Mrs Q (Poetry)
02nd December 2012
She had a Polish name — one that was difficult to say —
and both her daughters were popular at school —
in different classes each with their own friends —
those little cliques we hung around in back in those simpler days.
She’d had her daughters early — when really not much more
than a girl herself — pretty, slim — inclined to be quite bold
with her good skin and laughing — always laughing — voice —
so when they got to teenage she was far from old —
still girlish — quietly married to a pleasant older man
we hardly ever saw — his business kept him occupied elsewhere
and Mrs Q quite understandably got bored
and seemed so glad to entertain her daughters’ lively friends.
There were girls-only nights — all fixing hair and manicures —
she followed fashion unlike other mums
who hadn’t time or energy they said and thought
we should be doing homework instead of having that much fun...
And then there were youth club nights when after ten
a few chosen ones were invited back for coffee
and the fresh-faced scooter boys thought it was pretty cool
to sip their mugs of Nescafé and flirt with glamorous Mrs Q.
There seemed no harm in it to me — but I was young — naïve —
and assumed no one surely took it seriously —
the way they larked around just a running joke. Then
the tittle-tattle started — loud and long.
We shrugged — she mixed with kids near half her age — so what?
How they harped on about the shortness of her hem
and long tanned legs — only a floozy sunbathes on her lawn in such
a small bikini.
And what did painted toenails have to do with them?
One boy I’d had a crush on — blond and skinny-tall — boasted once
she’d let him hold her — touch her bra-less breasts
but afterwards admitted — blushing red — he’d only brushed
against her — clumsy — and never guessed how his lie would
brand her.
Afterwards her house was out of bounds for most of us.
The local inquisition tried her as some kind of sex-starved witch
whose loose morals could only be a dreadful influence — corrupt
our younger generation. Verdict unanimous — all contact was cut off.
Her daughters pretty much took the whole thing in their stride
as if they saw through adult jealousies and paid them small attention
but their mother seemed to fade — sad Mrs Q grew paler and more plain —
she lost that glow inside — withdrew from sight and mind.
Within a year they’d moved — lock stock and barrel to another town
somewhere up North. Our mothers (not our dads) sighed in relief
to think the temptress Mrs Q was gone.
The blond boy, too — by some bizarre coincidence.
and both her daughters were popular at school —
in different classes each with their own friends —
those little cliques we hung around in back in those simpler days.
She’d had her daughters early — when really not much more
than a girl herself — pretty, slim — inclined to be quite bold
with her good skin and laughing — always laughing — voice —
so when they got to teenage she was far from old —
still girlish — quietly married to a pleasant older man
we hardly ever saw — his business kept him occupied elsewhere
and Mrs Q quite understandably got bored
and seemed so glad to entertain her daughters’ lively friends.
There were girls-only nights — all fixing hair and manicures —
she followed fashion unlike other mums
who hadn’t time or energy they said and thought
we should be doing homework instead of having that much fun...
And then there were youth club nights when after ten
a few chosen ones were invited back for coffee
and the fresh-faced scooter boys thought it was pretty cool
to sip their mugs of Nescafé and flirt with glamorous Mrs Q.
There seemed no harm in it to me — but I was young — naïve —
and assumed no one surely took it seriously —
the way they larked around just a running joke. Then
the tittle-tattle started — loud and long.
We shrugged — she mixed with kids near half her age — so what?
How they harped on about the shortness of her hem
and long tanned legs — only a floozy sunbathes on her lawn in such
a small bikini.
And what did painted toenails have to do with them?
One boy I’d had a crush on — blond and skinny-tall — boasted once
she’d let him hold her — touch her bra-less breasts
but afterwards admitted — blushing red — he’d only brushed
against her — clumsy — and never guessed how his lie would
brand her.
Afterwards her house was out of bounds for most of us.
The local inquisition tried her as some kind of sex-starved witch
whose loose morals could only be a dreadful influence — corrupt
our younger generation. Verdict unanimous — all contact was cut off.
Her daughters pretty much took the whole thing in their stride
as if they saw through adult jealousies and paid them small attention
but their mother seemed to fade — sad Mrs Q grew paler and more plain —
she lost that glow inside — withdrew from sight and mind.
Within a year they’d moved — lock stock and barrel to another town
somewhere up North. Our mothers (not our dads) sighed in relief
to think the temptress Mrs Q was gone.
The blond boy, too — by some bizarre coincidence.