Gran

Ruth was always excited to see her grandparents who swept her up in a shower of kisses. She was particularly grateful today, because it wasn’t to be her day. Hattie made that clear. Ruthie might want to be a bride of Christ but it wasn’t her turn. It was Hattie’s — although Ruth was sure it wasn’t the religious elements which attracted her sister as much as the social and theatrical ones.

Besides, the family had no real tradition of believing in Christ. Dad described himself as a lapsed agnostic. Their mother, Hope, was a devout follower of GUS the Great Universal Spirit. Granddad was a Rosicrucianist — a knight of the Rosy Cross. And left to her own devices Hattie would prefer to summons spirits on the Weegee Board Hope bought her for Christmas thinking it was a board game. It was left to their brother Atticus to be the real white sheep of the family. He would go on to become the city’s Anglican Dean. A mighty journey which, at this point in the story, cast him as an Assistant Curate at the local church.

When Hattie, aged 14, signed up for Confirmation, Atticus was 20 or 21 years old and the definition of tall, dark and handsome. So beautiful was he, that all the debutantes at the nearby school wanted to be confirmed by him — some of them not in an entirely holy manner.

This was in the late 60’s and Ruth’s family were surfing a rising tide of postwar prosperity. Into this transitional social air a letter was sent from the 1950’s inviting all the proud mothers to supply afternoon tea in the church hall after the service.

Those familiar with Christian confirmation know it has a ‘Brides of Christ’ vibe. Young ladies wear the purity of white to reaffirm their devotion to Christ. Hattie, more theatrical than theocratic, embraced the event with her big heart. Hope, who worked in fashion and was busier than the average P on a T. A., got her assistant, Heidi, to buy Hattie a ‘white dress’. Without context, but knowing Hattie, Heidi chose a crocheted mini-dress. It had no lining so you could see Hattie’s flesh through peepholes. When she kneeled it rose to give a cheeky glimpse of her knickers. Atticus called the dress a ‘Greyhound’ because ‘it was an inch from the hare’. It was in no way suitable to the occasion. Hope offered Hattie a nylon slip to cover up her flesh, but nothing could cover the events that followed.

The entire family consisting Gran, Pop, Mum, Dad, Ruth, Mac, Aunty Latetia and a Vogue Photographer all arrived at the church on time. The afternoon tea display looked like a CWA cake fight for honours at the Royal Easter Show. This was no normal bakeoff. Reputations were on the line here. Chefs and housekeepers from the best families were vying for line honours. There were Battenbergs, Lamingtons, fruit cakes, cream filled angel cakes and scones. A feast befitting Santa Claus. And in the centre, a piece de resistance, rose a magnificent Victoria sponge.

Hope, accompanied by stage whispers, placed her packet of Arnott’s Monte Carlo biscuits on the table next to the urn. “What?” She asked Ruth, as though she had led her astray. “You said these were the good ones.” What does a seven year old know about social etiquette in the upper classes of the eastern suburbs? And what did anyone else know about the trials and tribulations of a mother working a fifty hour week as an executive for the Australian Wool Board.

The ceremony went without a hitch — if you don’t include Hattie fingering the crocheted holes to pull her dress down over her bum when she kneeled. Or Gran nipping out for a quick fag when the body of Christ was served. Candles were lit. Hymns were sung. Processions proceeded. Then everyone went to the hall for tea.

Scandal!

While the congregation was in the church, someone stole the Victoria sponge and angel cakes! If ever there was a crime in Midsomer this was it.

Clusters of old chooks gathered to get to the bottom of this mystery. It was a tawdry end to a beatific day. Mum kept out of the melee by following her fashion photographer around to capture all the young virgins for posterity. The mothers stopped clucking and briefly cooed over their little and angels when he appeared — styling the hair this way and that, before returning to the real matter at hand.

Mum forbade anyone from eating any cakes. This was a terrible blow to Ruth who had counted and recounted the lamingtons to ensure there were enough to go around. “Not everyone wants a lamington,” she told her grandmother, “Some people, although I am not among them, prefer the the Battenberg cakes. But in the absence of angel cake there is nothing better than a cream filled lamington.”

It was another 45 minutes before the family could leave. Another 45 minutes while gossip swirled and accusations flowed in a great roiling tide from one end of the hall to the other. When the photographer had finished, Mum drove us all home with a little thundercloud over her head.

It wasn’t until everyone was safely home, and Granddad put the kettle on, that Ruth discovered her mother’s mother was a practising kleptomaniac. Gran gathered everyone around the dining table and withdrew gently, magnificently, improbably and brilliantly from her carpet bag — the Victoria sponge and supporting cast of angel cakes. Ruth clapped her hands. “Brilliant.” The swirl of bright pink raspberry jam, intermingled with plump yellow hand whipped cream. Delicious. A dusting of icing sugar and a pillow of sponge. Heavenly. No-one else was amused.