‘And you know what it is? It’s all the fault of these evil screens. Some children your age can’t even get up off the couch!’
‘How many?’ retorts Frank.
‘What?’ Mum looks at him, puzzled.
‘How many children my age can’t even get up off the couch? Because that sounds like BS to me. Did you read it in the Daily Mail?’
Mum glares at him. ‘A significant number.’
‘Like, three. Because they broke their leg.’
I can’t help giggling, and Mum shoots me a glare too.
‘You can mock me all you like,’ she says to Frank. ‘But I take my responsibility as a parent seriously. I will not let you become a couch potato. I will not let your arteries harden. I will not let you become a statistic. So come on. We’re running. We’ll start with a warm-up. Follow me.’
She starts marching, pumping her arms at the same time. I recognize the moves from her Davina exercise DVD. After a moment Frank joins in, waving his arms around and rolling his eyes comically. I have to ball a fist into my mouth to stop laughing.
‘Engage your core,’ Mum says to Frank. ‘You should do Pilates. Have you heard of an exercise called “the plank”?’
‘Give me a break,’ mutters Frank.
‘Now, stretch . . .’
As they’re bending over to stretch their hamstrings, Felix comes bouncing into the hall.
‘Yoga!’ he shouts in his joyous way. ‘I can do yoga. I can do yoga VERY FAST.’
He lies on his back and kicks his legs in the air.
‘Brilliant yoga,’ I tell him. ‘That’s very fast yoga.’
‘And STRONG yoga.’ Felix looks at me seriously. ‘I am the strongest yoga.’
‘You are the strongest yoga,’ I agree.
‘All right.’ Mum lifts her head. ‘So, Frank, we’ll take it easy today, just a nice little run . . .’
‘What about press-ups?’ Frank interrupts. ‘Shouldn’t we do some press-ups before we leave?’
‘Press-ups?’ Mum’s face falls for an instant.
I’ve seen Mum doing press-ups along with Davina’s DVD. It’s not a pretty sight. She curses and sweats and gives up after about five. ‘Well . . . yes.’ She regains her composure. ‘Good idea, Frank. We could do a couple of press-ups.’
‘How about thirty?’
‘Thirty?’ Mum looks ashen.
‘I’ll start,’ says Frank, and drops to the floor. Before I know it, he’s pumping his arms, lowering his face to the ground, and rising up rhythmically. He’s really good. I mean, really good.
Mum is staring at him as though he’s turned into an elephant.
‘Aren’t you going to join in?’ says Frank, barely pausing.
‘Right,’ says Mum, getting onto her hands and knees. She does a couple of press-ups, then stops.
‘Can’t you keep up?’ says Frank, panting. ‘Twenty-three . . . twenty-four . . .’
Mum does a few more press-ups, then stops, puffing. She’s really not enjoying this.
‘Frank, where did you learn to do those?’ she says as Frank finishes. She sounds almost cross, like he’s fooled her.
‘School,’ he says succinctly. ‘PE.’ He sits back on his knees and gives her a malicious little smile. ‘I can run too. I’m in the cross-country team.’
‘What?’ Mum looks faint. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘Shall we go?’ Frank gets to his feet. ‘Only I don’t want to turn into an obese teenage heart-attack victim.’ As they head for the door, I hear him saying, ‘Did you know that most middle-aged women don’t do enough press-ups? It was in the Daily Mail.’
Forty minutes later they pant back into the hall. I say pant. Frank’s barely broken a sweat, whereas Mum looks like she’s going to collapse. Her face is red and her hair is dripping. She clutches onto the banister for support, and breathes in and out like a traction engine.
‘How was the running?’ begins Dad, coming into the hall, and stops in alarm as he sees Mum. ‘Anne, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ manages Mum. ‘Fine. Frank did very well, in fact.’
‘Never mind Frank, what about you?’ Dad is still staring at her. ‘Anne, did you overdo it? I thought you were fit!’
‘I am fit!’ she practically yells. ‘He tricked me!’
Frank is shaking his head sadly. ‘Mum’s cardio could really do with some work,’ he says. ‘Mum, you only get one body. You need to treasure it.’
