The heavy door swung open to a dimly lit room where grandmother sat stern and motionless in a high backed chair, chin held high and sharp gray eyes residing behind horn-rimmed spectacles. A brass handled walking stick, leaned against a round polished cherry wood reading table on which resided a large leather bound well worn bible with a tattered gold ribbon marking a passage that we would no doubt have to listen to during our visit.
On the wall were several photographs. One used to be of Dad and Mum on their wedding day, barely visible through the fog as they leaned against their borrowed car, but Mum had been carefully cropped out of this. The rest of the wall decoration consisted of pictures of Methodist ministers from a number of different parishes. A large portrait of Winston Churchill enjoyed a privileged spot over the mantelpiece, and on the opposite side Queen Elizabeth bestowed her royal blessing upon the dimly lit room.
After bowing to Grandmother and saluting Winston, Pete and I sat motionless, side by side like wax dummies on the couch. Only the sound of rain on the window and the occasional crackle of the fire broke the stony silence.
Eventually, Dad tried to start up a conversation. It began by talking about the weather, my father offering an opinion about the Pilchard's terrible timing for their Scottish Holiday. Then the mother and son pair once again fell silent. I knew Dad wanted to offer a highly opinionated comment on the offshore fishing strike but politics, or anything perceived as such was forbidden. For fear that we would all be cursed into hell, religion was also a taboo subject. It was difficult to find any common ground. Neither of the two had any interest in sports, Dad did not know any hymns, and grandmother had never ridden a motorbike.
Mud Lane
by Stephen R Drage
ISBN: 13 : 978-1466291805
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