by Simon Bourke
“Here they are! Here they are!” shrieked Nana as the car pulled into the drive.
Jonathan, still sulking, feigned indifference but followed her to the door nonetheless. Some of his mates were outside playing football, so he hung by the doorway in case they saw him in his ridiculous green jumper.
“Come and see your sister, Jonathan,” said his mum, getting out of the car.
“I’m all right here,” he mumbled sadly, listening to the thwack of the ball as another goal was scored.
He could see her from where he was, anyway. She was in the back seat in a pink baby chair, a girl’s one, not like the red one he’d had. Even from here she looked tiny. Malcolm opened the car door, carefully lifted out the chair and there was his sister: a bald little baby with drool spilling out of her mouth. Jonathan doubted she’d seen a cartoon in her entire life. He watched solemnly from the door while the three adults made a tremendous fuss over the baby, feeling terribly alone and neglected. They didn’t care about him anymore. From now on he would have to be a big boy; there would be no more cuddles and kisses for him. Malcolm carried her into the house and they all followed him, Jonathan trailing at the rear.
They placed her on the sofa, still in her baby seat, so that everyone could get a proper look.
“Come on, Jonathan, meet your sister,” his mother urged.
Reluctantly he stepped forward. As he sized her up he felt a sudden desire to knock the seat over and topple his sister out, so that she’d fall to the floor and hurt herself. They would have to bring her back and that would be the end of that. It would be just him and his parents again; no sisters and no big boys.
Instead he approached the little baby and peered at her inquisitively. “She’s very small.”
“Yes, Jonathan. She’s just a baby, only eight months old.”
“She won’t be able to play football with me, will she?”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid Jonathan.”
“Hide and seek?” he ventured.
“Maybe hiding, but not seeking.”
“War?”
“I’m not sure that even you should be playing War, Jonathan.”
“Okay, Mum,” he said, studying the baby.
Gently he moved his hand to her face. It looked so soft. Before he could touch her, she grabbed his index finger with her little fist and began to squeeze it.
Jonathan’s mouth opened, astonished. He turned to his mother to make sure she was seeing this, and then to his father and his nana too.
“Look,” he whispered, afraid he might break the spell and the moment would pass. “She’s grabbing me.”
“I see, Jonathan; isn’t she clever?” Malcolm whispered, leaning in beside him.
“She’s really strong,” he said as the infant continued to squeeze.
Jonathan stared at his sister in admiration, watching her as she moved his finger towards her mouth. He looked at his mother for reassurance. How was this going to end? Exactly what was this child capable of? Then she popped his finger inside her mouth and began to suck on it.
“Ooh, that feels funny,” he giggled.
“She’s teething,” said Margaret by way of explanation.
Jonathan had no idea what this meant but it felt funny, in a nice way.
“Can I have my finger back now, please?” he asked.
The child continued sucking, her eyes locked on her big brother.
“Please?” he asked, before gently extricating his finger from her mouth and examining it to make sure it was still intact.
“Ah, isn’t that nice,” said his grandmother, barging her way to the front, anxious to bond with her newest grandchild.
Jonathan moved to one side and stood beside his father while the two women henpecked the baby. He looked up at Malcolm and smiled knowingly, and then back at the baby, who, despite being fawned over by her mother and grandmother, still stared out at him.
They’d barely had time to settle her in before the guests started arriving – some wanted, some not. Mrs. Clegg from next door hadn’t been invited to the party; Jonathan knew that for a fact. Here she was, though, as bold as brass, tickling his sister and telling her she was ‘the loveliest thing she’d ever seen.’ She obviously hadn’t been here when they’d brought him home. At least she hadn’t brought her kids with her. Jonathan played with the Cleggs when he had no one else to play with, but he didn’t really like them. They always wanted to borrow his toys and never offered to give him any of theirs. If they’d been here now they’d be eating all the party food, the food he’d been watching all day: his food. There was no way he was letting the Cleggs eat the Rocky Road, no way. But they were in their back garden, playing; Jonathan could hear them. There they were, playing away, totally oblivious to what was going on next door. Pretty soon his cousins would arrive and then the party would start in earnest. They’d stuff their faces with cake and head out into his back garden to play games of their own. Philip Clegg would stick his big, stupid face over the fence and ask, “Hey, Jonathan, what’s going on? Can we come in to play with you lot?”
And he’d simply smirk, and reply: “Nah, Philip, we’re having our own game. See ya later.” That’d serve him right for borrowing his A-Team van and not giving it back.
But right now he was still the only child here, apart from his sister, of course. His other nana had arrived, Nana Philliskirk, with his granddad, his only one. Jonathan didn’t like his granddad. One time he had grabbed his ear and twisted it so hard Jonathan had cried out in pain, and from then on he had a deep mistrust of him. He couldn’t remember why his granddad had twisted his ear, but it had hurt and he’d been scared. His granddad was a bad man, and Jonathan did his best to avoid him whenever he visited. On the other hand, Nana Philliskirk was nice; not as nice as his Nana Grimes, but still nice. She gave him pound coins sometimes, silently slipping them into his hand, winking slyly at him and then walking away. After the first time she’d done it, he made a point of standing near her whenever they visited in case there were more pound coins to be had. This presented a problem, because he was simultaneously trying to avoid his granddad. They were always together; if one was here so was the other and once they arrived they stood, or sat, side by side, with barely a couple of feet between them until they left. Over time, though, he’d learned that the pound coins usually came out when they were leaving, so he kept his distance until he saw his granddad looking at his watch. This meant they were going soon, so from that point on he stood near Nana Philliskirk, making sure his hands were free to receive whatever came their way.
