brother and I were born in this house,’ she said, finally. Her throat was saggy like a lizard’s. ‘We have no intention of moving away.’
‘Oh…’ I still wasn’t sure if she was about to open fire on me. ‘Good.’
‘How noisy you youngsters are!’
‘Sorry.’
‘It was very careless of you to wake my brother.’
My mouth’d glued up. ‘It wasn’t me making all the noise. Honestly.’
‘There are days,’ the sour aunt never blinked, ‘when my brother loves youngsters. But on days like these, my oh my, you give him the furies.’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’
‘You’ll be sorrier,’ she looked disgusted, ‘if my brother gets a hold of you.’
Quiet things were too loud and loud things couldn’t be heard.
‘Is he…uh, around? Now? Your brother, I mean?’
‘His room’s just as he left it.’
‘Is he ill?’
She acted like she hadn’t heard me.
‘I’ve got to go home now.’
‘You’ll be sorrier,’ she did that spitty chomp old people do to not dribble, ‘when the ice cracks.’
‘The ice? On the lake? It’s as solid as anything.’
‘You always say so. Ralph Bredon said so.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Ralph Bredon. The butcher’s boy.’
It didn’t feel at all right. ‘I’ve got to go home now.’
Lunch at 9 Kingfisher Meadows, Black Swan Green, Worcestershire, was Findus ham’n’cheese Crispy Pancakes, crinkle-cut oven chips and sprouts. Sprouts taste of fresh puke but Mum said I had to eat five without making a song and dance about it, or there’d be no butterscotch Angel Delight for pudding. Mum says she won’t let the dining table be used as a venue for ‘adolescent discontent’. Before Christmas I asked what not liking the taste of sprouts had to do with ‘adolescent discontent’. Mum warned me to stop being a Clever Little Schoolboy. I should’ve shut up but I pointed out that Dad never makes her eat melon (which she hates) and Mum never makes Dad eat garlic (which he hates). She went ape and sent me to my room. When Dad got back I got a lecture about arrogance.
No pocket money that week, either.
So anyway, this lunch-time I cut my sprouts up into tiny pieces and glolloped tomato ketchup over them. ‘Dad?’
‘Jason?’
‘If you drown, what happens to your body?’
Julia rolled her eyes like Jesus on his cross.
‘Bit of a morbid topic for the dinner table.’ Dad chewed his forkful of crispy pancake. ‘Why do you ask?’
It was best not to mention the frozen-up pond. ‘Well, in this book Arctic Adventure these two brothers Hal and Roger Hunt’re being chased by a baddie called Kaggs who falls into the—’
Dad held up his hand to say Enough! ‘Well, in my opinion, Mr Kaggs gets eaten by fish. Picked clean.’
‘Do they have piranhas in the Arctic?’
‘Fish’ll eat anything once it’s soft enough. Mind you, if he fell into the Thames, his body’d wash up before long. The Thames always gives up its dead, the Thames does.’
My misdirection was complete. ‘How about if he fell through ice, into a lake, say? What’d happen to him then? Would he sort of stay…deep frozen?’
‘Thing,’ Julia mewled, ‘is being grotesque while we’re eating, Mum.’
Mum rolled up her napkin. ‘Lorenzo Hussingtree’s has a new range of tiles in, Michael.’ (My abortion of a sister flashed me a victorious grin.) ‘Michael?’
‘Yes, Helena?’
‘I thought we could drop by Lorenzo Hussingtree’s showroom on our way to Worcester. New tiles. They’re exquisite.’
‘No doubt Lorenzo Hussingtree charges exquisite prices, to match?’
‘We’re having workmen in anyway, so why not make a proper job of it? The kitchen’s getting embarrassing.’
‘Helena, why—’
Julia sees arguments coming even before Mum and Dad sometimes. ‘Can I get down now?’
‘Yummy, but could I have mine tonight? Got to get back to Robert Peel and the Enlightened Whigs. Anyway, Thing has ruined my appetite.’
‘Pigging on Cadbury’s Roses with Kate Alfrick,’ I counter-attacked, ‘is what’s ruined your appetite.’
‘So where did the Terry’s Chocolate Orange go, Thing?’
‘Julia,’ Mum sighed, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t call Jason that. You’ve only got one brother.’
Julia said, ‘One too many,’ and got up.
Dad remembered something. ‘Have either of you been into my office?’
‘Not me, Dad.’ Julia hovered in the doorway, scenting blood. ‘Must’ve been my honest, charming, obedient, younger sibling.’
How did he know?
‘It’s a simple enough question.’ Dad had hard evidence. The only adult I know who bluffs kids is Mr Nixon, our headmaster.
The pencil! When Dean Moran rang the doorbell I must’ve left the pencil in the sharpener. Damn Moron. ‘Your phone was ringing for yonks, like four or five minutes, honestly, so—’