Free Sunday Best by Bernice Rubens Page A

choice, and I tried to attribute his wandering hands to his show of friendship. Again I was afraid to look at my mother. Her face was an accurate diviner and forecaster, and I dreaded what I might find there. The music stopped and my father clung to his woman for a while, and then, unwilling to let her go, dragged her over to the gramophone, and held her while he replayed the record. It saved the time of changing, and promised the same mood as before. I was bored, and what with repeats there was no indication that the record collection would soon be exhausted. When the song was over for the second time, my mother boldly crossed to the machine, and turned it off. ‘George is bored,’ she said. ‘Let’s all play a game.’
    I was moved by her consideration, but resented being the focus of discontent. I knew my father would punish me for it. An extra run through the fields or a double shovel of snow on my bare back. It was summer still, but he would bide his time and remember, and I would have four long months to anticipate it. ‘I don’t mind,’ I offered, but my mother had already suggested a game of blind man’s buff, and even I thought that was rather childish. I was surprised that most of the grownups thought it a splendid suggestion, and one of their number, a Mister, was chosen to be blindfold. My mother did it herself with a table-napkin, while my father, sulking a little, poured the brandy. My mother turned the victim round three times and I noticed a look of extreme joy on her face, as if she were recalling her own childhood birthdays. There was much scuffling in the room to avoid the blinded figure, and when he caught one of the guests, there was much feeling up and down to identify her. My father, who until then, had been a sullen bystander, suddenly saw the possibilities in the game, and was impatient to have his turn. The blinded man in the centre still held on to his victim, and whether he knew her or not, he was taking his time to name her. So my father was restless, and threw out an unmistakable clue, and it would have been too obvious if the blindfold had hesitated longer. He wasobliged to name her, and she, having been identified, to take his place. But she refused, obviously preferring the role of potential catch. I offered to take her place. My mother was already blindfolding me, when I heard my father shout that he wanted a go. I was glad I couldn’t see him, because I knew everybody was embarrassed by his behaviour, and I was still young enough to believe that if I shut my eyes, I was invisible. I heard him shout, ‘It’s my turn,’ like a petulant child, and he seemed to be coming towards me. I knew that whatever happened, another punishment was added to the list, and the prospect of such a bleak winter appalled me. I felt the napkin torn from my eyes. I dared not open them, but I felt myself being pushed to one side. I heard a tittering embarrassed silence, and when I opened my eyes, I saw him bandaging himself in the middle of the room. My mother had withdrawn. She was obviously not going to play any more. The silence in the room was unpleasant and it took my father a while to revive the jollification. He did it by cavorting a little and making strange contortions with his body. The guests tittered, politely at first, and because they too preferred to get on with the party, because it would have been less embarrassing than breaking it up, laughed heartily and the mood was restored.
    I watched my father and my hatred of him outweighed my embarrassment. I hoped fervently that he would die before winter. He had started to prowl around, taking his time with the catch. He wanted to prolong his fun. But when his hand landed on an obviously male worsted sleeve, he pounced backwards, as if he had touched nothing. He took his time, like a boxer dancing around his opponent, refusing to come into the fray, and eventually the guests tired of dodging something that