Inchworm (20 page)

I’ve been thinking about Precious and his family. If his father stays in Zimbabwe, but sends Precious’s sisters to England, they will be like me, fatherless. I think Precious is reconciled to the idea of staying here. He needs the specialist medical care he’ll get in England. He and his mother are living in West London with relatives. Maybe he could come and stay in Cornwall? We have loads of room. I’ll ask Mum.

I have been thinking about the word ‘reconcile’. I have an idea. I am going to perform reconciliation between Daddy and Mum. I saw that adoring look she gave him in hospital when he said he would look after us. And after all, it is spring.

He’s back but he’s reconciled with (or is it to?) the Snow Queen and staying at her place. However, I have a cunning plan…

I wait until
Mutti
’s in the bath. The Snow Queen answers the phone.

‘Huh, it’s you,’ she hisses, and I can see icicles dripping from her nose, blood oozing from iceberg blue eyes. ‘I’ll get Jackson.’ She spits the words like bullets. I stick my tongue out as far as it will go and put a finger to the end of my nose and waggle my fingers.

‘Gussie?’

‘Daddy, dearest darlingest Daddy.’

‘Gussiebun!’

Gussiebun. He used to call me that when I was little. Oh, it makes me feel so… so little and safe.

‘Daddy, could you do something for me, please Daddy?’

‘Anything, you know that.’ I think he’s been drinking. Good.

‘It’s Mum.’

He sighs loudly. ‘Tell.’

Mum is reading a paperback Claire left her on How to Be a Better Human Being or something.

‘Mum.’

‘Sweetheart?’ She holds me around the waist as I lean into her.

‘Mum, could you do something for me?’

‘What is it? You know I’d do anything for you.’ She kisses my head. The book is obviously having a profound effect on her. She’s on her second whisky. Good.

‘It’s Daddy.’

She sighs loudly.

‘Tell.’

‘He told me he’d like to take you out to dinner but didn’t think you’d say yes and he can’t stand the rejection and he asked me to sound you out.’

‘Sound me out!’

‘Yes, he would really love to take you out and give you a treat as you’ve had such a hard time. He wants to take you to a really lovely restaurant.’

‘Lovely restaurant?’

‘Don’t repeat my every word! It makes you sound like a moron.’ I think she’s hooked. She makes an appointment to have her hair done.

She’s taking forever getting dressed. Mimi and I are watching Channel Four News and eating at the same time. Why do they always show starving people or dead people when we do that? It makes me feel sick and guilty. I know it’s right to know about the suffering in the world, but it’s always when we’re eating. Mimi changes the programme. Mum comes in wearing black trousers, a white frilly shirt and boots.

‘What about this?’

‘Nah.’ Mimi doesn’t approve. ‘Show some leg, darl. You’ve got great legs. Show your cleavage. Know what they say? If you’ve got it…’

‘Flaunt it.’ We all say and laugh.

Daddy rings the doorbell as if he hasn’t got a key and this isn’t his place. I open the door.

Bubba’s secure in my bedroom.

‘Honeybun!’ He kisses me gently. ‘Mimi.’ He kisses her cheeks. ‘Long time no see.’ Mum comes into the room. ‘Wow! You look… Wow!’ Daddy raises his eyebrows. She wears a black low-necked lacy job with a tight skirt that reaches just above her knees and red high heels. She’s had her hair done and wears red lipstick. I’ve never seen her look so pretty. Well, not pretty exactly, but gorgeous. Younger. She’s blushing. They go off like they actually like each other.

Mimi plays Scrabble with me but she’s hopeless. Keeps spelling words as if they’re Strine (Australian). In the end we spell anyway we like, but have to pronounce the word the way we spell it and lie about its meaning. It’s a cool rule and I learn lots of Strine swear words that I can use with Brett.

‘Mimi, do you think Mum might get back together with my Daddy?’

‘I dunno, Gus. What do
you
think?’

‘I don’t see why not. He can’t possibly love the Snow Queen, can he?’

‘Is that the one who looks like she’s got ice cubes up her arse?’

I giggle. ‘Yes, she’s awful.’

‘Well, I don’t know about your father. I don’t know him well. But I know your mother is concerned first and foremost about you and your happiness, sweetheart.’

‘I’d be happy if she and Daddy were together again.’

‘Yeah, well, darl, I don’t know what she’ll do. I guess you’ve just gotta wait and see what happens. You can’t force love, you know, Guss. Your go.’

‘No, it’s yours.’

‘Oh, is it? Righto.’ She puts down
SHONKY
on a double word with the
Y
at the end of
PUN
to make
PUNY
.

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Shonky? It means underhanded or devious. Strine.’

‘Okay.’ She’s winning now and loving it. Thank goodness we aren’t playing for money.

Then she sees it. ‘Eeek! Fuckaduck! It’s a rat!’

‘It’s Bubba’s mouse,’ I tell her and find a napkin to catch it with. Bubba is stalking it, but the mouse is too quick and hides behind a radiator. I shut the frantic kitten in the bedroom and rescue the mouse. Mimi is standing on the sofa, clutching a glass of wine, her face a picture of horror.

‘Open the patio door so I can put it out,’ I tell her, and she reluctantly climbs down and opens it. I step out into the cold orange glow of night and let the mouse go onto the earth. I sniff the air and smell the lovely London night scents of diesel, dead leaves, old bricks. There are no stars, just an orange haze.

‘Come in and shut the door, for gawd’s sake, Guss, it’d freeze the balls off a croc.’

I’ll miss London and the people I’ve met when I go back home. There aren’t enough foreigners in Cornwall, except during the summer season.

‘Well that was interesting,’ Mimi says. Any more livestock to show me?’

I go to bed about ten thirty, leaving Mimi listening to music with Willy, who has appeared with a bottle of champagne.

