by Sarah Webb
I hear a noise in the hall: stumbling footsteps. Must be Denis using the loo. Then I hear a loud belch. Gross! Opening the door, I look down the corridor to see Denis slapping at the wall below the bathroom light switch.
“Denis,” I hiss, “what are you doing? You’ll wake the babies.”
“Have to turn it off. Mum says switch off lights and save the planet.” His voice sounds odd.
I stare at him more closely. There’s a sticky red rash at the corner of his mouth. I stare at it. It looks lumpy and disgusting. “Have you just been sick?”
“Don’t tell Mum,” Denis says. I’ve washed the gunge from round his mouth and made him drink a glass of water.
He’s lying in bed now, the lilac duvet pulled up to his chin. A plump tear runs down his cheek and lands on the pillow. I start to feel sorry for him. He’s a big mess.
He admitted sneaking downstairs to steal a whole bag of mini KitKats, a giant bag of tortilla chips, half a white sliced pan loaf and a large box of Coco Pops from the kitchen. He ate it all, except for a third of the box of Coco Pops, and then hid the evidence under Brains’s bed.
“Why did you eat all that food?” I ask, sitting on the bed. I want to wipe away his tears, but something stops me. “No wonder you were sick.”
His lips turn down and his chin starts to wobble.
“Denis, talk to me.”
“But you hate me,” he sobs. “Everyone hates me. Even my mum and dad hate me.”
I’m shocked. He sounds so unhappy.
“No, they don’t,” I say. “They may not like what you do sometimes, but I’m pretty sure they love you.”
He snorts. “They fight about me all the time. They think I can’t hear them, but I can. They’re always going on about my weight and stuff. I’m worried they’ll get a divorce and it’ll be all my fault.”
My stomach flips. My parents used argue all the time too and think I couldn’t hear them. They’d close the kitchen door tightly and then start taking verbal lumps out of each other. And I could hear everything. Everything. The same accusations, over and over.
Tears prick my eyes. Poor Denis. No kid should have to listen to their parents arguing.
“All parents fight sometimes,” I say gently. “It doesn’t mean they’re going to get a divorce – they seem pretty solid to me. And they talk about you because they love you and are trying to help you.”
Denis burbs.
I watch him for a moment, hoping he won’t get sick again. “You OK?” I ask.
He nods. “Just feel a bit funny.”
“That’s normal after getting sick. And, Denis, if you keep on binge eating like that, you’ll get even bigger.”
He presses his lips together, just like Prue.
“I’m sorry, Denis, but it’s the truth.”
He’s silent for a bit, then says, “Don’t tell Mum about me getting sick. Promise?”
I think about this. He must be pretty miserable to shove all that food into himself. Dry white bread isn’t even that tasty. I know Prue would have a fit if I told her what he’s been up to, and Denis would probably never speak to me again. Strange though it may sound, I want him to feel he can talk to someone.
“OK, I promise,” I say. “But you have to stop eating so much. Eat more at dinner if you’re hungry.” Great, now I sound like my mother.
I obviously sound like Prue, too, because he clamps one hand over his eyes and rocks from side to side. “Go ’way. Go ’way. Go ’way.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
He lashes out at me with his other arm and I jump backwards, frightened. “OK, OK, I’m going.”
Jeez, he’s one mixed-up kid.
Chapter 17
Clover drives Gramps to his date with Esther on Thursday evening. Brains and I are tagging along for the ride and to spy on Gramps, of course. It’s not often you get to check out a sixty-five-year-old on a date.
“You guys OK back there?” Clover asks us. Gramps is in the front, and Brains and I are squashed into the back of her Mini Cooper, like hippos in aeroplane seats. I’m surviving, but Brains’s long legs are rammed against the back of Clover’s seat.
“Comfy is as comfy does,” Brains says.
I grin. I have no idea what he’s talking about half the time, but he makes me laugh so much it doesn’t really matter.
“Do you think she’ll like the chocolates?” Gramps asks. He’s gripping a scarlet box with a gold bow in his shaking hands. He keeps flipping the sun visor down and looking at his teeth in the small rectangular mirror.
