Period Piece
Clare Marsh
The scullery is Mum ’ s domain , where the infernal boiler powers our house , heats bath water , dries laundry to crisp cocoons pupating on the ceiling rack . Glow Worm Model B33 demands daily devotion from her acolyte . She forces Mum onto painful Sunday knees to coax sparks into flames , to empty the overflowing ash pan – whose glowing cinders give off diabolical fumes –
forces her to lug scuttles of anthracite from the bunker , to graze knuckles on its concrete hatch . In the domestic division of labour Dad regards this all as women ’ s work . He excuses himself from these essential chores , citing his recent heart scare .
Mum acknowledges my burgeoning hormones with reluctance , arranges for brown paper bag packages to be smuggled into the scullery for disposal . She draws the lid off with the handle and the furnace roars as Dr . White ’ s stained hammocks feed the boiler goddess with my menstrual blood . Sister Joseph of the Incarnation is delegated by Mum to inform me about periods with her booklet My Dear Daughter – handed to me in embarrassment – to indoctrinate me that there is something not quite nice about my monthly flow . Dad , of course , isn ’ t to know as men need to be protected from female matters – yet any impure thoughts I might have must be confessed to a celibate priest in a darkened wardrobe on a Saturday
With Women ’ s Lib in the ascendant , we three sisters congregate in front of the boiler to make a votive offering . We cackle like Macbeth ’ s hags , while Mum giggles at our daring . I dangle my pink gingham 32 A First Bra over the orifice , drop my sacrifice into her sooty yawning hole . It catches well , flares , then melts as Dad comes in to see what all the fuss is about just in time to witness the triumphant flames .