The Hanging Noose

Eight

Dottie groans, looking at Polly with a scowl. "How is that fair? You're allowing Micheal to go to the bloody horse thing but not me! Mum, please!"

Polly stares at her from kitchen counter where she's been making sandwiches. "You're not going, Dottie."

"Mum!" Dottie whines, making Polly smile slightly. "Why are you smiling? Mum? It's not funny! It's blatant sexism!"

"You haven't changed a bit," Polly says softly, her facial expression changing from a stern mother to a loving and proud mother, "if you stomped your foot, you would be practically identical to how you were when you was little. Use to whine and whine until one of us said yes."

Dottie tilts her head, her hands on her hips.

"I thought me and you could go shopping," Polly says, "Micheal told me you hate your dresses."

Dottie raises an eyebrow, "what else has Micheal told you?"

"Not a lot," Polly answers, "that's why I was thinking of taking you shopping, and then have some lunch. We can get to know each other. Properly."

Dottie stares at Polly, staring at the hopeful expression. She nods her head.

"Good, now take these sandwiches, and place them on the table," Polly orders, turning back round to the counter and cutting up several sandwiches.

Dottie does as she's told, taking a pile of sandwiches over to the table. She places the small pile on one of the cloths she had laid out earlier, wrapping them up tightly. Her attention gets pulled away when Micheal clears his throat in the doorway.

Dottie looks him up and down, noticing how the legs on the suit are slightly too short, however he looks smart, with a flat cap hat against his head.

"I can't believe it, all John's old things fit me."

Polly stares at him now, her hand over her mouth slightly. "Christ, you look like your father." She then quickly walks to the counter, picking up the pile of sandwiches and placing them down on to the table on a cloth. Polly quickly wraps them up, and pats one pile.

"Mum made sandwiches," Dottie says. "Shrimp and ham."

Micheal nods, sitting down at the table, "thank you, Mum," he says as Polly softly smiles at him. "What was he like... my dad? How did he die?"

Dottie leans forward on the chair, her knuckles turning a pinky white colour.

"Well, I won't lie to you, he died drunk, squeezed between a boat and a lock. A real river gypsy's death." Polly says in almost a harsh kind of voice. "But he could sing, play the piano... His smile would break your heart."

Dottie stares at Polly, her mind slightly wondering.

"You've got his same beautiful eyes. When he was sober, he was kind and gentle. His trouble was, he fell in with the wrong crowd when he was a boy."
Polly's words falter when a car horn blows loudly. She bursts up on to her feet, grabbing the large knife she was using to cut the sandwiches.

She stalks out of the kitchen, screaming. "I have told them not to blow that horn. This is a respectable fսck¡ng neighbourhood!"

Micheal and Dottie look at each other.

"Did you know that?" Dottie asks, "this is a respectable fucking neighbourhood."