been asked to contribute. The meal was cassoulet. 'Pork, duck and beans,' Kate explained, 'amongst other things.' 

'Beans make you…,' Polly began. 

'Polly!' Kate said. 

Nick appeared, greeted Lydia with a kiss; then everyone was asked to go to the dining room. Lydia found herself next to Polly, much to the delight of both of them. She was anxious about telling her news and Polly would be an ally. 

'This is lovely,' Lydia said, regarding the meal before her. 

'I'm not eating meat,' Polly said. 

'Why not?' Kate looked up. 

'I'm vegetarian now.' 

'Get on with it,' Kate told her. 

When the meal was well underway, Ellie, across the table from Lydia, looked over to her. 

'Mum has some news. Are you going tell us what it is, Mum?  Are you ready, to tell?' 

Placing her knife and fork on her plate, Lydia surveyed her audience.  She took a deep breath. 'I'm moving,' she said. 

They all gazed at her, as though they did not understand. Was it so unlikely? 

'What, moving house?' Kate said. 

'Where to?' Ellie said. 

'I have a purchaser for the house and I’m moving to a flat.' 

'Flat?' Kate’s face screwed up in disbelief. 'A small one or a vast apartment?' 

'A small one. Tarascon Court. Between here and the house.' 

'That's for old people,' Kate said and the contempt in her voice was undisguised. 

'It’s a scheme of flats for retired people,' Lydia said. 'It’s not a home. I’m nowhere near ready for that yet.' 

'Why?' Ellie said. 'Why are you doing this?' 

'The house is too big for me now. It’s too lonely. I'm getting older. Perhaps you hadn't noticed.' 

'You're not old,' Ellie protested, although as though the word was an insult or a failing. 

Don’t they see? Don’t they see, the way she walked, the wrinkles, the slowness? Did they not consider each of her birthdays, for which they gave her elaborate cards, as a mark of time? Were they unable to compare every Christmas with the previous one? 

'Have you had a good offer on the house?' Dan asked. 

Under the table, on her lap, Lydia's hands began twisting round each other. This was what she feared. The arithmetic, especially Dan’s arithmetic. She must plan, make yet more decisions. 

'Good enough,' she said. 

'Make sure you're not sold short,' Dan went on. He liked money, was always full of good advice about it but never had any. 

'Gran’s got to pay the mortgage off,' Polly said. Bless Polly, she could see beyond words. She was growing up. Her comment resulted in more vacant stares at Lydia. 

'Are you happy about this?' Ellie asked. 'I mean, moving to a retirement flat...' 

Like everyone else to whom she had spoken about this situation, Lydia did not want to confess to the doubts, the grief and the sleepless nights the plan had engendered. 'Of course I am.' 

'Oh, well,' said Kate, not giving away anything but her disinterest, 'I suppose you want to do it.' 

'I'm sure we all wish you luck,' Ellie said. She cleared her throat. 'Can I tell my news now?' 

That had got Mum out of the way, Lydia reflected. Now for the real people, the younger people, the ones who still ‘had a life’. 

There was a murmur of agreement rippling around the table. Lydia noticed Ellie’s hand was shaking. She wondered why this could be. She had made similar announcements before, perhaps not in the celebratory setting of a family meal, but many ‘this is the one’ statements, which subsequently all proved to be not about ‘the one’. 

Ellie took a gulp of wine. 'I've met someone,' she said. 

Nobody voiced the thought, ‘Again?’  But it hovered over the gathering. 

'Tell us,' Polly said. 

'How lovely.' Lydia made an effort. 'Yes, tell us all about him.' 

Ellie took a deep breath. Her cheeks were two spots of pink. Lydia could not understand what her anxiety was. A rapid list of reasons flicked through her mind. Old?  Young? Divorced? Foreign? Disabled? Not yet divorced? 

'It's not a him, it's a her.' 

A stunned silence hit the room. 

Dan summed it up, a gleam in his eye, and, Lydia surmised, a fantasy in his mind. 'You mean, you're a lesbian?' 

'Good grief,' said Kate, 'I never thought of that. When you hinted at someone new, I went through a list in my mind. Was he foreign, or old or perhaps very fat or something? I never thought of a woman.' 

Beads of perspiration were breaking out on Ellie's brow. 

'What's her name?' Polly said. 

'Rosie. She's a dance teacher. I met her at the dance studio I go to.' 

Kate leaned forward. 'What does she look like?' 

'Very attractive.' 

'Older?  Younger than you?' Kate asked. 

'Younger. By two years.' 

Now everyone noticed that Lydia had not contributed to the questions. They were all looking at her. She knew she looked less than delighted. She was much less than delighted, she was thoroughly disturbed.  

'Mum?'  Ellie was frowning. 

'I'm sorry, Ellie, but have you thought this through?' 

'Thought?'  Ellie was annoyed. 'This is not a head decision. This comes from the heart.' 

'That’s what I mean. You need to think about these things. I am surprised at this choice.' 

'It's not a choice. It's who I am.' 

'Then why has it taken you so long to find out who you are?' Lydia knew her voice sounded sharp, but it was not as sharp as her thinking. Ellie, lovely though she was, could be so impulsive. 

'Why not?' 

'You haven't a clue what you're letting yourself in for...' 

'Mum!'  Ellie protested. 

'Are you desperate not to be on your own, or something?  Why have you settled for this?  How do you expect me to take this - this bizarre notion seriously, when I’ve watched you for years go from man to man and always end up with a crisis?' 

Nick moved. He threw down his cutlery and his napkin. He jumped to his feet and shoved his chair backwards from the table. He glared at Lydia. 

