“Dad?”

I looked up from the paper and smiled at the dark haired lad standing in the doorway, nervously chewing on his lower lip.  The boy had a frown on and was looking suspiciously concerned, an anxious look in his dark eyes.  He looks so much like Livy that I can’t believe it sometimes.  O’ course, everyone always tells me how much he looks like me when I was that age, but I was never that handsome.  Even at twelve years old, it’s easy to see Dhani’s gonna be a heartbreaker.  And I don’t mean he’s gonna be in Tom’s other band, either!

“What is it, Dhan?”

He looked down and scrunched his bare toes into the carpet, then looked back up at me with those melting brown eyes.  How’d I ever get so lucky?

“D’ya remember the party, Dad?” he asked tentatively.

It was pretty obvious he thought I’d forgotten.  Cleared me throat.

“Sure, sure, yeah, o’ ‘course I ‘member it, Dhani, yeah, not a problem……”

Damn.

What party?  I’d forgotten all about any kind of party!  Whose party, what party, where? 

My son was all smiles now, relieved that his old man hadn’t forgotten about something that was obviously important to him.

Double damn.

“That’s smashing, Dad, I knew I could count on you!” he beamed.  “When should we leave?”

Thought frantically.  “Errrr, when does th’ party start?”  Didn’t e’en have a clue where we were going!

“It starts at half two.”

“Oh, right, right.  An’ ……errr….. errrrr…… what’s ‘is name…..errrrr, th’ party boy……?”

“It’s Tommy’s party, Dad,” Dhani sighed in resignation.  “You did forget, din’t you?”  A frown replaced the smile.

“No, no, not at all, just misplaced th’ name, that’s all!  Honest, Dhan, I wouldn’t ferget th’ party, just …… ya know, ya got so many friends, I can’t keep track of ‘em all, thas’ all, son.”

I was lying through me teeth.  Tommy?  Damn, how many Tommys did Dhani know?  Something like four?!?  Thank God they all live fairly close, shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes to get to any of their homes.  Sneaked a glance at the clock, it was eleven, so there was plenty of time.  And Dhani was smiling again, thank Krishna!  Sometimes I think it’s my duty in life t’ keep him smiling.  I guess every parent kinda feels that way about their offspring.  And if they don’t feel like that, well, they should!  Breaks me heart when Dhani’s unhappy.

“Right, then!” Dhani said, a perfect copy of Livy’s smile on his lips.  He turned to go back out the door, then paused and looked back.  “Oh, don’t forget the potato salad, okay, Dad?  I’m gonna go throw the ball for Spike and Jake.”

“Errrr, yeah, sure, son.”

Watched him race out of the room.  He’s always on the move, racing here or there.  Always racing, rushing, jumping.  Makes me exhausted just to watch him sometimes!  Did I ever have that much energy?  Did any of us ever have that kind of energy?

I winced as the back door slammed shut and listened to the excited barking of the dogs as Dhani started playing with them.  Then it hit me.

What had the boy said?  Potato salad?

Damn.  This was just wonderful.

What a day for Rita to be out doing the weekly shopping!  And Livy wouldn’t be back home until tonight; she’d been off visiting her family in California for the past week.  Wonderful.  I didn’t even have me brother Pete hanging ‘round, he was off with his family for a picnic! 

I was alone, utterly alone and helpless.  With my nemesis.  The…… kitchen.

C’mon, now, George, don’t get cold feet, how hard can this be?  Dhani’s counting on ya!

Tried t’ bolster me courage and took a few deep breaths before venturing into no man’s land.  Dug around and found a cookbook, tried not to break out in a sweat as I held it.

Th’ kitchen’s yer friend, th’ kitchen’s yer friend……

Couldn’t help but remember the last time I’d been forced t’ make dinner for me an’ Dhan when Livy’d been stuck overnight at a friend’s house ‘cause of a storm.  Dhani’d turned his nose up at the soup I heated, said I’d scorched it.  We’d ended up eating crisps an’ candy, an’ watched scary movies all night, you know, the classics like King Kong, Godzilla an’ Mothra, the kind where you could giggle through the entire thing, it had been grand!  But the memory of him saying I’d scorched the soup had remained with me. 