And, winking at me, he ambles off to the playroom.
I mean, Frank has a point.
But Mum has a point too. Everyone has a point.
After he went for that run with Mum, Frank spent the next ten hours playing computer games. Ten hours solid. Mum and Dad were out all day with Felix, taking him to a series of birthday parties, and they told Frank to do his homework while they were out, and Frank said ‘Yes’, and then he logged on and that was it.
Now it’s Sunday morning and Mum is at tennis and Dad is doing something in the garden and I’m watching telly in the den when Frank appears at the door.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ My dark glasses are already on and I don’t turn my head.
‘Listen, Audrey, Linus is going to be spending a lot of time at our house. I think you should get to know him. He’s on my LOC team.’
I’ve already stiffened a little at the words Linus and get to know him.
‘Why do I need to get to know him?’ I counter.
‘He feels weird coming to our house. Like, what happened the other day? When you ran away? It freaked him out a bit.’
I scowl at Frank. I don’t want to be reminded.
‘He doesn’t need to feel weird¸’ I say, wrapping my arms round my knees.
‘Well, he does. He thinks he upset you.’
‘Well, tell him. You know. About . . .’
‘I have.’
‘Well then.’
There’s silence. Frank still doesn’t look happy.
‘If Linus doesn’t want to come to our house, he might join another LOC team,’ he says. ‘And he’s really good.’
‘Who else is on the team?’ I swivel round to face Frank.
‘These two guys from school. Nick and Rameen. They play online. But Linus and I are, like, the strategists. We’re going to enter the international LOC tournament, and the qualifiers are on July the eighteenth, so we need a ton of practice. The prize pot is six million dollars.’
‘What?’ I stare up at him.
‘Seriously.’
‘You win six million dollars? Just for playing LOC?’
‘Not “just” for playing LOC,’ says Frank impatiently. ‘It’s the new spectator sport.’ He looks more animated than I’ve seen him for ages. ‘They’re holding it in Toronto and they’re building, like, this massive stadium, and everyone’s flying in. It’s big money. This is what Mum and Dad don’t get. These days, being a gamer is a career choice.’
‘Right,’ I say dubiously.
I went to a careers fair at school. I didn’t see anyone sitting at a stall under a sign, BECOME A GAMER!
‘So you need to make Linus feel comfortable here,’ Frank finishes. ‘I can’t lose him off my team.’
‘Can’t you go to his house?’
Frank shakes his head. ‘We tried. His granny’s there. She’s got some dementia thing. She won’t leave us alone. She shouts and she cries and sometimes she doesn’t know who Linus is, and she keeps taking everything out of the freezer. They, like, have to watch her all the time. Linus has to do all his homework at school.’
‘Right.’ I digest this. ‘Poor Linus. Well . . . you know. Tell him it’s all fine.’
‘He asked for your number, but . . .’ Frank shrugs.
‘Right.’
I don’t have a phone number at the moment. Just to add to the party, I’ve become phone-averse. Not phobic, just averse.
Which Frank will never understand in a million years.
He heads off and I switch over to You
’ve Been Framed. Felix comes in to watch it with me and we snuggle up on the sofa together. Felix is like a walking, talking teddy bear. He’s soft and snuggly and if you press him in the tummy he laughs, every time. His head is a curly mass of blond like a dandelion clock and his face is constantly open and hopeful. You feel like nothing must ever go wrong for him, ever.
Which is, I guess, how Mum and Dad felt about me.
‘So, how’s school, Felix?’ I say. ‘Are you still friends with Aidan?’
‘Aidan has chicken pops,’ he tells me.
‘Chicken pox?’
‘Chicken pops,’ he corrects me as though I’m an idiot. ‘Chicken pops.’
‘Oh, right.’ I nod. ‘I hope you don’t get them.’
‘I will fight the chicken pops with my sword,’ he says importantly. ‘I’m a very strong fighter.’
