They came for my laughing father late one evening.
Dad was playing dominoes with jolly friends outside in the yard, as he did most afternoons after construction work, slamming the tiles with such force, the makeshift table that was really a leftover slab of peeling, painted plyboard, shivered for a second, sprung up and settled back down, shaking with surprise.
One player crouched at the top of the short, wooden steps my dedicated mother had hand scraped and scrubbed to a sheen, studying his pieces and next moves, while bracing back on the closed double panelled door. Perched on our prized vintage Bentwood spindle-back chairs borrowed from our tiny kitchen and living room, the others concentrated on their hands, unable to believe shrewd Dad had strategically blocked them at both ends in the game variation chosen that day. Invariably, we would hear the grudging repeat concession from the cornered pair or three, “RAP, RAP, RAP!”
