Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Page 13

  Gran dunks a biscuit into her tea and sucks on it loudly. “Does he think I’ve never seen a pair of dirty underpants before? What’s this family got against accepting a bit of help?”

  “Nothing, but–” Mum is cut short by a violent screech from the corner of the room. She jumps in her chair, wincing when her right arm bangs the edge of the table.

  “You haven’t met Rocky yet, have you?” Gran goes over to the perch and holds out her wrist for him to step onto. “Gene, this is Rocky. Rocko, this is your big sister, Gene.”

  Mum and Rocky exchange looks of mutual distrust.

  “You’d better say hello,” I advise her. “Rocky gets aggro when he thinks he’s being ignored.”

  Gran gives me the old-lady death stare. “He just wants to feel included.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Rocky,” says Mum, “but perhaps you’d be more comfortable back on your perch?”

  Gran looks miffed but she takes Rocky back to the other side of the room, handing him a gingersnap as compensation.

  “Where’s Zig?” Mum asks me, glancing towards the garage as if she expects him to walk through the door at the mention of his name.

  “He’s probably at Biggie’s place. He’s pretty much moved in there while you’ve been away.”

  Gran tsks as she takes her seat again. “I don’t like that Biggie boy, Gene. I told Terry that he’s a bad influence on Ziggy, but he said–”

  “I said that I thought all of us had enough to worry about at the moment and that Gene and I will deal with it once things are back to normal,” says Dad from the doorway.

  Gran scowls and picks up her mug.

  In the five minutes that she’s been home, Mum’s gone from grinning like she just won the lottery to looking like she misses the peace and quiet of her hospital bed.

  21

  Despite promising myself that I’m going to play it supercool when Dan calls from his mum’s place, I jump when the phone rings.

  “I can’t believe you’re bailing on us,” says Steph when I answer. “What gives?”

  “Sorry, but I have to … it’s enforced family bonding time.” I lower my voice so that Mum won’t hear. She’s already told me not to stay home tonight on her account, since she’ll probably flake straight after dinner.

  “So it’s not because you’d rather be alone with Dan?” Steph sounds suspicious.

  “Definitely not,” I assure her. “Dan’s not even here. He left this morning to visit his mum.”

  “And you can’t have a good time because your boyfriend’s not going to be there? Isn’t being with your best friends enough to make up for that?” Steph’s voice rises as she gets worked up.

  “Of course it is, it’s just … look, Vicky and I had a sort of … thing, yesterday.”

  I tell Steph what happened at the zoo, sticking to the facts and trying not to say anything that could be construed as bitching. “I know Vix probably didn’t mean to upset me, but I just don’t feel up to a night of hearing more fun facts about cancer.”

  “That’s just Vicky’s way of dealing with things,” says Steph. “Facts are her security blanket; they help to avoid dealing with feelings. I’m sure she was only giving you the information that she’d want to have if it was her mum who had cancer.”

  “Maybe, but I still couldn’t handle any more of it.”

  “Fine, suit yourself.”

  I don’t blame Steph for being narked with me. I try to make it clear that she’s not the one I’m avoiding by asking if she wants to see a movie together.

  “Sure,” she says, but she hangs up without making a date.

  I reboot the computer to check what movies are showing. If I can find something that I know Steph will love and email her about it straightaway, it might make up for leaving her in the lurch tonight. When I open my email there’s a message from Vicky saying that the twins’ babysitter has cancelled and she has to stay home tonight, too. I guess it’s not impossible.

  I decide a ride might help ease my nagging sense of guilt about wrecking Vicky and Steph’s night, so I take the remains of the brownies to Switch for Jay to taste test. I guess I may have subconsciously been in need of some beagle time, because I tell him about what happened with Vicky before he’s even swallowed his first bite.

