the skip, tossing him beneath a mattress, among a load of coat hangers.
We hug in the middle of the road. I spare a thought for Fred the martyr. At least he died under his own steam. His death will be a huge help in the event of Jordana’s mother’s death. And it may help reduce the dust mite population. I feel Jordana crying against my shoulder.
I am happy because I see the bigger picture. She has passed the mock exam for losing a loved one.
Two days later. Two weeks before the operation. We are sitting on the swings. It is nice to be able to sit here and not have to worry about Fred running off or shitting in obscure places.
‘My parents asked me to thank you for helping me with Fred. I told them that you liked Fred. That you worried about him.’
Jordana’s face is fixed in the expression that means she thinks she understands me, knows my good side, sees how caring I am, even if I do not. She does this face more often nowadays.
‘Jude said she wants to meet you,’ Jordana says, looking across at me. Jordana has started referring to her mother by her first name: Jude. This is an unfortunate symptom of Jordana’s rampant empathy; she sees her mother as a fellow human being. ‘She’s invited you round for dinner.’
Again she is making the face. She thinks that I am endearingly nervous because I want to make a good impression. I try not to think that this may be the one time I get to meet Jude before she dies.
‘Don’t look so worried. They won’t kill you.’
I look away. I’m thinking about the rat poison on the chopping board.
Trojans
Last Sunday, Mum went for lunch with Graham at Vrindavan – the Hare Krishna café. Dad stayed home.
I once had the misfortune to be taken to Vrindavan. Vegan chocolate cake was the safe option. Their menu is partly a manifesto. Vegans claim that bee-keepers are slave-owners, that honey is theft.
I believe in market forces and I think that if bees had the power of rational thought they would be willing to exchange their surplus honey for clean, free-standing, man-made hives that are reminiscent of upmarket beach huts. Bees already work in a pleasant environment – flowers et cetera – and they would want the classy living arrangements to match.
When my mother came back from the luncheon, she went straight upstairs and had a long conversation with Dad. Then she came to speak to me. She sat with me on the floor of my bedroom. She explained that their friend Graham volunteers at a meditation retreat in Powys and that he had offered her a spare place. I said, ‘Congratulations’. She said that she’d always wanted to try something like this. She said it was a good opportunity because these courses are normally booked up for months in advance. I asked her if she felt indebted to Graham. She said that the introductory course was going to take ten days. I said she should be careful not to believe everything she hears in Vrindavan. She said, ‘It starts next Saturday.’ She told me that Dad would look after me while she was away.
Dad thinks that rice pudding is my favourite dessert. I think it looks like fly pupae.
Mum left this morning to go to Powys. My father and I have been spending some quality time together.
‘This used to be my favourite too,’ he says, portioning his spoon through the wrinkled skin. A swollen rice grain has attached itself to his moustache. Dad will eat leftover rice pudding – cold – for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
‘More?’
‘No thanks, I’m stuffed,’ I say.
He nods, swallows.
‘Dad. About Graham?’
‘Yup.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s a decent-enough chap. Why do you ask?’
I feel like saying: I wouldn’t let my girlfriend go away for ten days with a decent-enough chap. Chips is a decent-enough chap.
‘What’s Graham’s surname?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m just thinking about Mum.’
‘Mum’ll be fine.’
‘Will she?’ I say cryptically.
‘Yes, she will.’
‘Right.’
I stare at the painting on the wall behind my dad’s head. My parents actually paid money for it. It is of a shrunken old woman in front of a terraced house.
‘Anyway, how’s Jordana?’
‘Improving,’ I say.
‘Do you think you’ll ever let us meet her properly?’
‘No. Not until you’re terminally ill.’
‘Oh, nice.’
‘I’m meeting Jordana’s parents for dinner.’
He puts another spoonful in his mouth and chews. The sound reminds me of two fingers: a courtesy, according to Chips’s rule of thumb. There is a kind of white tidal foam at the