by Simon Bourke
“Flippin ‘eck,” he muttered as he cleaned himself up and flushed the foul load far, far away.
As he washed his hands, he wondered if he should have some more Rocky Road. He didn’t feel sick anymore, so why not pick up where he’d left off?
“Susie, I hope you haven’t ...”
He stopped in his tracks. Paul was sitting there on his bed, bold as brass, and on his lap was the plate of Rocky Roads – what was left of them.
“What are you doing here?” Jonathan asked angrily.
“Having some Rocky Road. Auntie Margaret said I could.”
“No, she didn’t,” Jonathan said, sure that his mother would never betray him like that.
“She did,” said Paul, reaching for another helping. There were only three pieces left now.
“Get your hands off! They’re mine; mine and Susie’s.”
“I don’t want anymore,” sighed Susie from the floor.
“She doesn’t want them, Jonathan. Which means more for me,” Paul smiled.
This was too much. First Paul had come into his house and told Jonathan his mum wasn’t his real mum; now he’d gate-crashed his room and started eating his Rocky Roads. Who did this guy think he was? The worst cousin in the entire world, that’s who.
“Get your hands off them or you’ll be in trouble,” Jonathan warned.
“Yeah right, what will you do?”
This was a good question. Jonathan had only ever been in two fights; one with a boy the same age as himself and one with a girl two years older. He’d won both fights easily, but that was neither here nor there. Paul was eleven and represented a much greater challenge. He was skinny, though, and quite puny for his age, plus he wore glasses. All kids who wore glasses were weak. He was eleven, though. In the end, the decision was made for Jonathan. Sensing trouble, Paul chose to wave a white flag and give up the Rocky Roads.
“Here, take them,” he said haughtily. “They’re not that nice anyway.”
Jonathan snatched the plate from his hands. Not that nice? How come he’d eaten two pieces, then?
“Get out,” he said as Paul rose to leave.
“I’m going, I’m going, Jonathan,” he jeered.
Jonathan watched him go, waiting for him to leave before resuming his assault on the Rocky Roads. As Paul left the room he stuck his head back inside, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, Jonathan?”
“What?”
“Your mum isn’t your real mum.”
Jonathan carefully placed the plate on the floor, calmly, like a waiter presenting an expensive main-course, and then went for his cousin. But Paul was a step ahead; he’d been expecting this. He raced down the stairs away from Jonathan’s clutches.
“Mum, Mum!” he shouted as the younger boy tore after him. “Jonathan’s trying to kill me!”
Paul rushed to his mother and hid behind her. Seconds later Jonathan came tumbling into the room, teeth gritted, eyes ablaze.
“JONATHAN!” his mother said as her son darted after his prey. “Stop that right now, do you hear!”
But he wasn’t listening. He stood in front of his Aunt Cath with his fists clenched, waiting for Paul to come out of hiding.
“Now what’s all this about?” Margaret asked, moving to his side.
Her sister-in-law, Cath, wholly unperturbed by the commotion, remained locked in conversation with one of the other guests while her son hid in her skirts.
“He said you’re not my real mum, and my real mum didn’t want me,” Jonathan said, jabbing his finger at Paul.
A few people had been drawn to the kerfuffle, among them Jonathan’s favourite uncle, Tony.
“He said what, Jonathan?”
The sound of Tony’s voice momentarily shook Jonathan from his fury. He looked up at him and, buoyed by his presence, made a grab at Paul. But the older boy skilfully evaded his clutches, sneaking to the other side of his mother while Jonathan clawed at thin air.
“He – he –” Jonathan started, so angry he’d begun to hyperventilate. His breath came in ragged, short bursts as he struggled to contain his emotions. Realising he was about to cry, and not wanting to act like a baby in front of his uncle Tony, he ran out of the room, but not before delivering one final message to his cowardly cousin.
“SHE IS MY REAL MUM, AND YOU’RE JUST A STUPID IDIOT!”
He was out the back door and in his hiding-place before anyone could catch him. And there he sat, knees pulled to his chest, crying his heart out, until his uncle Tony stuck his head in through the foliage.
“Room for one more, pal?”
Jonathan looked at him curiously. Adults weren’t really supposed to be in here, but then Tony wasn’t like the other adults. He was cool. He always played games with him while everyone else sat inside drinking beer and talking rubbish.
“Okay,” he said softly.
Tony huddled up beside him; he was a bit too big to sit down properly so he crouched, leaning his back on the tree’s trunk for support.
“Nice little place you’ve got here, Jonathan.”
“Thanks, Uncle Tony.”
“Not as good as the place me and your dad had when we were your age.”
“No?”
“We had a tree house, a proper one with a ladder and everything.”
“A tree house?”
“Yep, it was ace. Maybe we could build one for you some day.”
“I would love that.”
“We’ll have to see if you’ve got any trees big enough first, though.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jonathan said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Will we check now? We could start building one!”
“Later, okay, mate?”
“Okay, Uncle Tony.”
