Whack

Her idea of an outing was to prop her mother on the second floor landing and close the door behind her.  If one of us – it didn’t matter which – happened to pass on the way up or down the stairs, the older woman raised herself to her full height – all four feet and change of it – and scowled.  Meanwhile, the younger would have taken up her broom and waited, quietly prowling their apartment.

Once either of us had crossed our threshold – 

WHACK!

Broom handle against ceiling.

WHACK!

Following our footsteps from door to kitchen or bedroom.

WHACK!

Perhaps they had a secret signal between them.  If they had, we never discerned it.  At some point, Daughter ceased her whacking and opened their front door, ostensibly to retrieve her mother.  Occasionally, she drenched the hallway with Glade, sometimes drenching her mother in the process.

Once mummy was safely inside, her daughter sang lustily, “Bye bye blackbird” again and again.  These were apparently the only words she knew of the song.  They were enough.

Then, inside once more, desultorily

WHACK

WHACK

And it was over for the time being.

In the end, her mother passed away and our musical nemesis was consigned to a nursing home.  The landlord seemed astonished that the ceiling was dotted with divots, the whole of their apartment was covered with inches of plaster dust and part of the ceiling had collapsed.  He never found the broom.