“She’ll love them,” Clover assures him.
Gramps goes silent and stares out of the window, probably lost in thought about his first love, Esther. But hang on, he’s not staring out of the window at all, he’s blowing on it and sniffing the air.
“Gramps, your breath is fine,” Clover says. “Quit worrying. It’s not as if you’re going to be … wait a sec, you’re not going to snog Esther in front of us, are you? You’ll damage Amy for ever! And what if your false teeth get locked together?”
“I don’t have false teeth!” Gramps snorts indignantly. “And we’re not going to snog, Clover. Please! And watch your language around Esther. She’s a lady.”
“Snog isn’t a bad word, Gramps,” I say. “It just means kiss. With tongues.”
“Amy Green!” Gramps sounds shocked. “What do you know about kissing with tongues?”
Clover giggles and I just stare down at my hands. Oops.
“Don’t answer that,” Gramps says. “In my day, thirteen-year-olds—”
“Walked to school in bare feet through the snow and ate coal,” Clover says, her voice warbling as though she’s ancient. “Them were the bad ol’ days all right. No electricity, donkeys instead of cars and no telly.”
“No telly?” Brains pipes up. “Were you very poor, Mr Wildgust?”
Gramps laughs. “Len, please. No one had a telly when I was growing up, Brains. They only started selling them in the nineteen-fifties and they cost the same amount as a small car. Mona and I got our first black and white set in the early seventies, when Sylvie was little. She used to love The Flower Pot Men and Larry the Lamb. Simple days.”
“Somebody stop him,” Clover quips, “or he’ll start waxing lyrical about the day he met the Beatles.”
“You met the Beatles?” Brains is all ears. “No way, man.”
Clover shakes her head discouragingly, but it’s too late – Gramps is in his stride.
“Oh, I did, Brains, I did. It was back in nineteen-sixty-three in the Gresham Hotel. The Beatles were visiting Dublin to appear on The Showband Show and I was working at RTÉ at the time as a broadcast assistant.”
I zone out. I’ve heard the story so many times I could parrot it. “Met” is a bit of an exaggeration, although he did exchange a few words with Ringo Starr, the drummer, about the rubbish Irish weather while he was adjusting his microphone.
Seth likes the Beatles too. I miss him so much. Neither of our mobiles roams abroad and it feels unnatural, being cut off from him like this. I keep thinking of things I want to tell him and can’t. By the time I get round to sitting down to email him, the moment has passed or I’ve forgotten what I wanted to say. And I still haven’t written him that letter.
I wonder what he’s up to right now. Not stuck in a car with two deranged music fans gibbering on like monkeys, that’s for sure.
* * *
When we arrive at Esther’s house, Martie is just getting into her car. She looks a little worried. “Ah, the Dublin gang,” she says, walking over to us, Dante at her heels. “Don’t suppose you know any good bands? I’m at my wits’ end.” She runs her hands through her short hair, making it stick up like the top of a pineapple. “I urgently need one for Saturday night. Ours has double-booked.” She shakes her head. “It was supposed to be the highlight of regatta week.”
Clover and I both look at Brains.
He’s way ahead of us. “The Golden Lions, at your servi
ce” – he grins, puts his hand on his chest and bows grandly – “playing whatever your heart desires. From the Beatles to U2 and back again.” He breaks into the chorus of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”, complete with Elvis hip wiggles and a couple of “Hey baby”s thrown in for good measure.
From the expression on her face, I think Martie’s more shocked than impressed.
“They’re very good,” Clover reassures her. “They really get the crowd going.”
“And are you available on Saturday night?” Martie asks Brains.
“For you, purdy lady, I sure am.” He winks and doffs an imaginary hat.
Martie smiles. “In that case, crisis over. I think we’ve found our band.” She takes Brains’s details and saves them into her mobile, then turns to Gramps and winks. “Enjoy your date, Mr Wildgust. Esther is all ready for you.” She looks around at the rest of us. “Are you all going?”
“Na,” Clover says, “we’re just Gramps’s chauffeurs. We’ll be back for lover-boy later.”