Th’ kitchen’s a woman’s domain!  I mean, I don’t wanna sound like a chauvinist or anything, but there’s a gene missing in some men with regards to the kitchen, seriously.  I freely admit I don’t have the kitchen gene.  Must have been sagging off school the day it had been given out.  I got the gardening gene in spades, but the kitchen gene?  It’s missing, that’s all there is t’ that!

Go ahead an’ laugh.  But Livy’s told me I can’t boil water. 

That’s not quite true, I make a grand cup o’ tea.  But that’s ‘bout where me expertise ends.  I ‘member living on cheese sammies an’ tea when I lived with Ritch fer a while back in the 60’s.  Oh, an’ fish fingers, you know, the frozen kind that you just stick in the oven, but that’s about it.  An’ th’ only reason I did th’ cooking back then was ‘cause Ritch had even less of the kitchen gene than me, and I didn’t wanna starve t’ death!

Gingerly opened the book and went directly to the index; looked up potato salad.  Who knew there’d be so many recipes?  Closed me eyes and flipped back an’ forth between a few pages, then stabbed a finger onto the open page.  Opened me eyes cautiously and started reading.

Step one: boil potatoes in salted water. 

Okay, I can do this, shouldn’t be hard, right?

How many potatoes one uses is up to the one doing the cooking, depends on whether you’re feeding an army or just a few people.  Figgered I was cooking for an army of hungry kids, so I scrubbed up a whole bag o’ the spuds and put ‘em in the pot on the stove. 

Got sidetracked listening to th’ radio an’ forgot about ‘em, let ‘em boil a bit too long. 

Got out another bag of spuds and cleaned them and set the timer when they started boiling so they wouldn’t fall to pieces. 

Decided to make mashed potatoes with the first batch, remembered how Mum used t’ do it and got out the butter and tinned milk and started mashing. 

Mashing’s hard work. 

When I finished, I was in a sweat and rubbery with exhaustion.  But I had four big bowls full of mashed potatoes, so I was pretty pleased with meself!  Found places for ‘em in the ‘fridge and checked the boiling potatoes.

When had the timer gone off?

Now I had eight big bowls of mashed potatoes stuffed into the ‘fridge and if I’d thought I’d been rubbery with exhaustion before, I was utterly drained now.  Checked the clock.  Twelve straight up?!?

Scrubbed off another bag of potatoes and started them boiling.  Hovered over the stove, sticking a fork in ‘em every few minutes to make sure they didn’t overcook.  Third time’s the charm, but it felt like it took forever!

Step 2.  Cool the potatoes off by running cold water over ‘em.

That was simple.  Stuck the pot in the sink and turned on the cold water and then went off to the loo to wash the sweat off me face.  Came back into the kitchen mopping me face with a towel, and realized the pot had cut off access to the drain and the water was flowing out over the edge of the sink.  Splashed over to the sink and shut the water off, tried not to swear, and started cleaning up.  Went through about forty tea towels from the pantry, didn’t know we owned that many.  All colour coordinated.  Coulda cared less, just wanted something t’ pack up th’ water all over th’ floor.  Threw ‘em all sopping wet into the washing machine and squirted some soap into it, hit the ‘start’ button.

“That’s all thur is t’ that!” I announced to meself, satisfied I’d at least gotten that bit of it done.  Back to the salad!

Got the potatoes out of the pan in the sink and finally got the sink drained.

The washing machine started making some funny noises, but I ignored it.

Step 3.  Cut potatoes in cubes, chop onion finely and toss both with salt, pepper and Italian dressing.

Pulled out a chopping board and very gingerly started all the cutting stuff.  I don’t like knives much, they kinda gimme the shivers.  I think it’s to do with being a guitarist, don’t want any sharp instruments of destruction anywhere near me fingers!

Realized as I was doing the chopping that the washing machine was making some funny gurgling noises. 