The two of them sat in silence for a while. It was getting dark outside, and darker still in their little hideout. They could hear the sounds of the party from the house, muffled voices and the occasional laugh, a fine time being had by all.
“Some party, eh?” Tony said.
“Mmm,” replied Jonathan sadly.
“Jack and Chloe are inside, if you want to play with them.”
“Maybe later.” Jonathan had had enough of cousins for one day.
“And Paul,” Tony said with what Jonathan presumed was a smirk.
“I’m never playing with him again,” Jonathan said firmly.
“Don’t blame you, mate. He’s a little shit, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Jonathan laughed. Uncle Tony really was the best.
“What were you two fighting about?”
Jonathan didn’t reply. He just wanted to forget about the whole thing. He wanted this party to be over, he wanted his sister to go back to the hospital and he wanted everyone to stop telling him he was a big boy.
“He’s lying, Jonathan. You know that, don’t you?”
Jonathan sighed deeply. He didn’t know what to think. His head felt funny. He didn’t like being adopted anymore, not if people were going to make fun of him for it.
“She is my real mum,” he whispered, as much to himself as Tony.
“Of course she is, Jonathan, and she loves you very much.”
“Why am I adopted?” he asked, turning to face his uncle.
“Because you’re special, Jonathan. Your mum and dad couldn’t have a baby so God gave them you.”
This was the third explanation Jonathan had been given: first he’d been chosen, then he’d been given away and now he was being handed down from the heavens. They couldn’t all be telling the truth, could they?
“And the new baby?” he asked.
“The same,” Tony replied.
“Is she really my sister, then?”
“Yes, she is. She’s part of your family now: your mum, your dad, you and your sister.”
“Our family,” Jonathan said. He liked the sound of that.
“Yes,” Tony said.
“My real mum, my real dad and my real sister.”
“Exactly.”
“And you, my real uncle.”
Tony laughed and put his arm around the boy. “You bet, pal, my favourite nephew and all.”
Jonathan snuggled up beside him, delighted with his new accolade. They stayed like that for some time, listening to the party but feeling no urge to join it until eventually Tony’s knees started cramping up and he suggested they go inside.
“Where have you two been?” asked Malcolm as they came in the back door. “We’re just about to toast the new arrival.”
Toast? At night-time? Jonathan didn’t see why not, although he would have preferred the rest of the Rocky Road.
But when they went into the living-room there was no sign of any toast; just the same stupid grown-ups with glasses in their hands. His parents stood at the head of the room, waiting to address their nearest and dearest.
“We’d just like to thank everyone for coming,” began Malcolm. “It’s been a big day for us, and we’re grateful you’re all here to share it. Unfortunately, the little one has had to retire for the night, but she sends her best wishes too.”
Everyone laughed.
“If she provides us with half the happiness that Jonathan ... Where is he? Jonathan? Come up here, son.”
Jonathan obliged, his face reddening as all the women went aww and said how handsome he was.
“Here he is,” said Malcolm. “My little man, my best little man. How do you feel about having a sister, Jonathan?” he asked, playing to the crowd.
“I didn’t even get to show anyone our trick,” Jonathan replied glumly.
“What trick? You have a trick already?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’ll show me tomorrow, eh?”
“Okay.”
“Where was I?” Malcolm faltered, the extra couple of lagers and the excitement of the day catching up with him. Margaret whispered something into his ear and he nodded enthusiastically, before continuing.
“We want to toast the latest addition to the Philliskirk family, but before we do we should tell you what we’ve decided to call her.”
Excited murmurs spread throughout the twenty people crammed into the living-room. Every time someone had asked the new parents about a name, they’d been met with stony silence.
“To Sophie,” cried Margaret abruptly – she’d never liked standing on ceremony.
“Bloody hell, Marge, talk about stealing my thunder!” Malcolm complained.
But then, seeing that everyone had raised their glasses, he did likewise.
“To Sophie,” they repeated in unison.
Jonathan looked around the room at the drunken adults, all smiling and clinking their glasses. Why did they look so happy? Sophie was a rubbish name.
4
Jonathan watched his mum change his sister’s nappy. It was by far the most horrific thing he had ever seen.
“Mum, that’s disgusting! She’s disgusting!”
Margaret looked at him in amusement. “Yours was worse, you know.”
He shook his head dismissively.
“Yeah, right, Mum! She’s minging; I was never like that.”
“You were, though,” Margaret continued.
He refused to believe this; nothing could stink as badly as Sophie’s arse. It was worse than the time Nana Grimes had fallen asleep after Christmas dinner and spent the entire evening farting. Jonathan had guffawed in delight until the smell hit him and made him feel sick; he’d had to stop eating his selection box after just three bars. It was that bad. He loved Nana Grimes, though. He didn’t love Sophie’s arse, or Sophie for that matter. He knew he should have pressed for a brother when he’d had the chance.
“Explain it to me again, Mum. How can she be my real sister?”
“Jonathan, we’ve been over this,” Margaret replied, exasperated.
