Boys Don't Cry (12 page)

‘What’s going on?’ Dad asked wearily.

‘I was just coming to get you,’ I admitted. The words came out almost slurred, I was so tired. ‘I need your help, Dad. Emma won’t stop crying. It’s doing my head in.’

‘Is she hungry?’

‘No. I tried warming up some milk but she didn’t want it. And her nappy is dry and I’ve checked her cot in case something in it was making her uncomfortable, but it’s fine. Why is she constantly crying?’

‘Dante, your daughter can’t speak yet, so how else is she supposed to let you know that something is wrong?’

‘Dad, you’re missing the point. How on earth am I supposed to know what’s wrong with her then. I’m not telepathic.’

‘No, you’re missing the point,’ said Dad. ‘You don’t need to be telepathic, you just have to listen to her and respond. Your mum told me that you and your brother used to have different cries when you wanted different things.
Jenny said both of you had a higher-pitched wail when you were hungry and a more whiney low-pitched cry when your nappy needed changing. Maybe it’s a woman thing or a mum thing ’cause I could never hear the difference.’

Dammit. The last thing I needed at two bloody thirty in the morning was a stroll down memory lane.

‘How does that help? I still don’t know what’s wrong with her,’ I snapped.

‘What I did instead, as I didn’t have your mum’s expert ears, was check everything. I’d check your nappy, I’d try feeding you, I’d make sure you weren’t too hot or too cold or too thirsty. Dante, you have to work by a process of elimination.’

‘But that takes up more time,’ I protested.

‘And you’re in a rush to do what exactly?’ asked Dad, eyebrows raised.

‘Sleep,’ I said plaintively. At that moment I would’ve paid hard cash to be able to get some sleep.

‘Well, unless you want to be marching up and down with Emma all night, I suggest you try to find out what’s wrong with her,’ said Dad. ‘Pass her here.’

Gladly. I handed Emma over to him, my tired arms flopping to my sides. I watched as Dad placed a hand on Emma’s forehead and then her cheeks.

‘Hmmm . . .’

‘What? Is she OK?’ I asked, suddenly and inexplicably anxious.

‘Well, she’s slightly hot and she’s dribbling like a water feature,’ said Dad. ‘Emma, sweet pea, I’m just going to look at your gums.’

Using the side of his index finger, Dad moved first Emma’s top lip then her bottom lip out of the way.

‘Does she need a doctor?’ I asked. ‘Should I call out a doctor?’

‘No need. She’s teething,’ said Dad. He handed Emma back to me. ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’ And he disappeared out of my room. He came back waving a tube of teething gel in his hand and grinning. ‘Aren’t you glad I did all that shopping?’

Glad? At that moment I just wanted to bow down and worship at his sweaty feet.

‘Sit with her in your lap and then you can apply some of this to her gums.’

‘Is it safe?’ I asked.

Dad regarded me, distinctly unimpressed. ‘I did check first, Dante. I have done this once or twice before.’

‘OK. No need to jump down my throat,’ I mumbled.

‘It’s safe for children over two months,’ Dad informed me. ‘Are your fingers clean?’

‘Of course.’ I frowned.

Dad squeezed some gel onto my index finger and watched as I applied it as gently as I could to Emma’s gum where her two bottom teeth were beginning to show. Emma was chomping on my finger as I applied it but it didn’t hurt. I guess she was as keen as I was to stop her gums from hurting.

Dad waited with me for another five minutes, until Emma settled down and finally fell asleep. Moving like a zombie I placed Emma in her cot, covering her up to her
waist with her baby blanket. Then I fell onto my own bed, too tired to do anything else.

‘Night, son.’ I was only vaguely aware of Dad pulling my duvet up around my body.

‘Night, Dad.’ I muttered.

And I was out for the count.

‘Come on, Emma, just a few more mouthfuls,’ I pleaded.

Each of my eyelids felt like they were made of solid lead as I struggled to keep them open.

‘Open up, Emma,’ I said, waving the spoon around in front of her firmly closed lips. ‘Here comes the airplane!’

But she wasn’t having it and I couldn’t say I blamed her. She was probably just as tired as I was, but if she didn’t eat now, the whole day’s feeding schedule would be history. I knew I was supposed to be flexible about these things with a young kid, but flexibility and tiredness didn’t really go together. And it felt like I had only just closed my eyes to sleep before it was morning and time to open them again.

‘Come on, Emma. Please eat some more of this yummy banana porridge.’ I leaned forward and opened my mouth to show her how it should be done.

