Sunday

Sundays in the Stewart household are something out of a either an Eastenders scene or a comedy sketch. As I sit around and observe or argue with my sister or mock my mother I think about how I can use Sundays for my writing. I recently watched a family saga film called Fireflies in the Garden and I really enjoyed the idea of family secrets and complex relationships. Families are strange, they harbor secrets, they keep things buried in the past, they have their own quirks and differences. Sundays show this entirely. 


My mother takes the role of the Caretaker. She cooks the dinner and socalises with everyone. "Tea?" "Drink?" "Anything?" Then she tells people dinner is ready and they need to take their places. When I say take their places she gets the food ready, holds it in one hand and enters the dining room to shout "Tom, dinner!" "Jen, food!" to which, one by one, we get up and take our places at the table. People sit in their places and eat. We usually eat in shifts - my sister and her fiance, my grandparents, me and then when somebody is done there is the next person. A bit like a relay - we all take over after one another. My mother and father always argue about their dinner. "Do you want to go in next Gord?" "No. You go." "No, it's OK, you have yours." "No, Carol, you have yours now. I'll wait. I'm going to have a cigarette anyway." She always cracks first. Before she sits down however she rushes around the table: "everyone OK? Hot enough? Mum? Dad? OK? There's loads more. Anyone want any? There's more gravy." We all decline and then she sits down.


My sister and I take the roles of the Bystanders - we're there if my mum needs us, otherwise we keep ourselves out of the bustle of the kitchen. We sit in the living room and occasionally hear the faint plop of a roast potato hitting the floor, followed by a loud "BUGGER!" from my mother. 


My father comes into the house in the midst of the frenzy of people. Either before the grandparents or after. He'll come in, go over to the TV and put the horses on where the monotone voice of a commentator whizzes around the house. With a beer in one hand and a cigarette burning in the kitchen he goes from room to room checking whether his horse has won or lost. 


My grandparents sit and observe the scene. My grandmother reads the paper before dinner. My grandfather watches the horse pretending he cares, eager to talk to his child or grandchildren. Usually he will pull me aside and we will talk about books. "That fella who you like...I'm reading his new book," he will say. "Stephen King, gramps?" "That's the one. The language he uses is foul!" I have to nod in agreement.


Then we sit down and we all munch on our food. Conversation ranges from the people we hate to "is it hot enough?" from my mother - a phrase that booms around the dining table and we all nod in agreement. 


My sister and I usually bicker in the kitchen. "Nice hair Oasis," she'll say. "Nice one, looking very orange today," I retort back. As it continues and I call her a bint and that she needs to brush her teeth my father will do the whole "hey! stop being so mean you two." "She started it," I'll say, childishly. He'll grumble, "I can't take this," and retreat to his horses, shaking his head at our childishness. 


By the time the dinner is over and we have one by one taken our plates into the kitchen, scrapping the leftovers into the bin and then putting the dirty dishes into the dishwasher the "get your nan a cup of tea" is forced upon me or my sister. After dinner, is when my mother relaxes and sits down to talk with her parents. Finally everyone leaves and my parents lounge around, letting our gasps of relief with the departure of each member of the house. 


It's this kind of stuff that makes me want to write a story of such a family only, knowing me, it would have to be much darker and not as comical. Perhaps a short story or a snippet of the dining table where my grandfather eats the fat of everybody's food, my mother looks around worried that the food is hot enough and my grandmother burps and blames it on the dog...alas we don't have a dog.