Welcome Wagon

My mother had a talent for portraying people unflatteringly and called her ‘the Kenau’. We all sensed that this harsh characterisation was for internal use only.

The pitiful creature lived next door to us, in rented rooms, dressed day and night in a stiff skirt suit and creaky nylon stockings. She was single, but at least the Welcome Wagon offered her a long-term commitment. Every day I watched her marching to her Dafje in flat, sturdy shoes. She unrelentingly stuffed the trunk with baby boxes. Her shrill voice grated through my toddler skull. I watched her as she zigzagged out of the neighbourhood, heading off to greet another freshly minted mother creature.

One day I was sitting in my mother’s chair, resting my cheek against the angora sweater she’d left there. The stillness outside was broken by a greaser roaring past on a moped with low handlebars. Then I heard the Daf, sputtering uncertainly into the street.
The doorbell rang.
‘Mum, it’s the Kenau!’
Too loud. She ran away sobbing, and I felt a knot in my stomach. Moments later, I saw her driving off, back bowed, to a new battlefield, armed with congratulations to deliver a fresh bombardment of baby boxes. Shame is a dish that is difficult to digest.