When we go to the Varsity, I always wonder what Robin would have. She’d probably go for the triple-stack bacon cheeseburger, because her eyes are always bigger than her belly. And she’d have Sprite and a fried peach pie.
At first, Robin and I talked on the phone every Sunday, and it would often be about food. Mum would perch awkwardly on the stairs and interject whenever I said anything she thought Dad might seize on as reason to take me back to England.
The calls are more like every other Sunday now. Our days don’t fit together—England is full of lunch before we’ve had breakfast—but it’s easier to find things to talk about when it’s been a bit longer.
“What did you have for lunch?” is how most of our calls start.
“Sandwiches,” Robin generally says. It’s enough for me. From that I can picture the kitchen table, the radio on the side sticky from the cooking oil in the air. I can picture Dad holding his tea with two hands, Robin and Callum doing impressions of whatever thing they’re obsessed with on TV. I can picture Hilary fluttering about, never really eating much.
“What did you have for breakfast?” Robin will ask.
“Pancakes with bacon and syrup, Froot Loops and freshly squeezed orange juice,” I’ll lie. It’s always toast, if it’s anything.
I speak to Dad after Robin. He tells me about the birds he’s seen in the garden or a joke he’d heard on the radio. He’ll ask about school, and I’ll tell him it’s okay. I tell him I have lots of friends, list the names of people who in reality either hate me or ignore me.
After the last call, I said goodbye, handed the phone to Mum and then crept upstairs to the bathroom to listen on the phone by the loo.
“You promised you’d send her over last holiday and I’m still waiting.” Dad’s voice always changes when he’s speaking to Mum.
“We’re not made of money, Jack.”
“He earns plenty and he doesn’t pay shit toward his own son, so the least he can do is buy Sarah a plane ticket home.”
“Oh you want to talk about contributing, do you? Well, how about you put your hand in your pocket, Jack.” Mum says Dad’s name like it’s an insult. “And Sarah’s home is here, by the way. You agreed to that.”
“We’re raising Robin and Callum, and every penny I earn goes toward them and this family. You know I don’t have plane money, Angie; that’s bang out of order, girl.”
I’d heard this argument so many times that they’ll never get past it on their own. A few nights ago when Drew came to tuck me in, I decided to try a new tactic.
“Look how long your hair’s getting,” he said, as he sat on the bed. “Shame your mum cuts hers off. You could be sisters.”
“Drew?” I said, but he’d already launched into his nighttime routine.
“Who’s my girl?” he asked.
“I am.” I smiled, despite myself.
“You’re my guardian angel,” he stressed, as he always does. “Don’t you forget it.”
“I am your girl,” I said carefully. “And I love being here. But I would really like to see my sister soon, just for a bit.” I’m always careful not to say that I miss my dad. It shakes loose ugly adjectives that I don’t like to hear. Drew had looked down, and for a moment I worried that I’d crossed a line. That I’d see his frequent flashes of angry lightning break into a full storm.
“You miss England?” he said.
“I miss my sister,” I reiterated, in case it was a trap.
“I was an only child,” he said, looking into the corner of the room. “I only ever had myself to rely on.” I worried that he’d launch into one of his questionable stories about the school of hard knocks and we wouldn’t talk about me visiting after all, but he sighed. “I’ll get you a plane ticket to see your sister,” he said. Before I could thank him, he added, “But I want one thing in return.”
“Anything,” I said, but I didn’t know what I could possibly have that he’d want.
“Come and sit on my lap and give me a big hug.”
This seemed fair. I threw back the covers and climbed onto his lap and wrapped my arms around him. He smelled the same way he always did. A mixture of sandalwood and whiskey and just a bit like the air freshener in his car. He held on to me, his scratchy face rubbing up against my softer one. I thought he might kiss my cheek, but he pushed my head down a little and kissed the top of my head, then lifted me off him and onto the sheet and left in a hurry.
The next morning, he told Mum he thought it was time I went to England for a visit. As he bustled out the door without looking at me, he handed her his gold card and told her to book me on a flight as soon as possible.
ROBIN|1994
Sarah is due to land at Heathrow tomorrow morning and Robin has been sorting out her bedroom for hours. There needs to be space to pull out the special bed that their dad made, and it’s still pretty hard for Robin to kick a path through the room.
Callum doesn’t need to tidy his room, but he’s done it anyway, “in solidarity.” He finished ages ago and is lying facedown on her bed, possibly asleep. He’s grown in the last few months. Uncurled. His socked toes touch the bed frame, and his head isn’t far off the other end. His height was only part of the reason that he’d been accepted and encouraged into the friendships and in-jokes of older boys at school. He’d almost never seemed young.
Robin is still small. Robin will always be small. She just shouts louder so no one can ignore her. Foghorn, Callum calls her.
“Are you going to help or what?” she shouts at Callum’s back, which rises and falls gently.
“Help with what?” he says with a laugh into her pillow, without looking up. “You’re making a good mess all by yourself.”
“Oh fuck off, Cal,” she huffs, but there’s a teary edge to it. He scrambles to sit, cocks his head to one side and surveys the scene.
“It’s not that bad,” he says. “Look, let’s get all the rubbish in the bin bags and then take them down to the bin, which’ll clear some space. Then we’ll put all your dirty clothes in the laundry bin—hang on, do you have a laundry bin?”
“Somewhere,” Robin says.
“Somewhere?” Callum says, unconvinced. “Okay, well, let’s just put them in a pile outside your door and we’ll deal with that later. All right?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Then we’ll have a bit of space to work with and we can put all these books and tapes away and then you can Hoover the floor.”
“Hoovering’s a bit much.”
“I don’t even know if you’re joking.”
She wasn’t.