  “I can understand why you’re upset,” he says when I finish ranting, “but I think Steph’s probably right about Vicky’s motives. I remember when Mum was sick and her friends used to come by to see her and drop off casseroles and make sure I hadn’t burned the house down while I was meant to be looking after her. After seeing Mum they’d always stop to chat to me and say things like, ‘She’s definitely on the mend,’ and ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ and I’d just want to say to them, ‘What the hell do you know?’ The worst was when I’d bump into someone on the street and they’d say, ‘How’s your mum?’ I mean, what do you say to that? ‘She’s ace, thanks, except for the disease that’s trying to kill her’?”

  While Jay speaks, I find myself nodding and nodding. It’s a relief to hear that I’m not the only one who doesn’t appreciate people trying to be nice to them.

  “These are amazing, by the way.” Jay points to the brownie with his fork. “It’s like chocolate and peanut butter made love and had a baby delicious. I reckon I can sell two dozen a week, if you can keep up the supply.”

  “Really? And you like the icing?”

  “Oh yeah! It’s the icing that makes it. If it was all cake and peanut butter, it might be a bit dry, don’t you think?” Jay takes my “hmmm” as an agreement. “Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t have iced them. Genius!” He scrapes his fork across the plate to get every last crumb. “I’m going to take the rest of these bad boys home with me. They might make being away from Nicky on New Year’s Eve a bit less miserable.”

  I tell him that Dan’s not coming home either and we commiserate over another brownie before I have to head off. (He’s right about the icing. I’ll have to think of a sneaky way to get Gran’s recipe before she goes.) When I get back on my bike I feel much, much better. Just because tonight isn’t going to be the New Year’s Eve of my dreams doesn’t mean that the coming year will definitely be a washout. After all, I spent last New Year’s Eve at home and this year turned out way better than I could ever have imagined.

  I ride through the big iron gates of the park and pull up at Our Tree, taking a moment to make sure DTF still +s FL before sitting on the grass underneath it and scrounging in the bottom of my bag for a pen and paper. After a minute, I come up with a stumpy pencil and the back of a receipt. They don’t exactly set the tone for successful resolution making, but I figure it’s what I do after I write my resolutions that counts, not what they look like.

  New Year’s resolutions

  I will be a good friend.

  I will keep Hysterical Girlfriend at bay, or at least well hidden.

  I will be a better daughter.

  I review the list before I get up to go. It seems doable. I mean, all it comes down to is Be Nice and Stop Whingeing. As long as Mum doesn’t get any new ideas from Dr Phil, it should be a piece of cake.

  “Hey, you.”

  I can hardly hear Dan over the loud music in the background, something with an ish-ish-ish drum machine and electro-synthesised vocals. “Where are you? Have they locked you in a small dark room with that noise as punishment for something?”

  Dan laughs. “Nah, Kristy’s trying to enlighten me about the joys of dance music before the party tonight.”

  In the mirror above the hallstand I catch sight of my tight-lipped grimace and try to smooth it out before I speak. “Who’s Kristy?”

  “Steve’s daughter. She’s here for the uni holidays. She’s pretty cool considering she’s spawn of Stepdag.”

  “She must be pretty persuasive, too, if she’s got you listening to dance music.”

  More laughter. “I didn’t say it was working. Hang on, I’ll go outside where I can hear you properly.”

 
; I hang on. I practise the calming breathing Mr Naidoo taught us before the exams. I repeat my Hysterical Girlfriend resolution over and over in my head until I hear a door slam and Dan says, “That’s better.”

  “So, there’s a party tonight?”

  “Yeah, on Stepdag’s boat, sorry yacht. He’s invited some of his golfing buddies and their kids. Kristy and I are in charge of making sure the dance floor’s full at all times.”

  “You, listening to dance music? Dancing to dance music? Have you gone insane from all that fresh sea air?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s either that or sit on the beach, drinking goon with the local youth, who haven’t exactly welcomed me with open arms. Are you all set for the picnic?”

  “Change of plan – Mum’s home so I’m staying in.” I try to keep my voice light, like it’s no big deal, but my throat tightens with every word. “At least this way we can still be together at midnight, even if it’s just over the phone.”

