by Lily Morton
Muswell Hill is a wealthy neighbourhood in North London. I love the place because it still feels a bit like a village with tree-lined streets and good local schools, but it’s a village where you practically need a mortgage to use the local shops and cafes.
We moved here when my mum was pregnant with me, and my dad inherited a house from an aunt. He and Aidan still live in the house which is just a few steps away. It’s an Edwardian semi with the original bay windows, and I know if I step into the hall, I’ll find a Minton tiled floor still scuffed with the marks made by my bicycle when I was a kid. The windows are dark tonight. I presume my dad is at still at the university where he’s a professor, and Aidan must be working a shift at the hospital where he manages a casualty ward.
Misha comes to stand next to me and looks at his own family home, which is a mirror image of mine. He sighs, and there’s something weary in the sound. He’s always like this when a family meeting is called. Probably because he feels a lot of responsibility for his mum and the girls since his dad died. I rub his arm, feeling how tight the muscles are.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned.
He scrubs his hand down his face. “Just mentally preparing myself for what’s coming.”
“They’re teenage girls,” I say consolingly. “How bad could it be?”
He looks at me incredulously. “I’m sorry, have you met them? The trouble could be anything on a scale between staging a sit-in outside the council buildings or robbing a mail train.”
“When did they become cowboys? Surely I should have been told about these developments?”
He snorts and shakes his head. Then he bounces on his toes for a few seconds, shaking out his arms like a boxer readying himself for a fight. It looks rather odd in a man wearing a three-piece suit. He finishes and nods. “Okay, I’m ready.” I go to walk towards his front door and he grabs my arm. “Wait,” he says. I look at him enquiringly. “Have you got any alcohol on you?”
I start to laugh. “No, of course I haven’t. Because I’m a librarian and not Colin Farrell.”
“More’s the pity.”
I step up to the door and ring the bell. “It’s your family, Misha. What could possibly be that bad?”
“Oh, now you’ve done it,” he says darkly as we hear the sound of light footsteps and the click of the lock before the door pulls open.
Misha
The door opens, and my sister Theodosia appears. Even though she and Anya are identical twins, I know instantly that it’s Teddy, as she likes to be known. She has a little mole over her left eyebrow and did the world a great favour last year by chopping her black hair off into a sharp bob so she and Anya can be distinguished. Also, her expression is usually much nicer than Anya’s, who has a rather jaundiced opinion on everything that it’s possible to have an opinion about.
“Charlie,” Teddy exclaims delightedly, grabbing his hand and hauling him over the doorstep. “I need you now.”
“Oh no, is it a book emergency?” I ask dryly. She and Charlie are complete bookworms and can talk books for hours. I know this because they have actually done that many times. “Has Amazon stock gone into freefall because neither of you have bought anything for at least thirty minutes?”
She shoots me a look. “Don’t be silly. No, there’s a mole in my shoe.”
I blink. “What?”
“There is a mole in my shoe,” she says again, speaking very slowly as if I’m thick.
“Why on earth has a living creature taken up residence in your footwear? Does it have a death wish?”
She shakes her head crossly. “Misha, I know you’re taking the mickey out of me.”
“How?”
“Because of your tone of voice. It’s very flippant.”
Charlie laughs and then does an about turn as she drags him down the hall towards the kitchen. I follow at a slower pace, noticing idly how fantastic his arse is in his grey trousers. I reassured myself years ago that it’s acceptable to notice these details about Charlie as long as I didn’t compound the error by fucking my best friend who means the world to me and who has a more hopeful view of marriage than Liam Hemsworth.
I walk into the kitchen, and, as ever, it’s light and warm. The cupboards are a bit scruffy and the tiles need replacing, but it’s cosy and the big scuffed table brings back so many memories of family meals and doing homework on its worn surface.
My mum turns from the cooker where she’s stirring a big pot. I inhale greedily. The thick and spicy soup is my favourite, and my dad taught her how to make it.
