Polishing the Vicarage.
Mondays, Mrs. Fleet in her pinafore, headscarf, soft shoes. A routine for each week: dining table, chairs, fire surrounds, the teak sideboard, our upright piano, her law that everything glistens before time for elevenses, the wireless on - she’d seek the Home Service, in winter, warm her cheek against Bakelite. Round the mats, black floor shone like a rink. Once, she used a tea towel instead of a duster; polish-infused, it hinted at church, candles, hard pews. Sundays, the blue velvet curtains drawn to, we’d toast currant teacakes over hot coals, eat on our knees, blow the ash off our shoes.
Maggie Reed, from Pennine Platform Issue 88 November 2020
