Sunday Morning

One bright Sunday morning in December, Michael lay awake in his bed thinking. "It's not fair, I'm here all on my own, just because they have a baby."
From the other bedroom, there came his Mam's quiet singing and soothing words as she fed Gwyn. The baby was crying. It seemed to Michael that she spent most of her time crying. He was fed up with having to be quiet when she was asleep and having to be silent when his mother was trying to coax her to sleep. All she did was lie in her pram or cot or be carted about in his mother's arms. She was a dead loss. She was boring. She couldn't play any games. And she'd wet right down him when his Mam once asked him to hold her. Blooming baby!
Why couldn't he go in there with them? It used to be great, he thought, jumping on their bed and using Gordon's knees to slide down. He liked snuggling between them in their warmth. Every Sunday morning it had been like that. "Having a good lie in," Dad called it.
Now, they said, he was too rough or too noisy when he went in there to play with his Dad. He might hurt the baby or disturb her.
"Huh!"

He quite liked being left on his own with Gwyn. He didn't mind being asked to look after her when Mam was busy. He enjoyed seeing her growing day-by-day. She was interesting because she was always doing something new. He was trying to persuade her to speak.
"Say Michael! Say Michael," he'd ask her and she'd laugh back at him and kick her legs at his coaxing. She liked it when Michael tickled her and shook her rattle for her.
One day, when he asked her to, "Say Michael!" she didn't just gurgle and smile back at him, she went, "Mmmm."
Michael left her lying on the blanket in front of the fire and ran into the kitchen. "Mam! Mam! She said it! She said my name!"
Michael was delirious with excitement and pleasure.
She was still a bit young for that to have really happened, thought Margaret, but she was pleased. She could see that Michael really loved his dark-haired little sister. For a time it had worried her that he was not at all keen on having a baby sister who took up so much of her energy.

Yes, there were times when Michael thought Gwyn was really brilliant. But not on Sunday mornings!
Still lying in his bed, in his own room, he reached for his nursery rhymes book. He looked at the pictures and tried reciting the ones Gordon had taught him. It was no use: he was feeling too sorry for himself. He threw the book down, pulled the bedclothes over his head and said to himself again, "It's not fair! Not fair!"
From the dark, where he was hidden under the clothes, unexpectedly, he heard his father's voice, "Where's Michael? I wonder where Michael is?"
Michael stayed under the bedclothes and kept very still. He even tried holding his breath. Dad said, "I know where he is, he's gone downstairs."
Michael pushed the bedclothes back "No, I haven't! I'm here Dad, I was hiding from you."
Already partly dressed, Gordon lay down on top of the bedclothes. Laughing, he said, "Move over, you're taking up all the room. Now come on, I want to hear your nursery rhymes. Right?" Michael nodded eagerly.

And that's how it was every Sunday morning after that. His father came in, stayed with Mike, chatted with him and helped him dress. Then they went downstairs together, lit the fire, washed in cold water and made a cup of tea. Michael didn't like tea so he had a drink of water. Gordon took a cuppa up to Margaret.
Then they had their porridge. Gordon ate his quickly and went outside to the lav. It was a double-seater, in the shed, in the yard, the one they shared with Next-door. Michael hated it in there because underneath the seat there was a deep hole and nasty smells came up. He was terrified of slipping down into that hole. He wished he could still be allowed to sit on his potty. It was all right for Gwyn ­ She didn't have to sit out there in the cold all by herself!
After he'd met his new friend Rob, he warned Michael, "Sometimes rats come up out of that hole. Mind they don't bite your bum!"
"You're only kidding me, aren't you Rob?"
"Suppose so," said Rob.
While Michael was carrying on eating his breakfast, he heard an angry voice outside. It was Next-door having a go at Gordon because, she said, Margaret wasn't keeping the wooden seat of the shared lav. clean enough. It wasn't true, because Mike had seen his mother scrubbing with carbolic soap and a stiff-bristled brush out there nearly every day. He didn't like the sickly smell of that carbolic.
"Well, just you tell your missus, it's time she mended her ways. All you young 'uns think on is lounging about, doing nowt, while us old'‘uns does all the work."
It went on like that until Gordon became fed up, left her to ramble on, and came in. He hadn't said much in reply. He wasn't one for trouble. Silent, in contemplation, he put the kettle on the fire again. He needed more hot water because he shaved straight after breakfast on Sundays. Michael loved to watch him, but he didn't like it when, sometimes, Gordon lifted him up and rubbed his unshaven cheeks against Michael's, really hard. It was just like sand-paper! Michael always screamed and Margaret would shout at his Dad from upstairs to stop it. So Gordon put him down.

When Margaret came for her breakfast and Gordon told her about Next-door, Margaret wasn't worried.
"Oh she's always at me! Best take no notice! She's a fine one to talk. Dresses like a scarecrow and smells like a drain! She's all on her own. Nothing else to think about!"

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