“What’s that?” I asked meself, and decided I’d better check on it, walked over to the laundry.  It’s adjacent to the kitchen and I knew the towels I’d started in the wash were merrily on their way to becoming clean.

Oh no.  And that’s ‘oh no’ as in “oh NO”, not as in Yoko.

Bubbles were pouring out of the closed lid of the washing machine, seeping down the side of the device and layering the entire floor. 

Several inches deep.  Up t’ me knees, actually.  The room was full of ‘em.

Moving en masse, creeping towards the doorway I was standing in.

I must ‘ave put in too much soap.  Or maybe the wrong kind of soap.  I squished through the bubbles and hit the stop button on the washing machine, then firmly closed the door and decided I’d best simply ignore it.  There’d be time to work on that later, but for now, I had to finish the salad. 

The son was counting on me! 

Left a trail of bubbles behind me as I went back to the kitchen to finish the chopping.  Damn bubbles itched as they dried on me legs.  Coulda been worse, might ‘ave been wearing long trousers, right?  Sopping wet, soapy long trousers.  But the weather was so pleasant that I’d put on a pair of shorts this morning.

Right, then, what’s next?

An onion, eh?  OK.  Did me best to chop it up finely, tears streaming down me face.  Potent little bugger!

Looked in the ‘fridge for Italian dressing, finally found some oil and balsamic vinegar stuff way at the back.  That’d do, right?

Well, it kinda turned the potatoes a funny brown colour, but it smelled good anyway.  Tossed everything and then looked for a place to put it in the ‘fridge…..for two hours?  Sorry, not enough time.  It was half twelve already!  And there wasn’t any room in the ‘fridge, what with eight bowls of mashed potatoes in there!  Finally stuck the potato salad bowl on top of the ‘fridge and told it to cool quickly whilst I looked to see what else needed to be done.

Lessee, add chopped celery (more chopping, I sighed), plain salad cream (mayonnaise to you barbarians) and hard cooked eggs.  Nix on the eggs, I try to avoid eating them, the Krishna thing, you know.  Not very successful most of the time, but I give it a try.  Celery, okay, rummaged through the ‘fridge again.  No celery.  There was some zucchini, though.  It’s green and kinda crunchy, innit?  One stalk o’ celery oughta equal one big zucchini, shouldn’t it?

“That’ll work,” I announced, and pulled a big one out to begin the chopping process again, then returned to the ‘fridge and looked for plain salad cream. 

Nothing.

Livy’s on this kick, doesn’t want fattening stuff in the house, so most of the salad cream and stuff was tossed out before she left for California last week.

Damn.

Wondered what I could substitute?

Anything white and creamy oughta do th’ trick, right?  Kept digging about in the ‘fridge.

Finally found this container of something in the freezer, a whipped non-dairy topping sorta thingie of some kind.  Pried off the lid and it looked about right, but it was frozen, courtesy of the freezer.  So I stuck it in the microwave to thaw it out whilst I chopped the zucchini.

Yeah, I know, I know.  We got one o’ those miserable pieces of equipment, Livy insisted.  It must be an American thing, ev’rybody’s gotta have a microwave oven in their kitchen.  D’ya know that Livy even heats water in it, fer tea?!?!?  I shudder t’ think of it!  That’s blasphemy!  An’ she talks ‘bout me not bein’ able t’ boil water!  She does it in the microwave!  Disgusting, simply disgusting.

Wondered how long I should put this non-dairy stuff in the infernal machine.

Okay, ten minutes oughta do it.

Yeah, that’d be ‘bout right.  Turned the knobbie thing and pressed start.  After a few minutes, there were some popping noises from the microwave, so I gingerly opened the door and the container was rocking and all bulgy, like.  Closed the door and counted to twenty before opening it again.  The rocking had stopped, so I pulled the bucket out and opened it. 

Glad I wasn’t leaning over it when I pulled the lid off, I might have no eyebrows left!  Guess I’d got it a bit hot.  Maybe ten minutes was a trifle long.  Stuck it back in the freezer to solidify somewhat. 