Emma reached out and her tiny fingers touched my cheek. I froze. We watched each other intently. Emma stroked my cheek and smiled. That’s all it was, a smile. Slowly I drew away, feeling strange and not sure why.

I finally finished feeding Emma her breakfast and she was now drinking juice out of her non-spill toddler tumbler. I reckoned I had about one minute – two, if I was lucky – to wolf down my bowl of wheat flakes and a
couple of mugs of coffee before she started agitating to be let out of her highchair.

Emma loved to explore and at the moment, of all the rooms in the house, the kitchen was her favourite. I looked around the room doubtfully. Two days ago it had been just a kitchen. Yes, the floor had been a little sticky and the work surfaces had needed a bit of a wipe, but it had been perfectly functional and I’d never given it a first thought, never mind a second one. Now it was a deathtrap, with hidden dangers lurking at every lethally sharp corner and in every perilous cupboard. I’d already used every antibacterial wipe we had in the house on cleaning the floor, the cupboard handles and all the work surfaces. The kitchen hadn’t looked this good in years. Only then had I let Emma crawl around whilst I made her breakfast, but I must’ve broken some speed records a dozen times already to pull Emma away from potential dangers. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet and I felt like I’d run a half-marathon. I was bloody knackered.

Adam entered the room, spinning round to leave the moment he caught sight of me. But too late. I was on my feet in a second.

‘Adam, what happened to your mouth?’

‘Nothing.’ Adam paused before heading back into the kitchen. ‘Morning, Emma.’ He smiled at her, only to wince, his hand flying to his mouth. His top lip was swollen and his bottom lip was split, red and angry-looking.

‘“Nothing” doesn’t cut your lip.’ I frowned. ‘What happened?’

‘I fell over.’

‘And landed on your face?’

‘It was an accident,’ said Adam. ‘And I’ll live, so leave it alone. Besides, why should you care?’

‘Huh? Of course I care. You’re my brother.’

‘When it suits you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

No answer.

‘What is your problem?’ I asked, exasperated.

‘You didn’t exactly leap to my defence last night,’ said Adam, his voice edged with resentment.

‘I did, actually,’ I replied, knowing instantly what he was talking about. ‘I told Josh not to talk to you like that. That’s my job.’

My attempt at a joke failed miserably. Adam regarded me, stony-faced.

‘Wait a minute, did Josh do that to you?’ I asked.

‘I’ve already told you, I fell over.’

I scrutinized my brother but he looked me right in the eye and didn’t look away. If Josh had been responsible for splitting his lip, my brother would tell me.

Wouldn’t he . . . ?

‘What would you do if Josh
had
done this?’ asked Adam, pointing to his lip.

‘I don’t know, but I would do something.’

‘Against Josh?’

‘Against Wolverine himself,’ I assured him. ‘No one does that to my brother.’

Adam smiled faintly. ‘Well, you don’t need to take on Wolverine – or Josh. Though I’ll never understand why
you hang around with that loser. For a start, he’s got a face like prosciutto ham stretched over a toad.’

I burst out laughing. ‘D’you mind? He’s my mate.’

‘Why?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why are you friends with him? And that Logan is even worse. Why d’you let Josh get away with saying and doing whatever he wants?’

‘Like what?’What was Adam driving at?

‘Never mind.’ Adam sighed.

But I did mind.

OK, sometimes Josh came out with things that made me . . . cringe, but he didn’t mean them, not really. Besides, when I first started at Mayfield Manor Secondary, I was a weed. Yeah, I admit it. Reluctantly. And like sharks sensing blood in the water, a couple of boys in the year above started focusing their attention on me. Little-big things like knocking my books out of my hands, pulling my bag off my shoulder and using it as a football, stuff like that. Well, it was Josh who stood by my side and stood up to them.

‘You don’t want to do that,’ Josh told them. ‘I mean, you
really
don’t want to do that.’

And there must’ve been something in the way he said it because they backed down and backed off and never troubled me after that. And from that day Josh and I had started hanging out together. He didn’t like the books I read, the films I watched, the music I listened to, but that was OK ’cause I learned to like his.

‘He’s my mate,’ I said again.

‘Dante, you only see what you want to see,’ sighed Adam. ‘That’s always been your trouble.’

‘Oh yeah? So tell me what it is you think I’m missing.’

Adam looked at me but didn’t reply. My eyes narrowed.

‘Did something happen at the Bar Belle after I left last night?’ I asked.

