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.
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