One o’clock?  Where’s th’ time going? 

Gave it fifteen minutes in the freezer, then pulled the bucket out.  It was still kinda runny and some of the veggie patties I’d sat the bucket on looked like they’d thawed with the heat.  Well, they’d re-freeze, right?  And the potatoes wouldn’t know the difference if the stuff was runny.  Wasn’t salad cream runny anyway?

Pulled the bowl of potatoes down from th’ top of th’ ‘fridge and mixed everything together, the chopped up zucchini, the non-dairy topping, spuds and onion mix with salt and pepper and balsamic vinegar.  It was awful soupy, and the colour was a fairly disgusting gray-brown, but I thought if everyone just closed their eyes whilst they ate, it would be okay. 

But it would prob’ly need to be served in bowls. 

Damn.

Picked up a spoon to taste it.  Hesitated.

“C’mon, George, don’t be an arse!  It’s fulla good stuff, ya like everything that’s in it!”

Stood there in indecision for maybe five minutes.  Couldn’t bring meself t’ try it.  Me brain couldn’t get past the brown/gray colour and the soupy texture.  The fact that the bits of zucchini were floating up to the surface didn’t help, they looked like frog eyes peeping out of a bog.  Couldn’t get the image outta me mind, and me mind told me mouth ‘no way’.

Wondered what I could do to improve it?  Looked in the spice cabinet.  Maybe some Italian seasoning?  Shook a bit of that in and mixed it up again. 

Looked even more like a bog now, with bits of grass (rosemary, I recognize that) floating in amongst the frog-eyes zucchini.  Still couldn’t bring meself to taste it.

Margarita strolled into th’ kitchen ‘bout then, lookin’ fer something t’ eat, and I thought ah ha!  I’d give her a little bowl of the stuff!  Dished it up whilst encouraging the cat, an’ she wrapped ‘round me legs crying with excitement at my smacking and ‘yummy’ noises.  Helps to encourage her, ‘specially when you’re not sure if she’ll eat it or not.  She’s not very picky, not really, but sometimes……

“C’mon, Margarita, kitty kitty, yer gonna love it, mmmmm, yummm, yeah, yer gonna enjoy this!  Mmmmmmm!”

With a yo ho ho an’ a yumm yumm yumm!  Set the dish down and Margarita rushed up to it.  Congratulated meself on the success of enticing her. 

But then she stopped at a single sniff of the bowl, sneezed repeatedly and looked up at me with an expression that would have killed a lesser man.  I swear all females know just how to give a man ‘the look’.  Even me cat!  Well, she’s Livy’s cat, actually.

And actually, ‘the look’ wasn’t so bad, I took it like a man.  Lord knows I’ve survived enough ‘looks’ in me life.  First Mum, then Pattie, now Livy (she’s th’ queen o’ “the look”), and the cat, too.  Rita, our housekeeper, has a minor version of it, too, but she has to tone it down ‘cause I sign the checks she gets!

So I survived ‘the look’ okay.  But when Margarita started scratching ‘round the dish as if it was something disgusting she wanted to bury, well, that was hard t’ take. 

“Ya really know how t’ hurt a man’s pride, Margarita.”

She just looked at me, laid her ears back and growled.  Scratched a bit more and then stalked out of the kitchen with her tail in the air and a decidedly offended demeanor, shaking her paws free of the bubbles clinging to her.  Guess I’d have to make up to ‘er with some tuna later.

Wait, where’d all these bubbles come from?  My sweet Lord, they were all over the kitchen, the washer was still spilling over and it was coming out from under the door.  Half past one?  Damn!

Raided the linen closet and threw a bunch of towels over the creeping bubbles.

“Dad?”

Spun ‘round and smiled determinedly at Dhani.

He gave me a quizzical smile and then giggled, looking pointedly at the bubbles.  I ignored the question in his eyes.  Noticed Spike and Jake eyeing Margarita’s bowl and tried to encourage them to try some.

“C’mon, Spike, give it a try.  Jake?”