No one would be leaving this party for a long time yet, so he was content to give them both a wide berth for the time being. He was more interested in showing everyone the new tricks he and his sister had learned: the finger-grabbing one and the finger-sucking one. But any time he tried to get near her she was escorted off into someone else’s arms, and he was left helplessly moving from one group to another, no one giving him the slightest bit of attention. It was incredibly unfair. She was his sister after all, and he’d only had five minutes with her.
“Mum, I want to show them the tricks,” he whined, but as soon as he complained he had aunties chastising him for being naughty and telling him to be a good boy for his new sister. He was getting sick of this ‘good boy’, ‘big boy’ nonsense now. When he’d woken up this morning he’d just been Jonathan Philliskirk, aged seven likes cartoons and having fun. Now all of a sudden he was Mr. Big Brother, Mr. Good Boy. You couldn’t change that fast, and he wasn’t going to change; no way. He didn’t care what they said. He was going to stay the same, no matter how often they told him to be a good boy and a big brother.
He was starting to get fed up of this party too. But then, with perfect timing, the first two cousins arrived: Paul and Susie. Paul was eleven and loved dinosaurs. Jonathan had visited his house once and Paul had showed him his dinosaur collection. I
t was very impressive, but Paul was a bit boring; he talked funny and never listened to what Jonathan had to say. Jonathan preferred Susie to Paul. She was eight and really, really naughty; naughtier than Jonathan at his very worst. He loved playing with Susie. She came up with brilliant ideas for games and didn’t care if she got into trouble. And because she didn’t care, Jonathan didn’t either. It was never as bad getting into trouble when there were two of you. The last time Susie had been here, they’d got into massive trouble for making mud pies and flinging them at one another in the house. Even when his mum was yelling at them and promising to take all his toys away forever he didn’t mind, because Susie was there and she was taking half the blame. And it was really all her fault, anyway, because it had been her idea to make the mud pies, to throw them at one another and then to take the battle into the kitchen.
“Hi, Paul. Hi, Susie,” he said to his cousins when they came in. “I got a new sister; she’s over there.”
“She’s cute,” said Susie without a hint of sincerity. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she has one,” replied Jonathan.
“That’s stupid,” said Paul. “Everyone has a name, even a baby.”
“I don’t think babies this new have names,” Jonathan ventured hopefully.
He actually had no idea why the baby hadn’t a name. Maybe if he’d been given time to talk to his mum, he could have asked her about it.
“They do,” continued Paul. “And anyway, that’s not a new baby.”
Paul was already being a pain.
“She is so,” Jonathan replied defensively.
“No, she’s not. She’s nearly a year old.”
“That’s cos she’s adopted, Paul,” Jonathan said.
He couldn’t believe that someone aged eleven didn’t know about adoption.
“I know,” chimed Paul. “And you’re adopted too.”
“So?” Jonathan countered.
“So that means your mum and dad aren’t your real mum and dad.”
“They are too my real mum and dad.”
“No, they’re not. You were abandoned as a baby and they got you ‘cos your real mum didn’t want you.”
Paul smiled contentedly as Jonathan struggled for a response. Paul’s version differed from the one his parents had told him. Where was the bit about being chosen from hundreds of other babies? Worse than that was his tone. He was mocking Jonathan and his new sister. He seemed to think being adopted was something to be ashamed of.
“Shut up, Paul,” he said crossly and stormed off.
Susie hurried after him, leaving her brother to find someone else to upset.
“Wait, Jonathan,” she shouted, weaving her way through the chattering adults. “Wait for me!”
Jonathan ignored her, running out into the back garden away from his cousins, away from them all. He wanted to be alone for a few minutes. But she had seen him, and she knew where Jonathan’s hiding-place was; he had shown it to her last summer. She crept quietly out onto the freshly-cut lawn. Aunt Margaret’s garden was much bigger than hers. It had a pond, and lots of trees and bushes perfect for hiding in; but only one of them contained her cousin. It was a tall, fluffy one which looked perfectly innocent from the outside but turned into a mystical hideout once you pushed away a few branches and stepped inside. She and Jonathan had spent hours hiding in there during that long hot summer, and no one had known where they were. Then, when they were sure no one was looking, they’d sneaked out and walked into the house as if nothing had happened.
Jonathan’s mum had been shocked. “Where have you two been?” she’d asked.
They’d said nothing, just giggled impishly and headed inside to watch Thundercats.
“Jonathan,” she whispered. “Are you in there?”
“No! Go away.”
“Can I come in, Jonathan, please?”
“No.”
“Come on, Jonathan. We can hide again. They won’t know where we are.”