“That smells good,” I say, and she grins and angles her face so I can kiss her. I press my lips to the softness of her cheek, inhaling the scent of Miss Dior perfume and feeling her dark hair brush against my face.
“It should taste good,” she murmurs. “I’ve had a great deal of practice cooking it.”
“Where’s the rogue mole?” I ask.
She nods her head towards the conservatory. “In there. Ted left her gardening shoes by the door and left the door open. Poor little thing must have crawled in.”
“Charlie can sort that one out.”
“Yes, bless him. He’s so patient.”
I laugh. “Is that a subtle dig?”
She grins, her thin face alight with warmth. “Nothing subtle about it, darling. You’re about as patient as Gordon Ramsay. Unfortunately, you don’t have his cooking abilities.”
I head over to the kettle and switch it on. “Want one?” I ask.
She nods. “Are you thirsty, sweetie?”
“Not for tea,” I say grimly. “However, if it was whisky inside the kettle I’d get to it quicker than Usain Bolt. It’s just that Charlie will need a cup after dealing with the mole.”
“That boy and his tea.”
She’s not joking. When we moved his stuff the other night, he had a whole bloody box of different teas. One for every mood that a human being could possibly have. I’d put them in my boot next to his box of herbal remedies that he swears by.
Charlie is his mother’s son, with his insistence on everything being natural and organic. I hope he doesn’t start practicing with that herbal shit on me. I’m a plain old paracetamol bloke. Unless my leg falls off, in which case I’ll go to the hospital rather than take oil-of-fucking-depressed-sea-anemone or whatever he’s got in that box.
I busy myself making tea and, when it’s done, set it on the table, gesturing to my mum to join me. There’s the sound of footsteps and my mum’s boyfriend Jim appears. She’s been seeing him for a couple of years and he moved in last month. It still feels strange to see him here in a spot that used to belong to my father, but I’m getting accustomed to it. It helps that the girls adore him, and he’s wonderful to my mum.
My dad died when I was fourteen and the girls were two. It was a huge shock. One day he was here full of life and loudness, with his penchant for proclaiming Russian poetry at the top of his voice, and the next day he was gone. Dead from a brain haemorrhage at the age of forty-two.
There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by since that I haven’t missed him as a parent and a friend, but also as the head of our family. I had to grow up very quickly once he was gone and step up to help my mum. For the first couple of months, she was a wreck, and I honestly think if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s family, we’d have gone under. The teachers at my school were making noises about my clothes being dirty and the lack of parental supervision. But Charlie’s family kept us together. His dad and Aidan did all the cooking, and his mum did our washing and babysat the girls. It was probably a blessing that they divided the labour up that way, because Charlie’s mum could burn water.
It took a while, but steadily and bit by bit, my mum came out of her cocoon of grief and emerged back into the world. Battered and grim for a while but still here for us. However, I learnt a painful lesson in that I had to be responsible for my mum and the girls. It’s what my dad would have wanted. And although I love them and would cheerfully die for them, there have been t
imes that I’ve wanted to murder all of them if only to get a second’s peace in the bathroom.
Jim smiles at me. He’s a thin, quiet man, but he has a surprisingly droll sense of humour and a warmth about him that even I can sense. He’s also calmer than a puddle which has got to come in handy living here. I wish I’d managed it, but we’re all a little temperamental, so tranquillity was impossible.
“Alright, Misha?” he asks.
I nod, smiling. “Fine, thanks. Just mentally preparing myself for the family meeting.”
He shakes his head. “I’d have a scotch, lad. It’ll help.”
“Oh God,” I say faintly.
My mum stirs as Jim puts on his coat. “Are you going out? I thought you were staying for the meeting?”
He makes an apologetic gesture. “Work called. Someone rang in sick, so I’ve got to go in.” Jim works at Heathrow Airport as a customs officer.
“Hope you’re not filling in for a pilot,” I say.