“I know, but I’ve forgotten.”
She looked down at him; he was just seeking reassurance, she knew that, but it was growing tiresome. All morning she’d been explaining to him how she was his real mum, how Malcolm was his real dad and how Sophie was now his real sister. She could have killed Paul, and had told Cath not to bring him over again. But there would be other Pauls; this was only the beginning. Kids could be cruel and Jonathan would have to deal with a lot in the coming years. His sister would too. They hadn’t asked to be different but here they were, already being singled out by their peers.
She finished changing Sophie and set her down in her walker. The toddler immediately set off on another aimless adventure, charging forward, not a hint of concern for her wellbeing. Jonathan whooped with glee and began following her, the two of them laughing as they went. Real sister or not, she was a decent playmate.
Margaret sat down for the first time that day and watched her two children run around in circles. Usually her days were spent devising ways to entertain Jonathan, ways to tire him out and keep him quiet; but now Sophie was taking care of that for her. If only she’d known, she would have got a second child much earlier. The next step would be training her to make the tea while she rested her weary bones. She could certainly have done with a cuppa right now. She had a hangover. A bad one. It had been after two when they’d got to bed, and the few hours’ sleep she’d got were broken up by the cries of her new daughter. Sophie Philliskirk, it appeared, didn’t do sleep. She’d been on the go all morning, and her poor mother was well and truly knackered. Margaret allowed herself to rest her eyes a moment. She would just close them for a bit, it helped with the headache ...
She awoke with a start, cursing herself for nodding off. The children were nowhere to be seen. Sophie’s walker lay empty in the middle of the room. The house was eerily quiet. Panic set in. What had she done?
“JONATHAN!” she shouted and waited for a response.
But the house remained silent. She rushed upstairs into his bedroom. It was completely empty. She checked under the beds, in the wardrobes, all his usual hiding-places: nothing. Sophie’s room was pristine, as it had been when she’d left it. Their own room, the master bedroom, showed some signs of disturbance however. Some of Malcolm’s clothes had been thrown on the floor, mainly his shirts, though nothing appeared to be missing. Her underwear drawer had also been tampered with; various bits of lingerie lay scattered around the room. She felt sick. Had some weirdo been in here? Had he gone through all her stuff before taking her children? An image flashed through her mind of herself and Malcolm facing the media, tearful and guilt-ridden.
“MOTHER WHO FELL ASLEEP BEGS FOR HELP IN LOCATING HER CHILDREN.”
“SUSPECT, A CROSS-DRESSING CHILD-SNATCHER, CONSIDERED HIGHLY DANGEROUS.”
She stifled a sob and looked around in dismay. Everything she had dreamed of, everything she valued, lost because of a hangover.
As she glanced around something in the garden caught in her eye. A huge bay window overlooked their back garden and on bright, sunny mornings like this you couldn’t help but be taken by its grassy magnificence. It wasn’t that which caught her attention, though, but the sight of two little, she struggled for the word ... soldiers? Out there in the garden, shuffling through the grass, was a boy dressed head to toe in the camouflage fatigues she’d bought him for Christmas, and a little girl, much smaller, dressed in what appeared to be a man’s shirt and a bra. The bra was draped over her head, presumably in lieu of a helmet and matched both the colour of the grass and the shirt, which covered her entire body. Margaret choked back her tears and moved closer to the window. If she hadn’t just seen her whole life flash before her she might have found the scene amusing, but as it was she just wanted to make sure these were her children and not a pair of pint-sized terrorists on a highly sensitive mission. Yes, it was them
alright: General Philliskirk and his willing accomplice, Sergeant Sophie the Brave.
She hurried down the stairs to the back door.
“JONATHAN!”
Jonathan looked up at the source of the voice, shook his head irritably and held a finger to his lips, motioning her to be silent. Margaret was in no mood to be silent; she ran towards them and picked up the smaller of the two assassins from the wet grass. Malcolm’s olive green shirt hung limply from Sophie’s body, the shape of her legs barely visible beneath. The matching bra had been drawn across the front of her face so that one cup covered her head and the other her chin. Jonathan looked up accusingly at his mother as his game was brought to an abrupt halt.
“MUM! We were nearly there!”
“Where, Jonathan? Where?” she asked in spite of herself.
“The house, Mum! We were planning an assault.”
She dragged him up by his arm. He was soaking wet; they both were.
“Get in,” she said quietly, pointing to the house.
Jonathan obeyed her command with no little haste. On the way in he thought about crying; but soldiers didn’t cry, they took their punishment, and they took it with dignity.
Sometime later, after they’d been bathed and changed into dry clothes, Margaret sat Jonathan down for a one-to-one talk.
“Jonathan,” she began, “what did I tell you about playing games with Sophie?”
“Play lots of games?” he replied hopefully.
“No, you know I didn’t say that. Now, what did I say?” She remained calm, but what she dearly wanted to do was to grab him by the shoulders and shake him till he understood.
“No football and no war,” he mumbled sadly.