I can’t help but think back to that weird night when Robin got sick from eating too much, when Mum and Drew were together in the kitchen and Dad was asleep on the sofa. I know that when adults drink they get all cuddly, but it’s all sticking together in my head and I don’t like it.
Callum is being odd too. He’s been quiet and a bit nervous ever since we met him but now it’s on overdrive. You say hello to him and he jumps. He looks on the brink of tears if an adult uses a loud voice near him. In class the other day, he ran out after Mrs. Howard yelled at some of the boys for doing something disgusting. He wasn’t even sitting near those boys, but if I didn’t know better I’d have thought he’d wet himself.
We went to the Grangers’ house last weekend and stayed as usual. Normally we get to sit at the table and have dinner with the adults. Even though I don’t really understand the jokes and especially don’t understand it when talk turns to Drew Granger’s work or money or politics, I enjoy being near all that chatter. It’s like I can feel the edge of another stage, the one just out of the corner of my eye. Teenage years, adult life. I like to think that one day I’ll cook cordon bleu food and have a tabletop plate warmer and a husband who has a job that people don’t understand.
It was different last weekend though. We didn’t eat together—we kids were given our dinner first. It was paella, which Robin picked at suspiciously, dragging the alien prawns to the side of her plate and lining them up like murder victims. We were even allowed to take popcorn upstairs—normally we have to sneak it like burglars. Drew had called Callum over to him first, whispered some rapid rules into his ear while Callum stood stone-faced. We ate that popcorn more carefully and slowly than any children in the history of time.
We watched Labyrinth and I tried to sing along to all the songs like Callum and Robin did, but I could never remember all the words. When the film ended, my hurt pride made me snappy, and Callum went pink trying to referee my sister and me and keep us quiet enough that none of the adults would come up. By which I think he really meant his dad. I don’t know what that’s all about. His dad is definitely more demanding and—in Robin’s words—“stuck up” than my dad, but he’s always friendly to me. He’s always cracking jokes and laughing with this deep booming roar, and he’s constantly giving Callum and his mum presents. Jewelry for her, video games and new computers for him. Callum’s room is fully stocked with all the latest, flashiest toys. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with rules or with trying to keep nice things in good condition. (And they have a lot of nice things.) But that’s not a popular opinion, so I keep it to myself.
I still can’t shake the picture of that day when I had all those nosebleeds a couple of months ago. I’ve never even caught my mum and dad doing that. It’s not like I’d want to see it, but at least that would be normal. Other kids at school have heard their mums and dads, and one boy even saw them “doing it” in the bath (“they looked like sea monsters”) when they thought he was out playing, but no one has ever mentioned seeing their mum with someone else’s dad. I don’t risk saying anything to anyone.
Tomorrow is Saturday and the Grangers are coming to our house to stay. I don’t really know why, because our house is smaller and it means all of us kids have to stay in Robin’s room and Drew and Hilary will sleep in a single bed in my room. It’s funny because Mum didn’t seem that sure it was a good idea either, but it was Dad arguing that it would make a nice change and then flattering her about her cooking. “You just want to be able to go out in the garden with bloody Hilary,” Mum said later as she appeared in the doorway, hair all scratched up into a bun and Marigolds on her hands. She’s paranoid about the state of the house.
“Give over,” said Dad, and he seemed cheerful. Mum gave him a sharp look, like she was about to argue, but Dad stopped smiling and stared at her until she left again, muttering: “I hope it’s nice enough for Queen Hilary.”
—
It’s Saturday night now and we’re in Robin’s room. Under her bed is a pit of broken toys and dusty abandoned bits of paper. I feel bad for Callum, who is on the floor next to the jumble, lying in a sleeping bag and coughing. We’re talking about the school holiday and how we’ll spend the summer. Robin thinks we’ll go down to Dorset, but something tells me we won’t. Granddad died last year and I think we’d be too much for Nana on her own, but who knows. Dad had cried so much when his dad died that I thought he’d throw up. I was embarrassed for him and sad, like a deep well had opened up in my chest and I had to drag something heavy over it as quickly as possible so the rest of me didn’t fall in.
Callum says that they always go abroad during the holidays, that his dad doesn’t consider it a proper holiday if it’s not over eighty degrees and a plane ride away. He says it’s strange that his mum and dad haven’t mentioned going away—they usually book something for the next summer straight after they get back from a holiday. Robin says he should ask his dad where they’re going, or at least ask why they’re not going, and Callum looks at her like that’s the most bizarre suggestion he’s ever heard. “You don’t ask my dad anything,” he said after a moment. “You just wait for him to tell you what to do and make sure you do it.”
—
It’s Sunday morning now and we’re sitting up in bed playing Boggle. Robin’s furious because I’m beating her, even though she never tries hard with her spellings at school, so of course I’m going to do better. We’re doing best of three, but she’s changed it to best of five, and if this carries on then the winner (i.e., me) is never going to get to play Callum. It’s supposed to be a tournament but it’s turning into a tantrum.
The smell of bacon and toast has taken over the whole house and I suggest we call it a draw so we can go and eat something. Robin, who is definitely not even close to my score, says, “Hmn, okay, but you know I would have won.” I see Callum turn away, smiling.
ROBIN|1991
S ay what you will about my mum, thinks Robin, but she can cook a breakfast. Angie may not do all that posh food like at Hilary and Drew’s house, but her bacon and eggs are legendary.
When Drew Granger compliments her on the full English she’s placed in front of him, she giggles and compliments him on his taste in return. Jack pauses for just a moment but says nothing. If he was going to compliment Angie, it would look too staged now. Drew beat him to the punch. Robin wonders if her dad is just so used to these fry-ups that he forgets they’re remarkable. He’s been eating them for a lot of years now. Robin puts her knife and fork down to count on her fingers, one, two, three…“Twelve years!” she exclaims, spraying chewed-up baked beans and egg onto the table in front of her.
“Robin!” her mum shouts, and she looks more tearful and embarrassed than angry.
“Come on, squirt, you know how to eat nicely,” Jack says.