Gilliflowers (53 page)

Authors: Gillibran Brown

BOOK: Gilliflowers

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“I’m not playing your control games.”

“Sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry!” I yelled as his hand cracked a half dozen rapid-fire slaps across my backside.

“There’s going to be no more solitaire sulking, no more fake headaches and no more cheek! Put a foot wrong between now and Christmas and I’ll give you a premier leathering.”

After pounding another round of painful slaps onto my bottom he grasped me by the wrist and dragged me out of the summerhouse. By the time he thrust me into the kitchen I was out of breath. He pointed at the pot-laden sink. “Wash that lot up and then go upstairs, lie on the bed. Stay there until you have my permission to move. I’m going to snuff out the candles in the summerhouse, dangerous things. If you’re still in the kitchen when I get back I’ll take down your pants and give you a bloody good spanking.”

I washed up at speed and then ran upstairs to lie on the bed as instructed. My glitter feast was over that was for sure. I searched for resentment, but found none. For the first time in weeks I relaxed properly, feeling tension leave my neck and shoulders. I was glad to have been found out and put back on track. I wouldn’t have been able to do it myself. I’d have got increasingly lost, and as Shane said that was the last thing I wanted. I listened, hoping to hear his footsteps on the stairs. He didn’t come.

I heard Dick arrive home. He didn’t come up either, not straight away. I eventually heard his feet on the stairs. He strode into the room. I sat up and gave him a warm smile. After all he is the man who adores me.

My smile vanished as he made a grab for my ankles and dragged me from a sitting position to a flat on my back one, but not for long. He flipped me onto my front and I hollered as his hand danced merry hell on the seat of my jeans, freshening the sting left by Shane’s assault.

“I’ve been worrying myself silly over you, wondering where you were going off to, what you were doing and how you were feeling and all the time you were skulking at the bottom of the fucking garden like Santa’s elf enjoying your own private Aurora Borealis.”

He stopped slapping and flipped me back over. “What happened to talking, hmm?” Folding his arms he glared at me. “What happened to help and support and not being alone? You nod your head and agree and then you sneak off to sulk and wallow. Shane’s right, he’s been right all along. You’ve been punishing us because things aren’t going your way.”

“I’m sorry.” I sat up, sitting cross-legged, plucking at the duvet. “I didn’t see it like that.”

“No, you only ever see what you want to see. You are going to face up to reality, Gilli, you are. You’re going to get on with life as it is now instead of trying to cling onto something that no longer applies.” He jabbed a finger. “I’m warning you, put a foot wrong between now and Christmas and I’ll come down on you hard.”

It was my second warning against putting a foot wrong, which tied up both feet.

I’d have to stand perfectly still until Boxing Day. I almost said as much, but Dick had the look of a man who wasn’t in the mood for Christmas cracker style quips. Neither was I, not really. Scrambling off the bed I went to him, putting my arms around his slim body, pressing into him. “I don’t like change, Dick. I hate that the episodes have gotten worse and everything stemming from it. I want to be the before me, not this one.”

“You’re still the same person, hun. I love you.” His voice softened and his arms came about me. “Life changes all the time. You have to adapt to the changes instead of trying to run away from them.”

We cuddled for a while in silence, reconnecting. Then I gave a sigh and asked.

“Do I really have to go tonight, Dick?”

“Yes. The ticket cost a fucking fortune, so you’re going and you’re going to smile and enjoy yourself. The dinner will be good and you’ll get to have a dance. Besides if you don’t go I’ll be stuck on my own all night while Shane talks business. He never switches off.”

“Promise you’ll rescue me if I look in danger of being nabbed by a mason’s daughter on the look out for a husband.”

“I promise.” He pulled me closer. “I’ll let them know what terrible husband material you are and warn them to stay well clear.”

“Dick, you don’t mean that, do you?” I tilted my head to look at him. “I’m not really bad husband material, am I?”

“The worst.” Shane walked into the bedroom. “Women need a man who is willing to think about them and not just about themselves. You’re fit only to be espoused to elderly caravanners who know how to deal with you.” He clapped a hand to my bottom and then to Dick’s. “Put baby down and start getting him ready for this evening. Wash him down and dress him up in his best bib and tucker. Let’s show him off.”

And so this boy went to the Christmas Ball and had a lovely time with his elderly caravanners. Next day they stripped the summerhouse of its finery before locking it up for the winter. My gorgeous Christmas tree was brought into the lounge and I was allowed to put up a few other festive trimmings. The rest of the stuff was boxed up and stored away. Mum’s card was put on the mantelpiece along with the photo, which Dick loved. He said I looked to have been a delightful child, and of course he’s right.

I dug out and wrote out my cards to the boyfriends and they too were put on the mantelpiece.

I’ve now steeled myself to celebrate Christmas without one of the usual trimmings. Am I happy about it? Not bloody likely, but I am going to heed warnings and try not to put a foot wrong, which should be a bit easier seeing as I can’t drink beer until the room spins and I fall over.