They just looked at me, gave the bowl a token, wary sniff and then turned tail and fled the kitchen as quickly as possible, scrabbling for purchase amongst the remaining bubbles.  I sighed.  Even th’ garbage-gut dogs won’t eat what I cook!

“Dad?” Dhani asked tentatively.  He was looking a bit worried.  Just a bit.  But he looked like he was trying to keep from laughing, too.

“I’m just ‘bout ready, Dhan,” I said bravely, wondering if I could take mashed potatoes instead of potato salad to the party.  “Lemme just get some long pants on……”

“You might wanna jump in the shower, Dad, you’ve got stuff in your hair.”

“Yeah?” 

I ducked into the loo and looked in the mirror.  I was a right mess, with mashed potato spiking me hair into quite a punk ‘do and some of that white non-dairy stuff on me face an’ shirt.  And me arms, as well.  Looked a bit like Bozo the clown.  Hoped th’ paparazzi weren’t lurking about!  I wouldn’t put it past ‘em t’ catch a photo of me like this with a million millimetre lens an’ paste it all over the daily news-rags!

“’k, I’ll be just a minute, Dhan, why doncha go clean up, too?” I suggested, and he obediently headed for the stairs. 

Wonder when he’s gonna get all teen-ager-y on me an’ start puttin’ up a fuss when I ask him t’ do sommat?  I kinda dread that day, we’ve been getting along so well for so many years.

Before I headed for the shower, I decided I’d best check the mashed potatoes.  I pulled out a random bowl from the ‘fridge (‘member, there were eight bowls of mashed taters in there now!) and stuck a spoon into it.  Had to get a knife to carve a chunk off, it had set up pretty hard.

Damn.

Bravely put th’ piece in me mouth and crunched away.  Oh, that was really disgusting!  Guess I’d used tinned sweetened milk instead of tinned evaporated milk.  Barely kept meself from gagging, spat it out quick and thought frantically about what I should do whilst I raced through a quick shower. 

Well, while I tried to race through a quick shower.

The potatoes didn’t wanna come outta me hair an’ I had t’ shampoo three times before it didn’t feel sticky any longer.  The stuff on me arms didn’t wanna come off, either, it was worse than paint!  Wished I’d had some paint thinner t’ use!  Scrubbed meself raw getting it off.  The bubbles that had dried on me legs itched, too, and I had to use the wife’s loofa thingie t’ get the soapy residue off.  Don’t tell ‘er I used it, she’ll laugh at me, ‘cause I always complain ‘bout all the stuff she has in the bath.  She’s got a sponge fer this an’ a scrubber fer that an’ a facial soap an’ a leg soap an’ a soap specifically fer yer face, shampoo that smells all flowery an’ conditioner ya leave on whilst yer in th’ shower an’ then another conditioner ya put on after th’ shower.  And that’s not th’ half of th’ stuff she’s got on th’ shelf in here!  It’s enough t’ make a man’s head spin!  Anyway, unfortunately, the loofa thingie made the bubble residue on me legs foam up even more. 

So much for a quick shower. 

Met back up with Dhan about forty minutes later, he was patiently waiting for his old man.  We both looked pretty snappy, nobody can say the Harrison men don’t clean up well! 

Noticed that the son was holding onto a big covered bowl.

“What’s that, Dhani?” I asked him.

He gave me a funny look.  Kids nearly have ‘it’, too, that ‘look’.  But it’s not quite as concentrated as in a bird’s glare.  Th’ girls have it down to a science.

“It’s the potato salad, Dad!  Rita made it last night, remember?  I just wanted to make sure we didn’t forget it.”

“Oh.  Errrr, ta, son, that’s good……”

Sighed to think of the mess I’d made in the kitchen and wished I’d paid more attention.  He’d never asked me t’ make a salad, he’d just said t’ not forget it. 

Damn.

Started sweating as I remembered that Livy was due home from her trip tonight.  Wondered if I could get back from the party in time to chip all the sweet mashed potatoes into the rubbish bin, throw away the disgusting brown bog potato salad, and clean up the mess in the laundry room by the time she or Rita got home.

