A Happy Home

Father had dragged himself out of the home at four a.m. - last minute checks on clipping, cutting, hosing and polishing. He could not stop smiling. In a few hours life would change for the better. Maybe his subtle hints had been a bit overdone? Maybe? No, there is no such thing as nagging when the future is at stake, he reassured himself. And his constant reminders had paid off. At long last, Tiffany was presenting her man to the family.

(Audio Version)

Father watched the young man through the gap in the curtains. Strange. The lad seemed to wait on someone—just standing there like a guest who’d arrived too early for his own party. Surely, he’d admire the garden while he waited; that’s what a thoughtful guest would do. At least he was punctual. As expected, he wasn’t handsome, but that didn’t matter; his daughter wasn’t pretty either. Still, it was a blessing that she’d brought her beau to meet the family. It was a step in the right direction. And he worked with animals, apparently. Might even be a veterinary surgeon, they thought.

Earlier in the day he had straightened his gilt-edged-framed award after moving it from the lounge to the sun room—temporarily, of course. It was to be a morning tea like no other. Old-fashioned, but he insisted on meeting his daughter’s first date formally. He’d become accustomed to pomp and ceremony after his life-changing event some years ago. And holding off until the anniversary of his award would make it even more memorable - his lifetime achievement of serving humanity - tied in nicely with his daughter’s presentation of a potential son-in-law.

Mother pained with extra cleaning and polishing, ensuring the home, whilst modest, would sparkle like a palace. He had spent a week in the garden, pruning and trimming his beds of colourful flowers. And even this morning, he gave his immaculate lawn a last-minute run over with the Victa Mower, ensuring that it reflected a family of substance. And it did. Not a blade of grass was out of place, not a blemish in sight.

They had woken three hours earlier than usual and put the finishing touches on what was already perfect. Then took turns at tapping on their daughter’s door, reminding her that time was of the essence. Fearing she was still asleep, their words matched the rhythm of their knocking: starting with soft taps and polite reminders, then growing into sharp knocks accompanied by curt demands, and finally escalating to pounding fists and furious commands.

“Fuck off,” was all they heard, and they quickly retreated before she escalated to the C-word. But it was the rendition of ‘Greensleeves’ from the doorbell that grabbed their attention. Father raced to the entrance, straightened his tie, cleared some imaginary phlegm, and fumbled out something resembling a greeting—all the while bashing at the troublesome chime that never knew when to stop.

Father’s second attempt at a greeting worked fine. “Good morning, you must be Andrew?”

“It’s Andy,” the young man said flatly, without a smile to match.

Father noticed as the young man looked up and saw his “Happy Home” sign proudly displayed above the door.

“Welcome to our Happy Home. Happy as always.”

Andrew didn’t smile.

Within two minutes, Tiffany arrived at the door. She still had sleep in her eyes and dressed like a tramp. Perfectly punctual if ever there was none.

“Andrew is here,” father commanded. As if she didn’t know who it was.

“Hi Andy,” she greeted, as if he were a common taxi driver.

Father smiled all the way to the sunroom, pointing out wallpaper, wall colours, and framed photos of the garden. Nobody shared his enthusiasm.

As they walked, Tiffany whispered to her father in a curt tone.

“I told you his name was Andy. You never listen. Idiot.”

As the niceties settled, and as rehearsed, Mother sat the guests. Andrew beside Tiffany, of course, and father at the head of the table with Mother opposite the lovebirds. She presented English Breakfast tea and freshly baked treats. Before the eclairs had rested on the table, Tiffany picked one off the plate and bit into it with all the grace of a starving guttersnipe. No words were spoken. Silence. Tiffany’s parents knew it was her morning, her date, and the responsibility lay with her to start the conversation - it was not up to them to force pleasantries. But the silence was too much. Father opened with small talk.

“So you work with animals, Tiffany tells us.”

“Yo man, I work part time at the abattoir.”

Without thinking, Mother jumped in.

“And what do you do there?”

Father, still shocked at the salutation ‘yo man’, gave a look to mother that showed that her line of questioning was not suitable. Besides, Andrew seemed more interested in what was on the table than who was around it. He just stared at the eclairs.

Their daughter seemed to chew more than what was acceptable for an eclair, perhaps hinting to Mother that they had a gluey texture, which they did not. After a time of gazing at nothing, checking her nails, adjusting her hair, and checking her phone, Tiffany joined in the conversation - “I’m pregnant.”

Well, that didn’t go down too well, considering today was the tenth anniversary of his award. Father had been so hyped up. And now this?