He laughs before turning to my mum. “I’m so sorry. I’d have said no but we’re really short staffed at the moment,” he says earnestly. “Shall we do it another time?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “It’s absolutely fine, love. Probably best if I do this one alone anyway.”
I narrow my eyes. What is going on?
I don’t get the chance to ask as he grabs his keys and leaves, shouting a cheerful goodbye.
“You staying for a while?” my mum asks from the seat at the head of the table. Even after all these years, I feel a tiny pang of surprise. It was my dad’s chair, and I can still see him there, his dark hair wild with him pushing his hand through it and laughing loudly. He was always laughing.
I blink the thought away and focus on her question. “Of course I’m staying. You summoned me, didn’t you?”
She sighs. “That makes you sound like a bloody demon.” She looks me up and down disapprovingly. “At least take your jacket off, Misha. You look like you’re about to approve me for a mortgage.”
“You do actually know what I do, don’t you?” I say, standing up so I can hang my jacket on the back of the chair.
She waves her hand airily. “It’s something to do with money. Anything else is a bit of a mystery. Sounds a bit like a gardening job.”
“I’m a hedge fund manager, not Alan Titchmarsh,” I say snidely.
She laughs, not a bit affected by my scowl. “Aunt Ava still asks if you can go round and trim her bush.”
“Good God,” I say and then falter because there are no words for the image she just conjured in my head.
I spot Peter, the battered old toy dog, sitting on the sideboard amidst a jumbled mass of craft projects that we did as children. His fur is rubbed clean in places through kisses, and the sight of him makes my brain come back into gear.
“Why have we got a family meeting?” I ask, shooting my mum a glance.
“There are two things on the agenda.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful. I do so love our family problems. Thank goodness there’s more than one. What’s the first?”
She grimaces. “Anya got suspended.”
“What?” I say far too loudly, and she hushes me quickly. “What for?” I say in a lower tone.
“She handcuffed herself to some railings at school.”
“She handcuffed herself to railings?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say tonight?” she asks.
“Probably, if every statement is going to be as ridiculous as that one. Why the fuck did she chain herself to railings? Is she Emmeline Pankhurst?”
“No, but she’s very passionate about climate change.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “I might have known. Is it the plight of the penguins this week, or the mating grounds of the lesser spotted pink whistled puffin?”
“Anya is very concerned about the world, Misha.”
“How about she becomes concerned about the plight of the stressed-out banker? I don’t see her chaining herself to any railings over me.”
She laughs, and I sit back in my chair and stare at her over the teapot. This situation is so familiar to me. I’ve lost track of the number of times we’ve sat here together with tea and biscuits trying to sort out family situations.
There’s a noise at the door, and Charlie comes in, grinning at my mum. I look at that smile and feel the tight muscles inside me relax. Charlie’s family might have kept our house running, but it was Charlie who saw me through. He’s lived next door to me since we came here, and it feels like I’ve always had him in my life.
I first met him when I was six and we moved into this house. I poked my head over the garden fence and found a blond boy lying completely still and spread-eagled on the grass.
“I’m Misha. Are you dead?” I hissed, displaying a strong streak of callousness.
He opened one eye. “I’m Charlie, and I’m still breathing,” he said earnestly, even then showing his special talent for blatant obviousness.
“But you’re so still.”
“Don’t you ever lie still?”
I tried to think of an occasion but then gave up. “No,” I admitted.
He smiled at me, and it filled his whole face, showing a gap in his teeth. “Come over, then, and lie down.”
I immediately clambered over the fence and found myself in a long messy garden. I flung myself next to him and looked at him. “What are we doing?” I asked.
“I read in a book that the grass whispered. I’m trying to hear it.”
We lay there for a few minutes before my dad’s voice rose up from the house.
Charlie sat up. “Is he speaking a foreign language?”
“He’s Russian,” I said in a resigned tone. “And he’s this noisy all the time,” I warned him. I looked up at his house. “Do you live with your mum and dad?”
