Free My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress by Christina McKenna Page A

not least because the humble fare in the cupboard would be replaced with an assortment of cakes and buns which our impoverished palates knew were bound to come our way at some stage.
    At the sound of their car there was a flurry of anxiety and excitement that no other visitors to our house could invoke. They caused us to perform to a higher standard, and even our established routines were tossed overboard. One of these involved the non-use of the front door; it would be stiff and unyielding because Rosaleen and I had invariably painted it shut.
    â€˜Christ, there’s the Yankees!’ mother would yell to father. ‘Get off your arse and get that front door open.’
    As the car approached, my father would use all his might to try to prise the door open, putting his foot up on the jamb in desperation while mother stood berating him for not having performed this very necessary task sooner.
    â€˜It’s always the same,’ she’d continue, panicking now. ‘Declerta God, leave everything to the last minute. You hadn’t a damn thing to do except that, and you couldn’t even manage that. My heart’s a breakin’. I may give this place up!’
    When the front door was finally freed, the back one, which was always open, would bang shut in revolt, making everything in the house tremble and flap. It seemed as though the arrival of the Yankees had the power to unsettle even the contents of the house.
    Then came the moment we’d all been waiting for. There was a crunch on gravel and a flutter of chiffon and suddenly there they were in the parlour, my mother ushering them in in her slippery viscose frock and plastic sling-backs, my father in his Sunday suit. My parents looked shabby by comparison with Isa and Regina, unwittingly lending these dames a radiance they did not fully deserve.
    The visitors were all elegance and grace: lean ladies with delicate wrists, who moved cautiously on precarious heels, and cared greatly about appearances. They carried powerful handbags and wore a great deal of asphyxiating scent. We had never seen such shoes before: glancing patent leather which barely covered their dainty feet, with buckles on the toes that glittered. The hair was blonde and wavy, their smooth untroubled faces painted and powdered and perfect. Regina was a younger reflection of her mother, and Isa held the elegant promise of what the daughter could become.
    They would arrange themselves on chairs either side of the fireplace, like two exotic birds flanking the listless space. I’d hang shyly in the doorway, awed by the glinting jewellery that moved and winked as they talked. And boy could they talk! Streams of languorous syllables would issue from them all afternoon, the fine hands fluttering and straying in the air for added emphasis.
    They inspired mother to gaiety and father to alien acts of chivalry: I’d see him getting up to replenish the flutes of sweet sherry and light the proffered cigarettes, which were as long as their stilettos. We children milled around, sneaking looks at the unfolding spectacle – a Hollywood drama right there in our living-room with the Yankees centre stage.
    Tea was the high point of this production and mother would reluctantly leave the guests, to direct operations in the kitchen. She didn’t trust us, you see, and with good cause: she was aware that, left in charge of all the fancy food, we were liable to lose control and wolf down the lot.
    She needn’t have worried, however; the ladies barely touched a thing. The symmetry of those figures had to be maintained; cheekbones and hand-span waists were forever their priorities.
    Mother would wheel in the trolley to showers of obliging remonstration.
    â€˜Oh Gawd, Mary,’ Regina would protest, ‘you shouldn’t have! How absolutely divine.’
    â€˜You’ve gone to sooooo much trouble,’ Isa would say, ‘and we’re only slightly peckish. Well, just a morsel