Aunt Daisy’s Son
An unexpected visitor.
I don’t think he’s heard it. The knock is soft but audible. I tap him on the shoulder and say loudly,
“There is someone at the door, dad.”
He will blame it on the noise we are making arguing about whether Eddie Izzard is the name of a comedian or of a Chelsea player – which I say is Eden Hazard – or at the telly which is on at full blast, but I reckon he is losing his sense of hearing.
He gets up grumbling “Who could it be at this hour? Can we not get some peace on Christmas night?” He goes out in the hallway and hear him undoing the latch. An icy blast invades the room and we huddle round the fireplace for warmth.
He seems to have gone for ages and when he returns he is red in the face, whether for the cold air or embarrassment is not easy to tell.
“Erm..”, he mumbles, “do you remember Auntie Daisy, boys? Come and meet her son, he is in the parlour.” So we follow him.
“Hello brothers”, is how he welcomes us.
Everything seems to make sense. We have a vague recollection of a voluptuous peroxide blonde who used to live next door to us before we moved to our present house. The first time we met her she had come to borrow a cupful of sugar. She had then become a regular visitor, strangely enough when mum was out shopping. Mother left after an almighty row with father and the visits increased.
“I’ll explain later”, dad says sheepishly.
The ‘son’ is safely tucked in bed in a spare room and we are having a confab in the kitchen.
“I’ll be honest, boys: I did have a relationship with that woman but only after your mother left us”, dad confesses, “but I know that that boy is an impostor. I always used johnnies, so she couldn’t have got pregnant.”
It is now St. Stephen’s day and it is eleven o’clock. We have all slept soundly after ‘drowning our sorrows’ with double malt whisky.
We are more inclined to believe dad’s words as we find that the safe has been emptied, the house ransacked and our unexpected ‘guest’ disappeared.
“A small price to pay”, states dad philosophically.
Yet we know that he is secretly relieved that his losses are covered by insurance.
© Luigi Pagano 2016
The first part of the story is a bit like our house when someone is telling me about a knocking at the door. I’m also going a bit deaf (and mildly doolally). I enjoyed the read. It seems like dad got off lightly in the end. What a dirty rotten thief the lad turned out to be.
The sins of the fathers and all that….There must be a moral somewhere.
Love the deafening tv end the Eddie Izard confusion things like this have a habit of coming back to bite. Karma ?
Cheers, Keith. In creating a background to the story I didn’t have to draw on imagination: many times, whilst watching tv, I’ve failed to hear a doorknock only to be told about it by other people in the room.
Thanks for reading and commenting.