Marry In Haste ...

The truth is, of course, that Cinderella was one hell of a clumsy creature. Ash on the toes was just one of her favourite tricks; toes in the ashes, then walking it all over the new shag pile carpet. You could follow her footsteps through the lounge and in the hall and see them petering out somewhere around the foot of the stairs.

'Clean it up!' was the most common phrase heard round the household: no, that's a lie; clean it up and the sound of a slipper being firmly applied to bare cheeks and Cinderella's sobbing that she would be better in future.

Not that she was, of course.

Her father despaired.

'I despair!' he said, theatrically holding his hand to his forehead, in the way over acting thespians are wont to do. Cinderella, being the shy retiring sort and constantly in possession of a red bottom, believed in his theatrical display of fatherly affection.

'Father!' she would cry, clinging to his legs and crying her pretty eyes out on to her pretty little bosom, rounded and with the cutest upturned nipples you'd ever want to see. 'Father, I'm sorry!'

The other common phrase heard round the house was

'What would your mother have said?'

But that was used sparingly, (neither wanting to remember the mother who ran off with the muffin man; filed for divorce and got the CSA on to the man next door who shopped her to the television licence people) like the cane kept on the picture rail. But when it was used, like the cane, it hurt.

They were happy enough, Father, Cinderella, the garden gnomes (they'll appear later) and the cane. All used to varying degrees, and with varying degrees of enjoyment, too. Let's be honest, would anyone seriously stick their toes in the ashes and walk all over the new shag pile carpet if they weren't absolutely desperately totally dying for the kiss of the cane? No. Of course not. The garden gnomes? Use your imagination ...

Meanwhile, there were schemes afoot.

********************

The widow along the road, age 50, plump, grey, and desperate, was casting covetous eyes on the grand house Cinderella and Father lived in: fine five bedroomed house, double glazing, porch, driveway and wooden shed, with padlock, in the garden. Not to mention the collection and cluster of garden gnomes, (mentioned as promised) the plastic heron there to keep other herons out (it didn't, they aren't that easily fooled by second rate impersonators), the plastic donkey with his carriers filled with polyanthus - oh there were a hundred reasons why the widow, and her two daughters, (28 and 25 respectively, plump, ugly and desperate) cast covetous eyes at the house.

And the man living in it.

The widow was much needful of a man in her bed, and in her pussy and everywhere else.

And the daughters?

They didn't admire the man, who was after all balding and bulging in the bay window area, much like house really, but they liked the idea of the five bedrooms, and were already squabbling between themselves who would have the room that looked out on to the drive.

Which happened to be Cinderella's room.

That small fact was completely overlooked by them all.

Cinderella, I mean.

Plans were planned, schemes schemed, dresses dressed, hair haired; and at the Hunt Ball Widow with Daughters made a Big Thing about getting Father into conversation. (Cinderella was not there, of course, she didn't approve of hunting, she being a vegan and Animal rights promoter, and secret member of the ALF and all.

She drew the line at Hunt Saboteur-ing, if Father found out, well, he and the cane would sabotage her behind.)

'My' said Widow With Daughters, smiling plastic smiles with NHS teeth from Wicked Woman lipstick (free gift with her weekly woman's magazine) 'I was so admiring your collection of garden gnomes the other day. How lifelike they are! How pretty they look among the pretty flowers!'

'Why, thank you' said Father, bemused and flattered and not at all sure what was going on. No one mentioned his gnomes, except as a joke, often in poor taste. 'I will remember to tell Cinderella that you like them. they are her pride and joy.'

'Cinderella?' the Wicked Woman smile slipped slightly onto the vol-a-vent caught unromantically in the NHS teeth.

'Yes, my daughter' Father smiled at the memory, not, as she mistakenly thought, at the Widow With Daughters. '17 years old and pretty as any Rubens picture.'

'Who the hell's Rubens?' hissed mother to Daughter No.1.

'Some painter' she hissed back, spoiling her Pouting Polly pink lipstick with a cucumber and prawn sandwich.

'Oh yes' purred Widow, 'Rubens, of course, a fine painter.'

'Oh, you know him?' Father gleamed, and they disappeared into a corner, clutching glasses of Babycham and Concorde sparkling wine, Widow hiding her burps and Father absorbed in a woman so obviously interested in him. The mirror had told him he was handsome, despite bald head and bay window, so he was not surprised. (This is not, incidentally, the famous talking mirror which comes later in the book, but a vision of handsomeness which only existed in Father's mind.)

What did surprise him was the speed with which he found himself walking up the aisle at St Saveverything's Church, to the towering sounds of the organ played with all stops out by Mrs Goforit, nearly deafening the assembled congregation of half a dozen: three had been dragged in from the street with the promise of a quick fiver to go down to the pub afterwards. (It had to look good, didn't it?) The other three were Cinderella and the two daughters, all in pretty frilly dresses which suited Cinderella but not the other two. And they knew it.

'We're in for trouble here,' hissed Daughter 2 to daughter 1. 'Look at it!' 'It' was Cinderella, radiant and smiling and thrilled that Father had found a New Love.

Honeymoon was out of the question as Widow (now Wife) and daughters couldn't wait to get into the five bedroomed house and install their belongings all over the place. Cinderella found herself boxed in the box room, trying to find a home for her stereo, her 400 CDS, (doo wop, would you believe, sad, isn't it?) and her few clothes into the limited space.

'As long as Father's happy' she told the mirror which smiled back with false glee and then her mouth turned down like a down turned banana.

'Still' she brightened again, making the corners of her mouth turn up. 'I might find someone and get married!'

********************

But nothing happened for three months, during which time Wife found the cane, thought about it and administered it to Cinders rather more than Cinders had been used to, and without the love and care and tenderness Father always used. Now there was no time to get into position, no happy tingling anticipation, no chance to appreciate the fine line drawn in fire before the next fell, this was WHACK WHACK WHACK and cries and screams and up to 12 strokes at a time for the merest infringement of the new rules, most of which weren't laid down until they were laid down under the cane weals. And the daughters stood around and watched and laughed and made jokes about Cinders' poor little marked cheeks.

'Oh my dear daughter' said Father, when she went running to him with her tears and her pretty upturned nipples. 'I can do nothing, for your new mother is in charge of the house.'

Trouble was, of course, Cinders couldn't tell Father she had half enjoyed his punishments, that she fantasised he was some well hung, well built, well handsome Prince who was doing the caning: or that the new ones were way over the top and left behind a lingering sense of what might have been while enjoying the glow from the well caned bottom anyway. (Take your pleasure where you can, Cinders' motto and a good one, to boot, or should that be behind?) it's just that it was HER doing it and not HIM. You can't fantasise about a Prince when an irate or appearing to be irate Stepmother is flashing the cane through the air and the sisters, half sisters, are giggling and grinning and making ribald comments.

Secrets. We all have secrets. Cinderella had a few more than the rest of us.