‘Nothing happened,’ Adam said faintly, turning away from me.

He was hiding something. I could always tell when he was hiding something.

‘Adam?’

Adam turned to me and smiled. ‘Stop fussing. You worry too much.’

Probably true. After Mum died, it seemed like stressing over Adam had passed to me instead, which kind of sucked with a cherry on top.

‘So did your friends turn up at the BB?’ I asked.

‘Yeah – eventually.’

‘Who?’

‘Anne-cubed.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Roxanne, Leanne and Diane.’ Adam smiled. ‘So everyone calls them Anne-cubed.’

‘A name you created, no doubt?’

‘Of course,’ preened Adam.

Naturally.

Why were most of Adam’s closest friends girls?

‘So what did you do?’ I asked.

‘Had a laugh mostly.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Films and fit actors we all fancy, mostly.’

‘Bloody hell, Adam.’

‘What? I’m going to be an actor so I need to keep up-to-date with all things theatrical,’ said Adam. ‘And don’t swear in front of your daughter.’

A quick glance at Emma established that she wasn’t paying attention to our conversation, but I’d have to watch that in future.

‘Weren’t there any guys in your group last night?’ I asked.

‘Nah. Dylan and Zach didn’t turn up, which was fine by me. It was just me and three girls hanging on my every word.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I scoffed.

‘It’s true. It was my chance to shine,’ grinned Adam.

Oh my God.

‘Why can’t you be more like . . . ?’

‘You?’

‘Other guys,’ I said.

‘I’m a leader, not a follower,’ Adam informed me loftily. ‘Unlike some I could mention.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I’m not afraid to be different.’

‘Different is going to get your arse kicked.’

‘Not with you to look out for me,’ smiled Adam. ‘And watch your language – sewer-mouth.’

If Emma hadn’t been present, he would’ve been treated to a full-blown, five-act, sewer-mouth extravaganza.

‘Have you decided what you’re going to do about your place at university?’ Adam asked before tucking into his
yoghurt mixed with oatmeal and grapes (very good for the skin apparently).

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Not yet.’

‘Waiting for divine inspiration?’

‘No. Waiting for the postman,’ I replied.

‘Pardon?’

‘Never mind.’ I wasn’t prepared to tell Adam or Dad about taking a DNA test. Not yet. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think I was trying to get out of something.

Dad rolled into the kitchen, scratching his bum and yawning, his boxers slung low on his hips. Thank God I’d already had my breakfast.

‘Dad, d’you mind?’ I asked, putting my hand in front of Emma’s eyes.

‘Setting up your granddaughter for years of therapy there, Dad,’ said Adam.

‘Oh. I’ll be right back,’ said Dad. He was already turning when he finally took in Adam’s face. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

‘I tripped and fell,’ said Adam.

Dad frowned. ‘Don’t your bloody eyes work?’

‘Dad, d’you mind not swearing in front of Emma, please?’ I said. ‘I don’t want her to inherit your potty-mouth.’

‘Cheeky bugger.’

‘Dad!’

‘OK, OK. Sorry, Emma. And Adam, be more careful.’ Dad muttered to himself all the way back up the stairs. Adam and I exchanged a smile. Emma pulled down my hand and giggled.

Dad returned wearing the dark green dressing gown I’d bought him for his birthday about three years ago. I’d seen him in it precisely twice, the day I gave it to him and today. ‘Happy now?’ he asked as he entered the kitchen.

‘I’m sure Emma is.’ I spoke for her.

‘Hello, angel.’ Dad headed straight over to Emma and lifted her out of her highchair. He raised her high above his head, beaming up at her. ‘How is my precious?’

‘You sound like Gollum,’ laughed Adam.

‘Your uncle is a cheeky sod. Oh, yes he is. Oh, yes he is,’ said Dad.

‘Dad, not in front of Emma, please,’ I sighed.

‘Sorry. Your grandad is very sorry, Emma. Damn! Grandad! I still can’t get used to how that word makes me feel so bloody old.’

‘Dad!’ Adam and I said in unison.

‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ said Dad ruefully. ‘Emma, you’re such a good baby, aren’t you? Aren’t you a good baby?’

‘Good baby? You do remember that I was up most of last night with her, don’t you?’ I said sourly.

Dad turned to me. ‘Dante, count yourself lucky that she’s not a newborn. Newborn babies wake up about every two hours throughout the night, wanting to be fed. At least, you guys did. You see these wrinkles around my eyes? They’re thanks to you two.’