Bury the Hatchet. Philip Harbottle
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picked up the condiment stand from the table. “I heard you saying something about Christine Ashton? Were you warning Fay about the maniac?”
“Yes. I only hope she doesn’t have to learn by experience!”
Ruth’s voice came from the kitchen. “Trudy, come and wipe, will you?”
“Coming, mum.…” Trudy dumped the condiments on the sideboard and returned to the kitchen.
George read his paper for a short while, then got up and took his football coupon from the mantlepiece. Clearing a space on the table, he settled down at with his coupon and permutation guide.
He gave a start as there came the sound of a dish dropped in the kitchen. Then Trudy swept in, and with a good deal of clatter, began putting the crockery out of the way.
George tightened his lips as his wife came in with a carpet sweeper, causing him to turn into an acrobat to get his feet out of the way.
Trudy had been surveying the troublesome mat by the door. Abruptly she made up her mind. She went into the kitchen, to emerge with a hammer and some tacks, and proceeded to tack down the mat violently.
George threw up his hands. “Trudy, do you mind?”
“What?” Trudy continued to hang the hammer vigorously. “Mind what?”
“I’m trying to do my coupon. Can’t I have a bit of peace? It’d be quieter in the main street!”
Trudy straightened up. “Sorry. The mat will do now, I think.”
“I should hope so!” her father commented sourly. “From the noise you were making I was half expecting the floorboards to go through.” As Trudy took the hammer back to the kitchen, he returned thankfully to his coupon.
His respite was short-lived, for after a moment Trudy returned, this time with a vacuum cleaner. Plugging in, she commenced to clean under the table, causing more acrobatics by her exasperated father.
“Sorry!” Trudy apologized. “But mum says you shouldn’t make so many crumbs. The sweeper just isn’t good enough.”
The vacuuming continued as George struggled to complete his coupon. Finally, responding to frantic signals, Trudy switched off. “Mum’s orders, dad.…”
She dragged the vacuum back to the kitchen.
George settled again to his coupon, watching warily as Ruth came back in. She commenced to sort out newspapers with a good deal of crackling noise.
Trudy came back and sprawled herself on the settee, picking up the comic strip supplement, and settling to read it. Ever and again, she abstractedly snapped the lid of her reading glasses case. At about the fourth ‘snap’ George could stand it no longer, and jumped up.
“Quiet, the pair of you! Please!”
Ruth glanced at him amusedly. “Coupon, I suppose? I’d forgotten that even the mice have to wear plimsolls at this vital moment.… What are you aiming for, George? Seventy-five thousand?”
“I’m aiming for the best I can get, if only I can get a bit of peace!”
“Yes, dear. Sorry. I wouldn’t deprive you of £75,000 for anything.” She sat down and picked up some sewing.
George silently congratulated himself on the return of peace, and settled down again to his coupon. After a moment or two, he started violently as rock-and-roll music suddenly burst forth from Fay’s bedroom.
He leapt up and strode to the hall door. “I give up!” He wrenched the door open. “Fay! Fay! Turn off that confounded row!”
The music stopped abruptly, and George returned to his coupon. After a moment or two Fay appeared, dressed for an evening out.
George glared at her. “What the dickens do you mean by it? Making that din with that damned jungle music!”
Trudy looked up from reading the comic strip supplement. “Don’t look now, dad, but you’re a square.”
“A square?” George looked his puzzlement.
“Trudy’s right, dad. If you’ve no appreciation of the pops, you’re definitely a square. You’re just not in the groove.”
“Groove?” George asked hazily.
“No,” Fay asserted. “You’re a square all right, and that’s the lowest form of animal life. You’re not cool.”
“You can bet your life I’m not.” George was nettled. “And if you call me the lowest form of animal life again I’ll use a hairbrush to you, even if you are seventeen!”
Fay sighed heavily. “Gosh, dad, but you’re old-fashioned. Just because I play some pop music to get me in the mood for the evening, you have to raise the roof—”
“I rather thought it was you who was doing that!” George said heavily. “It’s beyond my understanding why a girl should have to play records to get herself in the mood. I certainly didn’t need that kind of stimulus when your mother and I were walking out together.”
“That was different,” Fay derided. “I don’t suppose you ever went jiving. That’s what I mean by getting in the mood. The rest comes naturally.” She glanced at her watch. “Anyway, I’ve got to be going.”
Her mother looked up from her sewing. “And don’t be late!”
“And be careful.” Her father added. “Remember what I told you.”
Fay laughed. “I will. Be back about quarter to twelve, I expect.” She went out, and George sighed at the inevitable slamming of the front door.
He put his completed coupon in an envelope. “I’m a bit late with the coupon this week, but I’ll risk the midnight mail. Shan’t be long.” He crossed to the hall, then after a moment reappeared in hat and coat. “By the way, is that a comic strip you’re reading, Trudy?”
“Sure is.”
“Don’t forget to save Superman for me before your mother yanks it off for firelights. I want to find out where he took the Empire State Building to.…”
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