The sun room’s brilliance was detonated into a quagmire of confusion by these words. Her headline news appeared to be a shock to her guest, Andrew, whose half eaten eclair escaped from mastication and landed on the table and then he started scratching at his troublesome condition. Mother froze with her teacup held in suspended animation—she watched the steam escape towards the heavens—the lucky steam. Father gaped as a beam of sunlight bounced off his award, momentarily blinding him—somehow that one word had tarnished the value of his achievement. Perhaps it was a signal from God? Maybe the good family name had ended. The personified words had lined up, the starter’s pistol had sounded, but a paralysis had infected the participants. Except for Tiffany, who was now devouring her second French tart, oblivious to the mass destruction her announcement had caused.

After what seemed like an hour, Mother asked if anyone would like their fine china cup refilled whilst father wrestled with a Medusa of scenarios, with each thought twisting and slithering into each other. But no combination of words or actions seemed to align. Finally, his observant wife had the sense to serve more tea, a very good brew, she thought. Yorkshire Tea, not that Indian garbage. Andrew appeared to have psoriasis on his scalp, and the heat of the moment must have set it off. He was clawing at this stage. Possibly guilt, father thought.

Tiffany’s father looked up towards his award, remembering how it came to pass. His little treasure had nominated him a decade earlier for ‘Father of the Year’. His win, over thousands of others, meant he was invited to council events, and was often called upon by the local paper for comments on family issues. She had changed his life. And he was not about to let his life come crumbling down, especially on his anniversary. His family name was respected in their little town. No father would ever allow his daughter to become pregnant. He’d have to hide with shame. But on second thoughts why should he allow her boyfriend, an ugly teenager who could not keep his ferret in his pants, to change his plans for higher office?

“So what are your plans, Andrew?”

Andrew was unsettled. In fact, he looked like a viper ready to strike.

“I have one thing to say about this, and...”

Father forced him off the road at ‘and’. And in a tone that momentarily shattered the graceful, happy home, put the ‘yo man’ in his place.

“Don’t freeze-dry your responsibility to our Tiffany,” he said. Father was not in the mood for small talk. Mother placed her hand on his fist and caressed it back into the calm.

Father wasn’t sure if it was the pregnancy or that Andrew worked at the abattoir that troubled him the most. And the lad’s psoriasis was a worry. Nobody would want grandchildren with psoriasis. Something had to be done.

Tiffany had tears in her eyes. Then, with chocolate from the eclair dribbling down her mouth, she burst into laughter.

“You should see your faces. April fools.”

Mother wondered how her daughter had become so stupid. It wasn’t April. Father knew her little joke was not meant for malice, and he could show no anger. After all, she had helped create Father of the Year. If he lost his temper, she might open her big mouth and reveal to Andrew that it was he, not her, who had written the nomination for his award. And that there was only one application. Yes, better to err on the side of caution, he thought.

But the look on Andrew’s face troubled him. The ugly lad looked more confused than wholesome. Had they all been victims of Tiffany’s strange behaviour? Perhaps the abattoir worker was, too? Father needed to think quickly and had to bring the table back to normality.

“So, tell us more about your life, Andrew.”

Without excusing himself, the lad jumped up from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He stormed towards the hallway, turned back and spewed obscenities at the family.

“My, name, is, Andy!, and I only met that stupid tart yesterday.”

Mother snapped back sharply: “Well, if you don’t like my eclairs, then don’t eat them.”

Tiffany yelled. “Leave my mother alone. I only invited you as a last resort, you moron.”

He stomped away like a spoilt child. Then, like a clap of thunder, he slammed the front door so hard that the house shook, the happy sign fell, and the door chimes jolted into a fractured melody.

There would have been complete silence except for Greensleeves quivering away in staccato. And the family found it difficult to unpack the preceding disaster. The frustrated chimes helped restore the home to happiness.

Mother tried not to laugh. Tiffany roared at the sound of the doorbell, and father sat motionless staring at the table, in deep thought. He reminded himself that he was a man of action. He knew he had to act and, as always, trusted his intuition.

He picked up Andrew’s regurgitated eclair and ate it in one theatrical gulp. Then, with his mouth full, mimicked Andrew.

“Yo man, and my name is Andy!”

That brought the house down. The jovial moment combined with the chime’s fractured melody caused laughter upon laughter. There was no stopping the merriment.

Father tip-toed to the front room and peered through a gap in the curtains. He turned to stone as he watched Andrew trample his flowers to death. And not just that. He thrashed the rose bushes with the ‘Happy Home’ sign. In desperation, father tore open the front door and charged towards Andrew. But the young man was faster.

Lying there with his Happy Home sign protruding from his chest, his last thoughts were of his daughter, Tiffany.

‘Where does she find these people?’

Greensleeves continued to stutter as Andrew dragged father back into the Happy Home.

(Story created by Jack Fringe. Image created in Mid Journey and Canva. Audio created in Eleven Labs with the AI voice of Patrick International.)