Clover lied. She’s determined to stick around and spy on Gramps, so after leaving him outside Esther’s house, she drives down the rickety road and parks the car in the entrance to a field. Brains says he’ll stay put and ring the other Golden Lions. “Invasion of the old dude’s privacy. And I need to sort out this jiggy-jig gig.”
“You just want a nap, don’t you?” Clover laughs. “You’re the Mayor of Lazytown.”
Brains puts his seat back and settles into it, purring like a cat.
We walk back to Esther’s. Her cottage looks ancient with its mottled whitewashed walls, old-fashioned wooden front door in two bits and garden path made of dark slate set into the mossy grass. There’s a fast-flowing river at the back of the house and a tyre hangs from a nearby tree, dangling over the water. It must be fun to swing on it and drop into the swirling river below.
We creep round the house, looking in the small, high windows. Nothing. Then we see a conservatory running along the back wall. And inside, sitting at a round metal table, a string of white fairy lights above them, are Gramps and Esther, looking pretty cosy.
We press our backs against the wall, but they haven’t spotted us. They’re too busy laughing and smiling at each other.
“Looks like it’s going well,” Clover says in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the happy couple.
I nod as Gramps takes Esther’s hand and gives it a kiss. Yuck!
“Let’s go,” I whisper. I don’t feel comfortable spying on them.
Just then Esther says something and Gramps stands up. He reaches up to the fairy lights, then hollers “Ow!” and whips his hand away.
I jump, Clover squeals and we both run back round the house and down the lane.
“Why did you scream?” I ask her breathlessly when we stop at the car.
“You stood on my foot.” She reaches down and squeezes her toes. They do look a bit red.
“Well, if you must wear flip-flops on James Bond missions…”
Brains zips down the window. “What’s up, Jelly Bean?” he asks me. “The golden oldies snogging yet?”
“No. I think Gramps got stung or something. Then we ran away.”
He chuckles. “You’d never cut it as Charlie’s Angels, girls. Let’s vamoose.”
Ten minutes later Clover’s mobile rings.
It’s Gramps.
“You have to rescue me,” he hisses wildly over the speaker phone. “I’ve locked myself in the loo and I daren’t come out. Esther’s crazier than crazy golf. She’s trying to kill me!”
Chapter 18
As we drive up the lane, Esther’s dogs growl and bark at us. They’re Alsatians and the size of small horses. We beep three times and Gramps rushes out of the house. His face is clown red and there are big muddy paw prints on his best cream cords.
Esther appears smirking in the doorway and folds her arms across her chest. “And don’t come back!” she yells as he clambers into the car.
“You OK, Gramps?” Clover asks.
“Just drive. Quick!” he says frantically. One of the Alsatians leaps up at his window, barking and smearing the glass with its paws. Gramps jumps in his seat. “Get me away from this place!”
As Clover powers down the bumpy drive, Gramps begins to fill us in on what happened. “As soon as I walked in the door, Esther lurched against me and spilt elderberry wine all down the front of my trousers.” He winces. ”I looked like I’d wet myself. And it gets worse. I went into the conservatory, where we were eating, and there was a dead rat on my chair. It was just sitting there, staring at me!”
Brains and I make gagging noises.
Clover says, “You’re a pair of big girl’s blouses. Rats can’t hurt you when they’re dead. Continue, Gramps.”
“It gets far worse,” he says. “Next, I got electrocuted.”
“What?” I ask.
“Man, this is getting so weird,” Brain adds.
“It’s true!” Gramps says. “The fairy lights weren’t working and Esther asked me to try and fix them, but as soon as I touched the wire… POW! I thought my arm was going to fall off! It went all numb and then all tingly. She was lucky she didn’t give me a heart attack.”
“Surely she apologized,” Clover says.
Gramps shakes his head. “No, she just muttered something about finally getting what I deserved. I’m telling you, she’s completely barking.”
“Why didn’t you just leave, Gramps?” I ask.
“I thought about it, but I was hungry and Esther always was a great little cook.”
Clover laughs. “So you decided to brave it out until you’d been fed.”