“Ready to go, Dad?” Dhani asked brightly.

“Sure, sure, son, let’s go.”  The kitchen would have t’ wait until later.  I’d have plenty of time.

“Oh, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t forget the present for Tommy’s birthday, did you?”

Sighed inwardly in resignation even as I smiled at the boy.

“Nah, ‘course not, Dhani!  We just need t’ stop by th’ studio an’ pick it up.  Thought yer friend might like a guitar, ‘ow’s that sound?”

“Oh, Dad, that’ll be grand!” Dhani beamed in delight.  “It’ll be th’ best present he gets!  Do I get to pick it out?” he asked excitedly.

Kept the smile on me face with difficulty.  The way my luck was running, he’d pick out a really good one and I’d see it up for auction within the year.  “George Harrison owned guitar, opening bid five hundred pounds.”  I’d end up spending a small fortune to get it back!

“Why doncha lemme pick, son?  Please?”

His smile dimmed only fractionally.  “Yeah, okay, Dad.”

Stopped by the studio and took about twenny minutes to look over the lot of guitars.  I didn’t wanna lose any of ‘em!  They all had history and meaning and significance and …… they all meant something to me!

Dhani shook his head over several of my suggestions, and I just knew he wanted to give his friend one of my Rickies or a Gretsch.  Finally gave it up, the light was dimming in his eyes and I knew he wanted to pick, so I gave him free rein and held me breath, shut me eyes and whispered a prayer.

“This one, Dad!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

Opened me eyes cautiously, gave a big sigh of relief, but tried to hide it.  Of all guitars to choose……

“What, that little ukulele I picked up in Hawaii last year?”

Of all things he could pick, I’d have never expected that!  Thank Krishna!  It was prob’ly the only one in the room that didn’t have a lot of meaning to me, although it was a sweet little instrument, with a good tone.

Dhani gave me another funny look.

“Yeah, Dad!  It’s still really new, and you’ve never played it except when you bought it!  You didn’t think I’d want to give him one of your really good guitars, did you?” he asked with a scowl.

“No, no, ‘course not, Dhan!  Just a bit surprised is all, didn’t figger …… errrr…… didn’t figger kids really … errr … liked ukuleles now!  Thought they weren’t very … errr … hip, y’know?”

“Well, the size is about right, Dad, he’s only seven!  It’d be kinda ridiculous t’ give him one of your Rickenbackers, wouldn’t it?” he giggled.

Oh, that Tommy!  He was the younger brother of Dhani’s friend Marcus!  That’s why Dhani was excited about the party, he’d have the chance to play some football with Marcus and a few other friends!  And I shoulda known better, Dhani’s always loved my guitars, an’ he knows how much they mean t’ me.  Th’ boy’s a love, seriously.

Gave him a little hug when I handed over the ukulele, rummaged about and found a decent case for it, then headed for the car.

Arrived at the party without the potato salad, we’d left it in the studio. 

Dhani begged to stay at the party, so I drove back to the house for the salad.  But when I opened the door, all I could hear was a bunch o’ swearing coming from the kitchen. 

Damn.

Rita’d obviously made it home before me. 

Didn’t know she knew how to swear like a Liddypool sailor!  Holy Krishna, hadn’t heard that in years, I think I went a bit pale hearing that in a feminine growl!  Th’ swearing was growing in volume, too.

Exit stage left!  Facing an angry woman always turns me coward, so I was outta there like a shot.

I quietly closed the door and sneaked ‘round the side entrance, grabbed the bowl from the studio and hightailed it back to the car.  Sped back to the party as quick as I could.  I suppose it’s better Rita discovered the mess than Livy!  Her glare isn’t even half as lethal as Livy’s glare.  And I could always give her a big bonus and maybe she wouldn’t say anything to the wife!