I take off my dark glasses and look into his round, open little face. Felix is the only one I can cope with looking at, eye to eye. My parents’ eyes – forget it. They’re full of worry and fear and too much knowledge. And kind of too much love, if that makes sense? If I look at them, it’s like it all comes flooding back over me in a gush – mingled in with their anger, which is pretty righteous. I mean, it’s not directed at me, obviously, but still. It feels toxic.
Frank’s eyes are just a little freaked out, every time he looks at me. It’s like, Help, my sister went nuts, what should I do? He doesn’t want to be freaked out, but he is. Well, of course he is. His sister hides inside and wears dark glasses – what else could he be?
But Felix’s blue eyes are as transparent and clear and soothing as a drink of water. He knows pretty much nothing except the fact that he’s Felix.
‘Hello, you,’ I say, and press my face close against his.
‘Hello, you.’ He squashes up even closer. ‘Do you want to build a snowman?’
Felix has a bit of a Frozen obsession, for which I don’t blame him. I can relate to Queen Elsa myself. Only I’m not sure I’m going to melt the ice away by some random act of love. Chip it away with an ice-pick, more like.
‘Audrey.’ I hear Frank’s voice. ‘Linus is here. He sent you this.’
My dark glasses are back on as I raise my head from Felix. Frank is holding out a folded sheet of paper.
‘Oh,’ I say, nonplussed, and take it from him. ‘OK.’
As Frank heads away, I unfold the sheet and read the unfamiliar handwriting.
Hi. Sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to freak you out.
Linus
Oh God.
I mean, oh God on so many levels. First, he thinks he freaked me out. (Which he did, but not because he’s freaky.) Second, he feels the need to apologize, which makes me feel bad. Third, what do I do now?
I think for an instant, then write underneath:
No, I’m sorry. I have this weird thing. It’s not you.
Audrey
‘Felix,’ I say. ‘Go and give this to Linus. Linus,’ I repeat as he stares at me with blank eyes. ‘Frank’s friend. Linus? The big boy?’
Felix takes the paper and looks at it carefully for a moment. Then he folds it up, puts it in his pocket and starts playing with a train.
‘Felix, go on.’ I prod him. ‘Give it to Linus.’
‘But it fits in my pocket,’ he objects. ‘It’s my pocket paper.’
‘It’s not yours. It’s a note.’
‘I want a pocket paper!’ He screws up his face to howl.
For God’s sake. In movies, they fix the note to a dog’s collar and it trots off obediently, no nonsense.
‘OK, Felix, you can have a pocket paper,’ I say in exasperation. ‘Whatever that is. Here you are.’ I rip a page out of a magazine, fold it up and stuff it in his pocket instead. ‘Now give this one to Linus. In the playroom.’
When Felix finally leaves, I have no confidence that the note will reach its destination. It’s a thousand times more likely that Felix will feed it into the waste disposal or the DVD player or just forget it exists. I turn up You’ve Been Framed and try to forget about it.
But about two minutes later, there’s Felix holding the note, saying excitedly, ‘Read it! Read the pocket paper!’
I unfold it – and Linus has added a new line. This is like a game of Consequences.
Frank explained. Must be tough for you.
I smooth the paper out on my knee and write:
It’s fine. Well, you know, not fine. It is what it is. Hope you’re winning. Btw you were a great Atticus Finch.
I send the paper off with Felix the Wonder Dog and stare ahead at the screen – but I’m not watching You’ve Been Framed at all. I’m just waiting. I haven’t done anything like this in for ever. I haven’t interacted with anyone except my safe people for . . . I don’t know. Weeks. Months. Before I know it, Felix is back, and I grab the paper from him.
Hey, thanks. Actually we’re tanking. Frank is shouting at me because I’m writing this. You are a bad influence, Audrey.
I look at the way he wrote my name. It feels intimate. It feels like he’s taken hold of a piece of me. I try to hear his voice saying the word. Audrey.
‘Draw the words,’ Felix is instructing me. He’s totally got into his role as go-between. ‘Draw the words.’ He jabs the paper. ‘Words!’
I don’t want to give this paper to Felix any more. I want to fold it up and keep it somewhere where I can look at it in private. Study his writing. Think about him forming my name with his pen. Audrey.