'You bloody bigot,' he snarled and left the room. The language made her gasp as did the assumption behind it. 

'I'm not a bigot,' she protested, close to tears. 

Polly leaned back in her chair, placing her knife and fork carefully on her plate. 'I'm not eating any more,' she said. She turned to Lydia. 'I don't know how you can sit there like that after you've upset Ellie so.' 

'Shush, Polly. It doesn't matter,' Ellie said, close to tears herself. 

'But it does,' Polly, too, was tearful. Now she addressed Lydia. 'I can't sit here with you after you've said that. We have lessons at school about not being prejudiced against gays.' 

'Polly, I'm not prejudiced,' Lydia began. 

Polly rose, gave Ellie a hug and quietly departed. 

Lydia began to tremble. Kate and Dan, when she at last dared to look at them, allowed grim smiles. Kate reached out to Ellie across the table. 

'Ellie, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it would be like this. I really didn't. You should have told me. I wouldn’t have organised this.' 

'No. I know. Neither did I. I'm sorry too, that all your efforts have been for nothing. I thought, Mum, you might be a bit negative, embarrassed, even, but not like this, not react like this.' 

Ellie was sitting opposite Lydia, well-placed for confrontation. They glared at each other. Lydia could not understand why they did not ask her for her reasons. 

'It's not your fault, Mum.' 

'No, it certainly is not.' The words were out before she heard what Ellie meant. 

'No, Mum. I'm not going to give you credit for my total and utter happiness, if that’s what you think. What I was going to say was that it is your generation that are set in their ways and can’t update as things change.'  Ellie turned to Kate. 'Rosie says it’s mostly the older generation who are so prejudiced against us.' 

Dan had resumed his meal as though he was no part of this family. 

'You think you are trying to change my mind, don’t you?' Lydia said. 'Let me ...' 

'Yes,' said Ellie, the beautiful, golden Ellie, 'I'm trying to clear up a couple of outdated attitudes that you are hanging on to. Sex seems to be a problem with your age group. It's sad for me to realise that you had two children and two marriages and you don't understand the power, the loveliness, of sex.' 

Wrong, wrong, wrong!  Lydia wanted to shout. Who was prejudiced now? 

She stood up, rucking the tablecloth as she did so. She was shaky, sure that her knees were going to give way. 'I think I'll go home. You don’t want to listen to me.' 

'I don't have a car now, Lydia,' Dan said, still eating. 

She mopped her mouth on a napkin, pushed her chair out of the way. She stumbled out of the room. Kate followed as she was about to reach for her fur-fabric coat.  

'Don't go like this, Mum. You're making a fuss about nothing.' 

'Nothing? If you let me explain...' 

'Well, what a pity,' Kate hissed, her face close to Lydia's, 'what a pity you didn't make a fuss about my life instead of being so keen for me to marry that redundant creep in there.'  She returned to the dining room.  

Lydia was abandoned in the hall, disorientated. Kate had acknowledged difficulty in her marriage and, with regard to Ellie’s announcement, no one would allow her to speak. She sank onto the stairs, sitting there, not sure what to do, whether to leave or return to the dining room and to try again. 

Kate, Dan, and Ellie had been left silenced in the dining room until Kate went back in there and burst into tears. Lydia could hear her. 'I would never have expected this,' she sobbed.  

'We shouldn't be surprised,' Ellie said. 'Our parents’ generation have what we think of as outdated ideas about a lot of stuff. This is only one of them.' 

'Don't make excuses for her, Ellie.' Kate raised her voice, intending to be heard beyond the dining room. 'She was unkind, really.' 

'She thinks I'm so bad, it's justified. She thinks that insults are not as bad as my – my behaviour.' 

'Doesn't she, don’t all her friends, talk about things? Don't they watch television? Read the newspapers? Don't they have sons and daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters who get up to things they didn't when they were younger?  Doesn’t she know about same-sex marriage?' 

'She's just a bitter old bat because she didn't have fun,' Dan said. 

 'Don't you start!' That was Kate. 

'Shush!'  Ellie said. 

'No, I won't shush. She's not his mother. We’ve only got one mother, Ellie, and she's turned on us. You, especially. Didn't you think she might react like that?' 

'I thought she’d be low key about it, but not, not like this. We're her daughters.' 

'Doesn’t she love us?' 

'Believe me, she thinks that's what she's doing. I don't know why she thinks it's wrong, but she does, and she wants it right.' 

'You know,' Dan said and his slow deliberate way of speaking was even more slow and deliberate, 'we could find ourselves being just the same towards Nick or Polly or both in ten or twenty years’ time, about some other issue.' 

'That's true.' Ellie said. 

'I'll never,' Kate said, 'never, ever, treat my children with such hatred as she has treated you, Ellie.' 

'I didn’t see any hatred,' said Dan. 

'Oh, be quiet, you,' Kate said to him. 

'It remains to be seen. Do you really think that was hatred?' Ellie was determined to be understanding and Kate would not cope with that. 

'She should at least show a bit of tolerance,' Kate said. 

'Tolerance? How patronising! What I need is acceptance. Total acceptance.' 

Me too, thought Lydia, trying to shift her position on the stairs. 

'Look,' came Ellie’s more upbeat tone, 'I think what I need is a nice coffee. Shall I go and make it?  Let’s all go back into the sitting room.' 

'I'll make it,' Dan volunteered. 'I'll clear this lot too. You go into the sitting room.' 

Dan emerged into the hall, laden with a precarious pile of plates of uneaten food. 

'You go back in,' he said to Lydia as Kate and Ellie slipped past her.  

'I think I ought to go back home. Will you call a taxi for me?'