Stayed at the party a bit later than I thought we would, Marcus and Tommy’s dad played a mean keyboard, and we got into a bit of a piano/ukulele duel, until Tommy cried ‘cause I was monopolizing his prezzie.  I kinda felt bad ‘bout giving the boy the ukulele, he’d just thrash it, and it was a sweet little thing!  Was pleasantly surprised to see that the little chap handled it carefully, his Da told me he’d been listening in to his older brother’s guitar lessons and was mad over musical instruments.  Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idear after all!

Finally left the party well past dark and drove home, Dhani snuggled against me on the seat, tired out from his day of football.  It’s really nice he still does that, doesn’t mind sitting next to his ol’ Da and all.  Figger I gotta treasure these moments, they won’t be lasting much longer.

Once we got home, I just kinda sat there with him for a few minutes, relishing the feel of his head against my thigh, listening to his breathing, watching him sleep and trying to imprint the moment in my heart.  Finally, reluctantly, woke him up and got him inside the house. 

Felt pretty good (but guilty) that Rita would have cleaned everything up and the house was prob’ly spotless.  I’d have t’ give ‘er a really nice bonus this month, definitely.

“G’night, Dad, thanks for a great day!” Dhani said with a yawn, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of one hand.

“Anytime, Dhani,” I assured him.

I treasured the unprompted hug he gave me before he turned and stumbled up the stairs to bed, whistling for his dogs to join him.  It always made me smile to see the cat scampering up the stairs right at the dogs’ heels.  Margarita usually started out the night in Dhani’s room, and then somehow always ended up in our room.  Didn’t matter if we shut the door or not, I dunno how she got in there each night, but she was always there in the morning when we woke.

She’s Livy’s cat, but she’d kinda adopted the whole family in the nearly two years we’d had her.  It was funny how well she got on with the dogs, though.  Always thought they were kinda traditional enemies. 

Yawned, surprising meself, guess I was a bit tired, too.  Must have been all that potato mashing.  Looked over at the clock, Livy’d be arriving in another few hours, an’ I was looking forward to her being home.  Missed the old girl. 

Don’t tell her I called her that.

Went looking for Rita to apologize, found her in the laundry room, folding a batch of tea towels and linens.  I kinda cringed to think of the mess I’d left.

“Sorry fer th’ disaster, Rita, an’ thanks fer makin’ th’ salad fer th’ party,” I said in apology.

Was surprised she didn’t give me ‘the look’.

“What disaster, George?”

Uh-oh.   I was in trouble.

“Errrr, did Livy get home early?” I asked weakly.

Rita smiled brightly.  “Why yes, how on earth did you know?  She wanted to surprise you!  She’s upstairs already.”

Damn.  I mean, not damn that she was home, I’d missed her terribly.  But if it had been Livy I’d heard cleaning up the kitchen when I came back for the salad…….

I was in serious, major, sleep-in-the-stable type trouble!

She’d been swearing!  Like a sailor!

Livy never swore! 

She’s real even tempered, y’ know, always after me t’ stop swearing, an’ I can just about guarantee that a cross word never comes out ‘er lips!  I was scared…… errrrr…… spit-less!

I nervously climbed the stairs.  Approached our bedroom.  Heard voices.  Put me ear to the door.  Heard me boy chattering away.  Cringed.

“… but Dad forgot about the party, although he tried to cover it up and he made an awful mess in the kitchen and the laundry, but we had a great time at the party, and Dad was a real hit, playing duets with Marcus’s dad!  I played football all day with Marcus an’ Joey an’ Frank an’ Charles an’ James an’ Fred, it was grand!”

Cringed again, waiting to hear what she was going to say about the mess.  Was somewhat relieved to hear her laugh.  She didn’t sound too angry.

“I’m glad you had a good time, honey, but you’re not kidding, your dad made a huge mess, Dhani!  I’ve never known him to make a worse mess, not even before you were born and he was trying to show me how much he knew about cooking and the like, when I first moved in!  Do you know he put whipped cream in the potato salad today?  And sweetened milk in the mashed potatoes?”