I grab a fresh piece of A4 from the side table where all my school supplies are stacked, and scribble on it:
Well, it’s been nice chatting or whatever.
See you.
I send it off with Felix, and half a minute later the reply comes:
See you.
I’m still holding the first paper; the one with my name on it. I press it to my face and inhale. I think I can smell his soap or shampoo or whatever.
Felix is pressing his nose to the other paper and he looks at me over the top with huge eyes.
‘Your pocket paper smells like poo,’ he says, and bursts into laughter.
Trust a four-year-old to ruin the mood.
‘Thanks, Felix.’ I ruffle his hair. ‘You’re a great messenger.’
‘Draw more words,’ he says, patting the paper. ‘More words.’
‘We’ve finished our chat,’ I say, but Felix picks up a crayon and hands it to me.
‘Make red words,’ he commands me. ‘Make “Felix”.’
I write ‘Felix’ and he gazes at it lovingly as I draw him close for another restoring cuddle.
I feel kind of exhilarated. And kind of emptied out. Which may seem like an overreaction, but then, in case you hadn’t picked it up, I am the Queen of Overreaction.
The truth is, if you don’t communicate with anyone new, ever, at all, then you lose the knack. And when you go back to it, it’s sort of draining. Dr Sarah has warned me about that. She says I should expect even the tiniest tasks or new steps to be a bit exhausting. And believe it or not, that silly little exchange of notes was.
Nice, though.
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
Camera pans towards a closed door.
AUDREY (VOICE-OVER)
So this is my dad’s study. This is where he works when he’s not at the office.
The door is pushed open by a hand. We see Dad, slumped at his desk, gently snoring. On the screen is an Alfa Romeo sports car.
AUDREY (V.O.)
Dad? Are you asleep?
Dad jumps up and hastily closes down his monitor.
DAD
I wasn’t ASLEEP. I was thinking. So, have you wrapped your present for Mum?
AUDREY (V.O.)
That’s why I’m here. Do you have any wrapping paper?
DAD
I do.
He reaches for a roll of wrapping paper and hands it to Audrey.
DAD
And look what else!
He produces a white pâtisserie box and opens it to reveal a large birthday cake. It is iced with a big ‘39’.
There is silence for a moment.
AUDREY (V.O.)
Dad, why have you put ‘thirty-nine’ on Mum’s cake?
DAD
No one’s too old for a personalized birthday cake.
(He twinkles at the camera)
I know I’m not.
AUDREY (V.O.)
But she’s not thirty-nine.
DAD
(puzzled)
Yes she is.
AUDREY (V.O.)
No she’s not.
DAD
Yes she—
He breaks off and gasps. Aghast. He looks at the cake and back at the camera.
DAD
Oh God. Will she mind? No. Of course she won’t mind. I mean, it’s one year, what’s the big deal—
AUDREY (V.O.)
Dad, she will SO mind.
Dad looks panic-stricken.
DAD
We need a new cake. How long do we have?
We hear the sound of a door banging downstairs.
MUM (OFF-SCREEN)
I’m home!
Dad looks freaked out.
DAD
Audrey, what shall I do?
AUDREY (V.O.)
We can fix it. We can change it to ‘thirty-eight’.
DAD
With what?
He picks up a Tipp-Ex pot.
AUDREY (V.O.)
No!
There’s a knocking at the door and Frank comes in.
FRANK
Mum’s home. When are we doing her birthday tea?
Dad is uncapping a Sharpie.
DAD
I’ll use this.
AUDREY (V.O.)
No! Frank, go to the kitchen. We need some writing icing or something. Anything edible you can write with. But don’t let Mum know what you’re doing.
FRANK
(baffled)
Anything edible you can write with?
DAD
Quick!
Frank disappears. The camera focuses on the cake.
AUDREY (V.O.)
How did you get her age wrong? I mean, how did you manage that?
DAD
(clutches head)
I don’t know. I’ve spent all month writing financial reports about next year. My whole mindset is next year. I guess I lost a year somewhere.
Finding Audrey Page 4