Fragment #5 - Parents

I’m going home, well, not home. My fathers house.
My Dad and step-Mum stay about twenty minutes away from me by bus so I decided to walk. They live in a bungalow, a hideous one storey pebble-dashed house built in the late sixties, it makes my skin crawl to see the perfectly trimmed hedge, little black wrought iron gate, and red brick driveway. They even have hanging plants outside the front door. Its one of those suburban sarcophagi that seem so popular with the well-to-do middle-aged who’s drive and ambition is to have the worst eyesore Christmas lights in the solar system. Barbecues on the front porch, food on cocktail sticks, wife-swapping parties hidden barely behind net curtains, dreadful elevator music that only ever stops when it’s late at night and they’ve finished drinking their cheap supermarkets own brand Whisky. They live in a disgusting façade of decency that only lasts as long as it takes to close the front door. No there is no civilisation in these places. They are the people who let old folks go into inexpensive nursing homes to get abused and die.
With any luck I’ll be dead before I get to that stage. I never want to find myself with a false set of morals for the express benefit of my neighbours and bank account.
I knock on the door waiting for reply, I can hear a hoover going on within, it seems to be a constant struggle, I get the feeling that they only do this so that the carpet will wear down all the faster, then they can buy another and show their petty friends just how little taste they have. I know of people my age who do this kind of thing, you see them every day without fail in expensive vegan café’s talking over a fucking IKEA catalogue, giving sideways glances at everyone who walks in the door who hasn’t ironed their jeans.
A small red headed woman of about fifty answers the door smelling ever so slightly of gin. She looks shocked to see me.
“Hello Wendy. Surprised?” she had a dumbfounded and flabbergasted look in her eye, I’m not sure she recognised me. It has been three years.
“Edward?” Close, but not quite there “You want to speak to your father.” No shit. I just nod vaguely and she lets me in.
I was wrong. They have laminate flooring, this would take some serious work to wear down with a hoover, anything to keep busy during those long days spent disapproving of anyone who couldn’t give two tugs of a dead dogs cock what the hell compound interest is. (What is it? Answers on a postcard please.)
The inside of the house has that strange preserved odour of static decay mostly noticed in stately homes or old museums who haven’t quite got the right antiquities to qualify for a government grant or more than one weekly visitor. Everything is perfect; every surface is polished to a blinding sheen, vile ornaments and hideous prints all in a state of regimented clutter. The remains of religion long unused but often quoted stifle the atmosphere. I hate it here.
Dad’s gone to the shops so I’m ushered onto what can only be described as a corduroy sofa and asked if I want the obligatory cup of tea/coffee and a biscuit/piece of cake I say no to both as politely as I can… I’m here on a mission, so instead she decides to ask me if I want what she’s having.
“Erm, and what’s that then?”
“G and T, dear.” I nod my assent nothing wrong with a wee Gin and Tonic and besides it may be prudent that I get a little Dutch courage.
I was on my second strong drink when the bastard walks in with his shopping bags; I just sit still and watch as his face goes purple. I can’t say that I am overly concerned about this, I feel slightly ashamed to admit that I am curious as to what a heart attack looks like, alas however I am not to find out here.
“What are you doing here?” the self control being used here must have been Herculean, he has a look about him that is pure evil rage and hate, his fists are clenched, each about the same size as my head his knuckles are white as menacing doves, I have this effect on the old man.
“Gee! Let me think… my sister.” I always like to be as irreverent as I can when dealing with Dad; his righteous indignation is always a source of endless mirth to me. With his eyes popping out of his skull and not a little amount of froth spraying from his mouth he manages to croak out the words: “We’ve gone through this already.”
“Hmm, no we haven’t… Now ‘daddy’, sit down and shut up!” I am slightly impressed with myself here, but I have more to say, he looked abashed and stunned then sat down. “I have no interest in playing happy fucking families with you, to be perfectly honest I think you are one of the most detestable people I have ever known. But my sister for some reason loves you. And for some reason you have decided to turn your fat, sweaty back on her. Why?” Pushing it a bit I think.
“It wasn’t like that!” He was frowning, looking genuinely confused.
“No?”