“Ewwwwwwww!  I’m just glad Rita made the salad and we didn’t have to eat Dad’s cooking!” Dhani giggled.  “D’ya know that he tried to get Spike an’ Jake to try what he’d made?  An’ Spike eats anything!  He ran away from the bowl, it was so funny, I could hardly keep from laughing!  Dad’s terrible in the kitchen, simply awful!”

“He’s even worse in the laundry!  He put dish soap in the washing machine, I’ve never seen so many bubbles!”

Dhani laughed out loud.  “I know, I saw it, it was all over the floor!”

“Your father……” Livy sighed, and they both giggled so that I had to smile at their harmony, me ear pressed close to the door.

Well, that was better than I was expecting.  I wondered if she was still mad at me?

“You know, maybe you should let your father into our bedroom, Dhani.  Look at Spike and Jake waiting for him at the door, they must have heard him on the stairs, he’s probably standing with his ear against the door, listening and wondering if I’m mad at him.”

Damn.

Opened the door and patted some inquisitive doggy heads whilst gritting me teeth at their betrayal, tried to look innocent, but the wife and son were laughing at me and I couldn’t help but grin a bit foolishly.

“Missed ya, Livy,” I smiled winningly, coming over to collect a kiss and a squeeze from the wife.

“And I missed you, too, honey,” she said with a smile and a resigned shake of her head.

“Ewwwww, you’re not going to get all romantic now, are you?” Dhani asked, his tone full of suffering, disgusted, almost-teenage resignation.  He stood up and snapped his fingers to summon his faithful attendants.  They were instantly on their feet and at the door.  “I’m off to bed, will you please try to keep it down tonight?” he asked disdainfully. 

I nearly laughed.

“We’ll see,” I told him as he passed by me, and he rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “I had a great day, Dhani, g’night, son,” I added.

He stopped at the door and gave me a grin.  “Me, too, Dad.  Glad you’re home, Mum.  G’night!”

I closed the door behind him and hesitantly turned back to the waiting trouble and strife.  The silence grew.  I cleared me throat.  Wondered if I could use the fact that I’d heard her swearing as ammunition?  Maybe not.  Thought I’d better keep that to meself for the time being.

“Alone at last?” I finally ventured a bit nervously.

She looked at me and I wilted, but I thought there was a bit of a gleam in her eye.

“What am I gonna do with you, George?” she asked, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot.

“I dunno, maybe c’me ‘ere an’ gimme a kiss?” I asked, giving her me best devilish smile.

“I was thinking more along the line of cooking lessons,” she replied, then added, “We’ll have to keep it down, you know.” 

A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, although I could see that she was struggling to keep her mirth hidden. 

A crack in the armour!  I turned up the charm.

“But I missed ya, luv.  I missed ya, my dark sweet lady…...”

Let me voice drop, kinda breathing out the last bit.  She always liked that song.

“You just want me to forget about your incredible mess in the kitchen!” she accused, the smile a bit wider.

Took a bit more of a chance, it was goin’ well so far.  Narrowed me eyes a little, gave ‘er a bit of a sexy bedroom glare.  Raised an eyebrow, just a trace.  Let me lip curl up just a touch, kinda Elvis-y, y’know.

“Ferget th’ mess,” I growled softly.  “C’me ‘ere an’ kiss me, woman.”

Her smile couldn’t be contained any longer, and she walked over to me. 

Ha, I still got it! 

Chuckled inside about that, yeah, I still got it!  Who’s th’ cute one now, eh? 

Yeah, who’s th’ cute one now?!?

Livy put her arms around me neck and snuggled in close for the promised kiss, lifting her lips to mine, her breath sweet and warm against my cheek.  Mmmmmmm……

“We’ll talk about the kitchen later,” she whispered.

Cheryl Mortensen has been a Beatle fanatic since the 1960s, but somehow went on to other things in the late 1960s, only rediscovering her passion for "all things Beatle" in the late 1990s (and on into the new century).  She is a computer programmer and an avid photographer. (Concert photos of bands and performers is her favorite area -- ask her about her Ringo pictures!!)  Cheryl lives with her husband of many years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.