  The pause before Dan speaks again is probably only seconds, but it feels like a long, empty silence. Long enough for me to anticipate what he’s going to say, anyway.

  “Geez, I’m sorry, Fray, but I don’t think I’ll get a phone signal out on the water. I can try to convince Steve to let me use his emergency satellite phone, if you really want me to.”

  I really want you to. I really, really want you to. I want you to more than I want to be a world famous brownie entrepreneur, more than I want Gran and Rocky to get out of my room and go home, more than I want a lock on my bedroom door … “No, that’s okay. I understand.”

  “And that’s why I love you! I told Kristy you’d be cool about it.”

  I don’t hear the rest of what he says. Something about whale watching or trail walking or tail twitching. I can’t make out the exact words because of the echoing in my ears. And that’s why I love you … Why I love you … I love you.

  “Fray? You still there?”

  “What? Sorry, there was some static on the line.”

  “I said, I’d better go and make sure Kristy doesn’t try to sneak anything from the Top Thirty onto the playlist. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Have a happy new year.”

  “You too. Think of me at midnight.”

  22

  By the time we sit down for dinner, my glow has worn off. Yes, Dan said “I love you”, but it was a phrase, not a sentence. Part of a bigger statement about what he loves about me, like he loves my baking and that I can sit through The Matrix without once asking what the hell is going on. It’s still good. It’s still something. But it’s not the thing.

  “You okay, Bloss?” asks Gran as she sets the last prawn cocktail in front of me.

  Mum and Dad, who’ve been deep in conversation about where to take their post-radiotherapy holiday, stop talking and look at me.

  “Freia, is something wrong?” says Mum.

  “Yeah, she exists,” mutters Ziggy.

  I force a smile. “I’m fine. This looks delicious, Gran.”

  “It really does,” says Mum, dipping a prawn into sauce that’s suspiciously close to the colour of Gran’s lipstick. “I don’t think I’ve had prawn cocktail since we went to the Lido for our first anniversary. Do you remember, Terence?”

  Dad puts down his fork and reaches for her hand. “How could I forget? Back then we were so poor we could only afford starters. We went home and made beans on toast for our main course.”

  “A classic dish never goes out of style,” says Gran. “We’re having chicken and mushroom vol-au-vents next.”

  The three of them reminisce about great dinner party dishes of the seventies and eighties for the rest of the meal, not noticing that I barely touch my food or that Ziggy is shovelling his into his mouth as if he’s in a speed-eating contest.

  As soon as he scrapes the last of the trifle from his bowl, Ziggy announces that he’s going to Biggie’s and will be back some time tomorrow. If I had any energy left, I’d make a scene about how there’s no way Mum and Dad would’ve let me go off to a friend’s place on my own at thirteen, and that they would have made me promise to be back first thing in the morning. But I don’t.

  Dad offers to clear the table for me so I can join “the ladies” (and Rocky) in the living room. It’s obviously a delaying tactic – I saw the look he gave Mum when Gran let Rocky nibble trifle straight from her spoon.

  “Tell you what,” I say, taking the tea towel from him, “I’ll clean up in here and you can go and hide in your study till I’m done.”

  “Is it that obvious that I’m avoiding your gran?”

  “Do Ziggy’s feet smell like roadkill rotting in the sun?”

  Dad sighs. “I’m doing my best, but she’s a very difficult woman. Young Daniel doesn’t know how easy he’s got it with your mum.”

  “I’ll remind him of that next time she quizzes him about drug use at his school. Now go, before I change my mind.”

  Dad grabs Boris’s treats from the breadbin and kisses me on the forehead. “Thanks, Sausage. I love you.”

  At least someone does.

  After washing up, I collect Dad on my way to the living room, where Mum and Gran are having a heated conversation about whether Mum lied about her whereabouts on New Year’s Eve in 1973.

  “I know you weren’t with your cousin at the church social,” says Gran, topping up her sherry. “Gwen had a crisis of conscience when her mother died and told me that the two of you went gallivanting in town.”

