Friday in the Firelight
Friday nights began with the sting of Vosene, tears in my eyes and Mum yelling at me as she dragged the comb through my wet tangles. Dad would shout over his newspaper. “Calm down. I’ll do it later when you’re off with Tony Twist.”
“Mr Twiss, as you well know, is teaching me proper ballroom dancing. You refused to come with me.”
“I prefer the Jitterbug myself,” laughed Dad. “None of this foxtrot fandango,” and put Twisting the Night Away on the Dansette. She’d flounce off slamming the door behind her. Dad and I twisted until we both fell over in a tangled heap of giggles. Then it was fish and chips in front of the fire and his funny war stories at which Mum always rolled her eyes, but I loved. As the firelight dwindled to a warm glow, Dad gently combed my hair into molten gold.
Mum waltzed off with Mr Twiss six months later. Dad and I stayed together until his mind tripped the light fandango. I wash his hair now with “No More Tears” shampoo. We laugh until we cry.
About the author: Sally Zigmond rediscovered her love of writing fiction in her 40s. She lives in North Yorkshire where she writes flash fictions while she’s redrafting her current novel.