to jam-making and leave the grown-up decisions to the one in the trousers?’
Dad rolled his eyes. (I’d get killed for doing that.) ‘Save the female libber stuff for your Women’s Institute friends, Helena. I’m asking you nicely. I’ve had a very long day.’
‘Patronize your underlings in your supermarkets as much as you want, Michael.’ Mum noisily stacked the plates and took them to the kitchen hatch. ‘But don’t try it at home. I’m asking you nicely. I’ve had a very long day.’ She went into the kitchen.
Dad stared at her empty chair. ‘So, Jason, how was school?’
My stomach granny-knotted up. Hangman blocked ‘Not so bad’.
‘Jason?’ Dad’s voice went hot and red. ‘I asked you how school was.’
‘Fine, thanks.’ (Today’d been crap. Mr Kempsey bollocked me for cake crumbs in my music book and Mr Carver’d told me I was as ‘useful as a spastic’ at hockey.)
We heard Mum scrape plates into the kitchen bin.
Knife on china, a whooshy thud.
‘Excellent,’ said Dad. ‘How about you, Julia?’
Before my sister could say a word a plate smashed on the kitchen floor. Dad jumped out of his seat. ‘Helena?’ His breeziness’d gone.
Mum’s answer was to slam the back door.
Dad jumped up and went after her.
Rooks crawked round St Gabriel’s steeple.
Julia blew out her cheeks. ‘Three stars?’
Miserably, I held up four fingers.
‘Just a rocky patch, Jace.’ Julia’s got this brave smile. ‘That’s all. Most marriages have them. Really. Don’t worry.’
Mrs Thatcher frazzled this twerpy prat in a bow tie on BBC1 this evening. He was saying sinking the General Belgrano outside the Total Exclusion Zone was morally and legally wrong. (Actually we sank the Belgrano some days ago but the papers’ve just got hold of the pictures and since the Sheffield we’ve got zero sympathy for the Argie bastards.) Mrs Thatcher fixed her stained-glass blue eyes on that pillock and pointed out that the enemy cruiser’d been zigzagging in and out of the zone all day. She said something like, ‘The fathers and mothers of our country did not elect me the Prime Minister of this country to gamble with the lives of their sons over questions of legal niceties. Must I remind you that we are a country at war?’ The whole studio cheered and the whole country cheered too, I reckon, ’cept for Michael Foot and Red Ken Livingstone and Anthony Wedgwood Benn and all those Loony Lefties. Mrs Thatcher’s bloody ace. She’s so strong, so calm, so sure. Loads more use than the Queen, who hasn’t said a dickie-bird since the war began. Some countries like Spain are saying we shouldn’t’ve fired on the Belgrano, but the only reason so many Argies drowned was that the other ships in its convoy scarpered off instead of saving their own men. Our Royal Navy’d never ever ever leave Britons to drown like that. And anyway, when you join the army or navy in any country, you’re paid to risk your life. Like Tom Yew. Now Galtieri is trying to get us back to the negotiating table, but Maggie’s told him the only thing she’ll discuss is the United Nations’ Resolution 502. Argentina’s unconditional withdrawal from British soil. Some Argie diplomat in New York, still harping on about the Belgrano being outside the zone, said Britain no longer rules the waves, it just waives the rules. The Daily Mail says it’s typical of a tinpot Latin paper-pusher to make stupid quips about life and death. The Daily Mail says the Argies should’ve thought about the consequences before they stuck their poxy blue-and-white flag on our sovereign colony. The Daily Mail’s dead right. The Daily Mail says that Leopoldo Galtieri only invaded the Falklands to distract attention from all his own people he’s tortured, murdered and pushed out of helicopters over the sea. The Daily Mail’s dead right again. The Daily Mail says Galtieri’s brand of patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel. The Daily Mail’s as right as Margaret Thatcher. All England’s turned into a dynamo. People are queuing up outside hospitals to donate blood. Mr Whitlock spent most of our biology lesson saying how certain patriotic young men cycled to Worcester hospital to give blood. (Everyone knows he was talking about Gilbert Swinyard and Pete Redmarley.) They were told by a nurse that they’re too young. So Mr Whitlock’s writing to Michael Spicer, our Member of Parliament, to complain that the children of England are being denied the right to contribute to the war effort. His letter’s already in the Malvern Gazetteer.