In the Christmas Special spin off from the film that will never get made about this boy’s life, this episode would fade out to me singing Joni Mitchell’s ‘River.’ I’ve featured it as a track before, but it’s worth hearing again.

All too often I try to skate away from the things I’m afraid of and things I don’t like and am unwilling to accept. I’m selfish and difficult to handle. I give my men cause for concern. I worry them, but they haven’t given up on me yet and I love them all the more for it.

Monday 22nd December 2008

And so my dear diary here we are almost at year’s end. I have a busy few days ahead of me. We’re hosting a dinner party this evening so I have plenty to do. I’m taking gifts to my mother tomorrow and also have little gifts to drop off elsewhere.

Christmas as a season lends itself to secrets and I have two to share with you before I place the final full stop on this year’s pages.

The first secret is Dick’s Christmas gift for Shane. He showed it to me last night before he gift-wrapped it. It’s a set of pencil drawings of flowers, Gilliflowers, or me in other words.

I was thrilled to bits and not because they’re of me, but because Dick reckons Shane will adore them and that makes me feel happy.

He’s been doing little portrait sketches of me at intervals all year. The finished drawings are on one canvas, which he’s framed. Each portrait has a simple descriptive title under it: Gilli daydreaming, Gilli laughing, Gilli sad, Gilli troublemaking, Gilli sulking, (which shows me sitting cross-legged on the floor at Shane’s feet) The last drawing in the set is of me sleeping on the lounger in Dick’s studio after Shane had caned me. It’s titled
Gilli at peace.

I’m not one for gloating, I have too much dignity, but it knocks the sketch Dick did for Jak into a cocked hat, ha-ha, though I must admit the tattoo resulting from it does look good. He had it done a few weeks ago. He called one Saturday morning asking to speak to Dick. He sounded excited. I guessed he’d found a tattoo artist worthy of transferring the design from paper to skin.

I told him Dick was out playing golf. He asked for his mobile number. I claimed I couldn’t remember it offhand and besides Dick didn’t like me giving his private number out to just anyone. Jak gave me his number and asked me to tell Dick to call him so he could tell him he’d had the tattoo done and it looked great and was getting compliments. I said I’d pass the message on and put the phone down whereupon I was smitten with a bout of amnesia. It wiped my mind.

Returning to more recent deeds. The second secret I want to shareis a naughty one, a very naughty one. I did a bad thing on Saturday afternoon, but no one knows about it and if I have my way no one ever will.

When Penny came to visit earlier this month (B-I-T-C-H) she brought Dick and Shane a Christmas cake she’d baked, despite me telling her I’d made one this year and there was no need for her to bother. She coldly stated she always made one for her brothers, claiming Shane particularly liked the recipe she used, the implication being mine would be a pile of old shit.

I put my thinking cap on. I’d top her cake by topping mine. Penny never marzipans or ices her cake, so I thought I’d fancy mine up and impress the boyfriends by whacking a bit of festive dressing on it - the old razzle-dazzle routine.

I sought advice from my baking mentor, Eileen. She told me you have to put marzipan on the cake first and leave it for a couple of days to dry out so it doesn’t stain the white icing.

On Saturday afternoon I rolled out my almond paste and then got down the tin holding my cake and opened it. Horror lay within. It had gone mouldy. I could have wept. I’ve never seen anything like the fungus blooming on my poor Chrissy cake. It was a furry bright yellow orange. I couldn’t see Dick or Shane wanting to pop a bit of it in their mouths.

I ran wailing to Eileen. She questioned. I answered. She then explained you never wrap a fruitcake in plastic cling film and then store it. You wrap it in greaseproof paper and foil before tinning it. She also thinks it may not have been properly cooled before being wrapped, which might have contributed to it sweating and mouldering.

I was gutted. Penny would be cock-a-hoop about her cake reigning supreme over mine. I couldn’t bear it. A wicked idea popped into my usually pure mind. The cakes could pass as twins with them both being round and full of dried fruit. I swapped them. What was hers is now mine. It’s proudly wearing a golden crown of marzipan and awaiting its mantle of regal white icing. My mouldy cake is in her tin. I’ve made it swear it will never reveal its true identity, not even if threatened with TCP torture.

Oh well, dear diary, it’s time for me to leave you. As I said at the beginning of this tome, real life isn’t plotted as such. It unfolds as a series of incidents as we wend our way. With luck there will be plenty more incidents in this boy’s life and I’ll return next year to journal more tales of life love and fun with Dick and Shane. I leave you with seasonal salutations. This is the houseboy signing over and out. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

End.

Table of Contents
Thursday 10th January 2008

Frail Daffodils for the Ancient Dead

Fish Tale

Friday 11th January 2008

Sunday 13th January 2008

Monday 14th January 2008

Friday 18th January 2008

Saturday 19th January 2008

Tuesday 22ndJanuary 2008

Shane’s Birthday Dinner Report

Post Scriptum