“Well, yes. Terrible idea. She dumped my steak in my lap! Just like that. And then her blooming dogs started to attack me, trying to get at the meat. It was terrifying! And all Esther did was throw back her head and cackle like a witch. ‘That’ll teach you, Len Wildgust,’ she said. ‘You won’t forget me now, will you!’”
“Maybe she was trying to kill you,” Clover murmurs.
Gramps gives a loud harrumph. “Course she was; that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Well, I’d had enough then, so I ran into the hall, locked myself in the loo and rang you.”
“And we saved you.” Clover grins. “I do like a good rescue.”
I sit back in my seat. When it comes to odd behaviour, it just goes to show, age means nada. You’d have thought Esther would have forgotten all about being stood up – but oh no, even after forty years she’s still bearing a grudge the size of a small continent. But you have to hand it to her: for an old lady, she’s full of new tricks.
When we get back to Haven House, Gramps goes straight upstairs to change his trousers. “Not a word to Sylvie about any of this, understand?” he says firmly. “Or to any of the others.”
“What’s it worth?” Clover says.
He just glares at her and storms off.
Brains and Clover go upstairs to work on the Golden Lions’ playlist for regatta night. At least, that’s what they say they’re up to, but I think they just want some time alone. They haven’t snogged all day. Brains kept swatting Clover away and nodding in my direction. He’s too sweet. But judging by the way she grabbed his arm and frog-marched him up the stairs I’d say she’s having kissing withdrawal symptoms.
I walk into the kitchen and catch Prue swigging out of a wine bottle. Prue! I nearly faint. I give a cough and she swings round, spitting red wine all down her white top.
“For heaven’s sake, Amy,” she says. “Why are you sneaking around like that? You gave me a start.”
I stare at her. She’s wearing a pair of cut-off denim shorts that barely cover her bum, a vest with spaghetti straps and white wedge sandals. She’s not wearing a bra, and her large breasts are pressing against the cotton, firm and perky like Barbie’s. I’m impressed. Why does she hide them under those prim shirts all the time?
She hiccups.
“Are you OK, Prue?”
“Never better,
” she says, lurching to the left and steadying herself on the kitchen counter. “What are you up to, Amy?” She hiccups again. Her breath smells fruity and her tongue is blood red.
“Just getting a Coke. See ya.” I leave her to it and walk into the pantry to grab a can. I hear someone walk into the kitchen.
“There you are, Prue.” It’s Dan. “Are you coming back inside?” he goes on. “We’re just about to start Scrabble.”
“Scrabble?” Prue laughs a little manically. “Scrabble?! Can’t we do something more exciting? How about strip poker? Or spin the bottle? Do you think Dave would be up for it? I’d say it’s right up Sylvie’s street.”
Is this really Prue? Intrigued, I spy on them through the crack between the pantry door and the wall.
“Prue!” Dan says, sounding shocked. He pulls the wine bottle rather roughly out of her hand. “Haven’t you had enough? Why don’t you go for a nice lie-down? Or a walk.” He cups a hand under her elbow and tries to steer her out of the kitchen.
Prue is having none of it; staggering a little, she pulls her elbow out of his hand. “Don’t want a walk. Want to have fun. Why don’t we have fun any more, Big Bear?” She snuggles up to him. “Let’s go skinny-dipping, just the two of us. It’d be romantic.” She gives a fruity burp.
I press my hand over my mouth, and try not to laugh.
“It’s cold outside, Prue,” Dan says, struggling to hold her up.
“Not that cold!” she squeals, peeling off her vest.
I screw my eyes tightly closed. But it’s too late; I’ve already seen her boobs. What an eyeful! That’s what you get for spying.
Chapter 19
We arrive at Mary Ann’s bar in Castletownshend just after eight on Saturday night.
It’s a warm evening and people are spilling out on to the street, standing under the fluttering bunting, chatting and laughing.
Prue and Dan kindly offered to stay at home to mind Evie and Alex with their own brood. After the other night Dan’s probably afraid to let Prue near alcohol. She was back to her ironed jeans and buttoned-up shirt uniform on Friday morning and has been in a very grumpy mood ever since. Everyone has steered well clear of her.