What They Do in the Dark - By Amanda Coe Page 0,18
a method of eating it, where I swirl each disc of banana in a pool of butterscotch, before using it as a template to cut out a corresponding disc of pancake with the blade of my knife, skewering the resulting forkful and eating it. The concentration demanded by this process obliterates the surrounding adult conversation, although I noticed when I sat down that Mum was unequipped with a biro this time, and that while Ian has a pile of papers with him, they remain on the seat beside him. I’m chasing the last drops of sauce with the final absorbent morsel of pancake when Mum asks me a question.
‘So, Gems, what do you think about us having a holiday?’
I swallow the last of the pancake, nodding. We always have a holiday, usually abroad. I’ve been to Spain more times than anyone in my former class (I don’t know anyone well enough in my current one to ask them about holidays). I’d most like to go to Butlin’s, like Christina; she’s told me there are lots of competitions there which I’m hopeful of winning, talent contests that I think might lead to meeting Lallie and being in her show. But I know better than to say so, because I know that going to Spain is better, and that being better is what Mum’s best at. We always have new clothes for our holidays. Only Dad wears shirts from his non-holiday life, but even he puts on hats and aftershave.
‘Just you and me,’ Mum elaborates.
‘Is Dad busy?’ I ask, eyeing my plate and wondering if Ian will mind if I lick it clean. I know Mum would, but if he thought it was OK, she might let it pass.
‘That’s right.’
Experimentally, I dab at the edge of the plate with my finger and transfer the film of syrup to my mouth.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
Mum’s arms are crossed on the table in front of her, each hand nursing the bare, fleshy top of the opposite arm. She sits very straight, as she always does.
‘Ian’s very kindly invited us to stay with him,’ she tells me.
‘Oh.’
It seems fine to me. I presume that Ian has a house in Spain, or is inviting us to stay in a hotel with him. It isn’t until the next day, when Mum nervously expands on the holiday arrangements, that I realize we’re having a holiday ten minutes up the road.
‘The good thing is, you’ll still be able to go to school,’ says Mum, busying herself with her mascara brush. I’m sitting on the bed, watching her through her dressing-table mirror. She puts on the amazed expression she uses for mascara application. ‘You can get the bus.’
I don’t consider it much of a holiday if I still have to go to school.
‘Has Ian got a swimming pool?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Don’t be so spoilt,’ snaps Mum, viciously rodding the mascara wand in and out of its pot, and we leave it at that. Dad gives me a five-pound note when we go, all packed up, and tells me that I can come home any time. It’s only then that I realize that something quite important is happening. I feel sorry for Dad, not coming with us, and I prolong our farewell hug to let him know. As usual he detaches himself first, as though he’s late and has to get a move on.
Ian’s house is in a posh part of town, Old Cantley. Cantley proper isn’t particularly posh, but Old Cantley is. It’s a detached house, Mum points out. I’m not sure what this means, but I know it’s desirable, as is the fact that it’s a dormer bungalow. This means it has stairs, although I always thought the whole point of a bungalow was that it didn’t. It’s quite a bit bigger than our house, and brand new. It has a particular smell, of Ian’s soap or aftershave, and the mints he sucks. Despite the sweating and the fatness, he always seems extremely clean, and his house looks very clean as well, which is bound to appeal to Mum.
‘Your room, modom,’ Ian says, when he takes us to the upstairs part. The single bed is pushed up against a large window with a deep sill, which is a bit like the bed arrangement in Lallie’s room in her TV show. I love it, and tell him so. He nips my nose between his finger and thumb with his soft, fat fingers, just for a second.