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"And "I'm paying on it," she said defiantly, adding, "Oh Alf, come and see it, it's beautiful," (with her own special brand of emphasis on the word beautiful, and a facial expression to melt). "Send ! It ! Back! I said," countering her wiles with his 'I'm the piper, and I call the tune' attitude.
Nevertheless,
before commencing the elaborate meal she had prepared (suited to the occasion)
he got up and made his way to the front room. Dad must have been thinking along
more modest lines. When seeing the room he knew, usually empty, filled with
brand new furniture, his face went blank. Then the colour change. First his
complexion drained to white, then filled with a violent, reddish hue. If it had
been say, a standard lamp, or a coffee table, as a beginning, it might have met
with his expectations. But this was well outside his mental boundaries. Without hesitation, and with some difficulty, he proceeded to pick up one of the
offending easy There was cursing, threats, until all his energy had been spent. He put the chair down in front of the doorway, and climbed over it with exaggerated contempt. He didn't go into that room for some time after that. I don't think he ever sat in those chairs. But he did show them off occasionally as the furniture he had bought, conceding that, "Harriet picked the colour." My father was forced to accept an unpalatable truth: For so many years he had had his priorities wrong. The endless treadmill working for daily bread, shelter, fags and beer, had been to the exclusion of his family's other needs for far too long. The new front room, which conflicted with his will, served to show it up. He had deprived his family of basic comforts. Mam's frustration simply boiled over. She was weary of seeing us live in sparse surroundings, of having to walk on bare floorboards, of wearing hand-me-downs and cheap clothes from shop sales. She realized that his hard work was merely work for work's sake. Now she was happy. I could tell. I knew when she was full with joy. She glowed.
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