“My dad and his boyfriend live in the upstairs flat, and my mum’s got the downstairs one with her boyfriend.” He shot me a look that contained a fair degree of trepidation and an expectation that I’d take the piss.
Instead, I considered the information and then shrugged. “That’s brilliant. Another two grown-ups to buy presents. How wicked is that?”
He smiled happily at me, and we lay back down for a few more minutes.
After a bit, he sighed. “I can’t hear anything from the grass,” he said.
“Books!” I said in a suitably disgusted voice. I paused. “Our shed’s falling down. Do you want to get some sticks and hit it until it collapses?”
His face lit up, and as he nodded eagerly, I knew I’d found a friend.
And that was it for us. He carried on reading, and I carried on trying to draw him into escapades that got progressively naughtier. I stuck up for him when kids tried to take the piss about his dad, and he smoothed the way every time we got into trouble. One look at his angelic countenance and most adults caved. We were never really apart. We walked to school and back every day, and I was over his fence and in his garden before we’d even been home for half an hour. We practically lived in each other’s houses.
I’ve always had a gift for making friends, but there’s never been anybody like Charlie for me. He eases me in some strange way and makes me happy. And we fit together and balance each other. He adds his sweetness to my salty personality, and I like to think there’s a particular snap in his humour that’s totally down to me. Men come and go—boyfriends in his case, hook-ups in mine. But at the heart of my world is him, and I hope that never changes.
I smile at him. “Where’s the housebreaking mole?” I ask.
He washes his hands at the sink. “We put him at the bottom of the garden. Poor little sod was absolutely petrified.”
“Oh no,” I say mockingly. “Oh, how I hope that he’ll recover his equilibrium and then he can go back to making those ginormous bloody holes that fuck the lawnmower up.”
“Misha,” Teddy says reprovingly as she comes into the kitchen. “Poor little mole. Don’t be mean.”
; “You look serious,” Charlie says, bending down to get a hug from my mum.
“Anya has been suspended,” I say grimly.
“Shit,” he says.
I smirk. “How very wordy and literate of you, Charlie. I can tell you’re a librarian.”
“Why was she suspended?” he asks, ignoring me.
“Climate change,” I say shortly. His eyes brighten immediately, and I shake my head as he opens his mouth to undoubtedly give me a lecture on the environment. “Don’t bother,” I say sourly. “She’ll be down soon and you can join your eco voices in harmonious concert. Just give me a chance to put my earplugs in first.”
I grab the sad-looking soft toy and put him in the centre of the table. “Okay, Peter the Puppy Dog is in position and the billionth meeting of Dad’s Do-Over is in session. Teddy, please call Anya to the table.”
She blanches and dashes off, and we sit listening to her feet thundering upstairs and the indistinct muttering of the girls’ conversation.
Dad Do-Overs are our family board meetings. My father was always very keen on them, saying he was from a country whose people were ruled harshly and he didn’t intend to conduct his family like that. They started small, but the one rule was always total honesty, and whoever held the wooden spoon had the floor and couldn’t be interrupted. When he died, we swapped the wooden spoon for Peter Puppy Dog, a soft toy he’d bought the girls, but they understood that the total honesty rule still applied.
Even now, it works. It’s what he would have expected of us and none of us want to ever disappoint him. It also serves in some small way to keep him with us.
Charlie looks at me. “Shall I wait in the lounge?”
“No,” I say quickly, grabbing his hand. “Stay.”
I see my mum shoot us a dewy sort of glance and mentally sigh. She’s been shipping Charlie and me ever since we both announced that we were gay.
“These meetings are personal,” Charlie says, looking at my mum. “Anya might not want me to hear her business.”
Mum pats him on the arm affectionately. “Stay. Anya thinks of you as a brother.”
“How lucky for you, Charlie. Maybe we could compare ulcer remedies,” I say dryly, but they ignore me as usual.