There was no response. She was about to go back inside when Jonathan spoke again.
“Come in, then,” he said rapidly. “But don’t let Paul see you.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth when she was inside beside him. It wasn’t the same as last time, though. She’d got wet forcing herself past the leaves, and the hideout was damp and uninviting. Jonathan had found a dry spot and he sat there glumly, not even bothering to look at her.
“Jonathan, there’s nowhere to sit; the ground is all wet.”
“Sit here,” he said dispassionately, brushing away some of the dirt to reveal a drier patch beneath.
“Oh, thanks. You’re so clever, Jonathan.”
“Well, it is my hideout.”
They sat in silence for a while. It wasn’t as much fun as last time. Susie wished she’d brought some crisps.
“I hate your brother,” Jonathan said after a spell, and, just to confirm who he meant: “Paul. I hate him.”
“’Cos of what he said?”
“Yeah.”
“I hate him too,” Susie conceded.
“Why?” Jonathan asked, glad to have someone who shared his grievances.
“He’s always mean to me.”
“He is mean,” Jonathan agreed. “I don’t like him.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being adopted,” said Susie.
“Isn’t there?” Jonathan asked.
“No. My mum said that you and your sister are an absolute blessing to Auntie Margaret.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Jonathan mused on this for a minute.
“Your mum knows much more about it than Paul, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, loads more,” said Susie.
“Paul is a fool, isn’t he?”
“A big fool,” she nodded in firm agreement.
Jonathan brightened up. Susie’s mum was right: he was a blessing, and so was his sister.
“Let’s go in and steal some food and bring it out here,” he said, getting to his feet. Susie smiled. That was more like it.
But when they got inside people were already eating. Half the plates had been brought into the living-room and everyone was tucking in with reckless abandon. Jonathan panicked; if the Rocky Road was all gone, there’d be trouble. He scanned the room. No one was eating the sandwiches – hardly surprising, they were rubbish – but the buns had taken a sizeable hit. The biscuits, the cake, the sausage rolls, all that other good stuff was being decimated, but he couldn’t see the Rocky Road anywhere. They couldn’t have eaten it all, not this fast. He spotted his mother, for once not surrounded by interfering adults.
“Mum!” he said, running up to her and lowering his voice. “The Rocky Road?”
Margaret smiled at him and raised a finger to her lips.
“Where are they?” he whispered. “Are they all gone?”
She shook her head. “They’re in the fridge,” she mouthed. “I was keeping them for you.”
Jonathan grinned; good old Mum. “Can I get them?”
Margaret nodded and took him by the hand. Away from prying eyes they went to the fridge, and from deep inside she extracted a plate full of Jonathan’s most favourite thing in the world.
“Why don’t you and Susie go upstairs and eat these between you?”
“Really, Mum?” he said.
“Yes. Quickly now before someone sees you and wants some.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. Waving frantically at his cousin, he scampered up the stairs and went straight to his room. Seconds later Susie came in, eyes wild with curiosity.
“Look what I’ve got,” Jonathan said, revealing the plate full of thick slices of Rocky Road.
“Oh, my God,” said Susie, clasping her hands to her chest.
They sat on the f
loor, took a piece each and began to eat.
“Mmm,” said Jonathan.
“Mmm,” replied Susie.
They grinned at each other, teeth thick with chocolate, and took another piece. Jonathan had already done the maths; there were thirteen pieces, which meant that one of them would get seven and the other six. He intended to be the one who got seven. By the end of his third piece, however, he was already starting to feel full. The rich chocolate and marshmallow combination sat heavily in his stomach. He felt a little queasy, but it tasted so good. He couldn’t stop eating. Susie was suffering too; after her fourth piece she declared herself full, lying flat on the floor, panting like a dog. Jonathan really wanted to stop too, but every time he decided he’d had enough he went back for another bite, just one more little bite. Eventually he had to admit defeat and joined his cousin on the floor to recuperate.
“So yummy,” said Susie dreamily.
“I know,” Jonathan replied in a daze.
A sudden cramp in his stomach caused him to flinch. He felt like farting but was afraid of what might come out.
“Ooh,” he moaned as the pain increased. “I’m really full; I think I’ve had too many.”
“Can never have too many,” whispered Susie reverentially.
“Maybe if I have some more the pain will go away.”
“Get me one if you’re having one,” Susie mumbled.
Jonathan sat up and immediately wished he hadn’t. His guts were rumbling ominously.
“Just going to the toilet,” he croaked as he crept to the bathroom.
Inside, he perched himself on the toilet and relaxed. A cacophony of squeaks, rasps, toots and parps rang around the Philliskirk bathroom. To anyone listening outside it would have sounded as if a brass band was being put through its paces by a frantic conductor. Jonathan groaned and moaned as half his body weight passed through his system. He paused for breath. Was it over? His stomach certainly felt better. But then another deluge, and even more this time. He winced as his bowels continued to empty, the splish-splash of the water causing him to giggle despite the pain. By the time it finally came to a halt he was crumpled in pain, rocking back and forth, his hands pressed to his aching stomach. He waited a few minutes in case there was more, but that seemed to be it. He’d probably never have to poo again.