  Mum shoots me and Dad a can-you-believe-this look. “It was over thirty years ago. Does it really matter any more?”

  Gran’s stony expression suggests it does. Tonight, anyway.

  “Why don’t we play charades?” Even as the words come out of my mouth I can’t believe I’ve said them. I hate charades, mainly because I’m hopeless at it. Gran’s on her feet before I can add, “Or Monopoly.”

  By eleven Gran’s asleep in her armchair, having energetically acted out the title to every movie Sean Connery’s ever made, and Rocky has his head tucked down by his wing. Our party is officially pooped.

  Mum nods gratefully when Dad suggests it’s time for bed.

  “Let’s leave them here,” says Mum, cocking her head towards Gran and Rocky. “I don’t want the last sound I hear this year to be that bloody bird.”

  We say our goodnights and happy almost-new-years in the hallway.

  As lame as playing charades was, at least it took my mind off not being with my friends, waiting for the countdown to midnight and a kiss lit by the sparkly glow of fireworks reflected in the water. Now I’d be seeing in the new year on a sofa bed with an elderly cat. If how you start the year really does mirror how it will turn out, I’m in trouble. I try not to think about how Dan is spending his night, or who he’s spending it with.

  To distract myself, I pull one of the photo albums off Mum’s bookshelf. We hardly ever look at our family photos, especially now that they’re mostly stored on CD. About once a year – usually on Ziggy’s or my birthday – Mum gets sentimental about how fast we’re growing up and brings a few of the old albums into the living room after dinner. We pass them round and laugh at how Ziggy looked just like Winston Churchill when he was a baby, and at the scraggly red beard Dad tried to grow when he was made an associate professor.

  The album I’ve selected is older than the ones we usually look at. It starts with Mum wearing her locket and blowing out candles on a cake shaped like a two and a one. Dad is on her right, holding back her long hair so that it doesn’t catch fire, and behind him stands Gran, scowling with disapproval. Mum and Dad must’ve moved in together just after that because there’s a whole series of pictures of a dingy-looking flat full of mismatched furniture, and the two of them beaming with pleasure at being there. Then photos of their uni graduation, in matching gowns and caps, and a camping trip on a beach with friends. Even though I know it’s my parents in the photos, it’s hard to believe that this young couple, laughing and playing frisbee are the same people tha
t couldn’t stay awake until midnight tonight.

  A sheet of paper falls from the back of the album. It’s a page from a notepad with ruled blue lines and a red printed margin, covered in Dad’s semi-legible scrawl. The date at the top is 16 May 1977 – the year he and Mum started going out.

  I know I shouldn’t read it.

  Dear Gene

  I’m writing you this letter because there is something I have to tell you. I’ve tried many times to say it to you in person but, as you know, speaking about my feelings is not my strong suit.

  What I have to say is this: I love you, Eugenia Nancy Beauford.

  I love you when you argue with Prof. Manham about the portrayal of women in postcolonial literature.

  I love you when you protest against battery chicken farming.

  I love you when you tell your mother you don’t want a banker or a lawyer, you want a thinker.

  I love you when you correct the punctuation on menu’s. (Joke!)

  I love you when you hum off-key.

  I love you when you dance with wild abandon.

  I love you when you come to concerts with me even though Bach’s not your thing.

  I love you when you wake up in the morning and stretch like a cat beside me.

  I love you. Always and forever.

  Terence

  Even after reading it twice I can’t quite believe that my dad – my cardigan-wearing, Volvo-driving dad – was once this romantic young man. And at the same time, I know that he still loves Mum just as much as he did then.

  At 11.59 I poke Boris in the ribs and we watch the glowing red display of the digital clock flick over to midnight. He butts his forehead against mine, which Dad has always said is the feline equivalent of a kiss. I appreciate the gesture, but it’s not quite the new year’s smooch I had in mind. When he starts yowling to be let out a minute later, I realise I’ve mistaken his need to use his litter as affection.