I wait on tenterhooks (or is it tenderhooks – where does that come from?) for Mum to return. I read one of Daddy’s film-making books while Bubba purrs in my ear. When I feel myself dropping off I take off my glasses, plump my pillow and open the window. A taxi draws up, Mum gets out, pays the driver, and comes in. She’s alone. I put on my dressing gown. Laughter from the sitting room. Mimi and Willy leaving, I think. I open the door a chink and peer out.
Mutti
’s sitting alone at the table eating a chunk of cheese and has her fingers in a jar of pickled gherkins. Bubba comes out with me to see what’s what and maybe have a little supper. She likes cheese very much, but only if I give it to her with my fingers. Put it on a plate and she turns up her little black nose and runs away offended. Bubba, not Mum.

‘Well?’

‘Well what? Why aren’t you asleep?’

‘What happened?’

‘Hah! Disaster! Your father is such a… It Wasn’t the Best Evening I’ve Ever had.’

‘Wasn’t the best evening…? What happened?’

She sighs. ‘Well first of all he sets fire to the restaurant.’

‘Sets fire to the restaurant?’

‘Don’t repeat everything I say, please, Gussie, it makes you sound like a moron.’

I smack her lightly on the arm, and giggle.

‘Your father,’ (she always calls him my father when she’s angry with him) ‘passed the bread-basket Too Close to the Candle in the middle of the table and the napkin in the basket Caught Fire and bits of Flaming Paper flew all round us.’

‘Ohmygod. Is that how you hurt your thumb?’ It has a plaster around it.

‘No. I’m getting to that. I had grilled lobster. Your father said I could choose anything I wanted. Smart Restaurant, my foot! (Another foot expression for my collection.) ‘Not even linen napkins! Paper! Huh! It took me three asks to get a finger bowl. Tried to fob me off with a scented paper packet thingy. Ugh! And they hadn’t split the claws properly, and when I was trying to break one open with my hands the shell split my thumb from top to bottom.’

‘Ohmygod.’

‘Yeah, blood everywhere. Needed more than paper napkins, I can tell you. That’s not all. I went to the cloakroom to clean the cut, having told your father to get a plaster from the waitress. Twenty minutes later I was still running cold water on my cut. Gave Up Waiting. Eventually, wrapped my lacerated thumb in toilet paper and went back to the table. They Hadn’t got a First Aid Kit, Can you Believe?’

‘Isn’t that illegal?’

‘Yes. Someone had to go up the street to get a plaster from Another Restaurant. It took Forever.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Believe it. Meanwhile your father’s finished his main course, drunk most of the second bottle of My Favourite vino, is tucking into sticky toffee pudding and chatting up the Busty Blonde at the Next Table. Not the Least Bit Concerned. I could have Bled to Death down there. I wasn’t Too Happy, I can tell you.’

I could imagine Mum being Not Too Happy with Daddy.

‘And to complete a Perfect Evening with Your Father, I find I have lobster juice and garlic butter down the front of my New Frock.’ I notice her dress is wet where she has soaked it.

‘Oh dear, poor
Mutti
.’

‘I’m famished,’ she says, her hand stuck in the pickle jar.

‘Was that all?’

‘All? What do you want? World War Three? No, Actually, it wasn’t quite all. I threw the remains of the very nice Chardonnay over your father. There was hardly any in the bottle so I emptied the jug of water over him too. Huh! His face!’ She smiles smugly. ‘Don’t think he’ll be welcome there again.’

‘Want a wally, sweetie?’

Mum offers me a gherkin.

DISCREET—PRUDENT; CIRCUMSPECT; JUDICIOUS; CAUTIOUS (IN ACTION OR SPEECH)

INCORRIGIBLE—HOPELESSLY BAD OR DEPRAVED; BEYOND ANY HOPE OF REFORM OR IMPROVEMENT IN CONDUCT

MUM’S SWIGGED HALF
a carton of orange juice and is doing the Full English thing with bacon, egg, sausage, tomato and fried bread and I’m having porridge, apple-juice and a warm bread roll and honey. I give Bubba her first breakfast of real cat food from a tin and Mum has to go to the bathroom for a while. When she comes out she says she reckons the lobster must have been off and it’s poisoned her system. She does look green. She can’t face her coffee she says and takes one look at Bubba’s food and goes back to the bathroom. It seems her usual method of killing a hangover hasn’t worked. She’s yet to dose herself with sugar, though. Perhaps I’ll take her a hot chocolate in an hour or so.

Bubba is so funny with her tinned food. She acts as if I’ve insulted her. She spits at it and hisses, her back fluffed up to make herself huge (as big as a slice of chocolate cake). She backs away and shakes her head. Then she creeps towards it as if it’s an enemy, her ears back. She puts her nose to the plate and licks tentatively. She sniffs, licks, sniffs. Where’s the pilchard? What, no tomatoes? She licks again and she’s eating it. She’s a proper cat. When she’s finished she goes to the door to be let out. It’s a cold and blustery wet day, but she runs to the patch of earth at the edge of the patio and gets into a crapping position. It’s the only time a cat looks less than beautiful. We once went to the Picasso Museum in Paris. There were all sorts of wonderful paintings and sculptures and pottery there, but the thing I remember best was a life-size bronze cat having a crap. It was by a door, very discreetly placed and looked so real. I looked to see if there was a lump of bronze poo but there wasn’t. I tried to find a postcard of it in the shop but failed. I’ve never seen it in a book either.

I call her to come in and after she has dutifully scratched the earth to cover her poo she rushes in to me. The next ten minutes are spent grooming herself. She still falls over when she’s trying to clean her tummy. She’s very sweet and I do hope I can keep her. I’m sure Charlie and Rambo will love her when they get to know her. Even grumpy old Flo should be able to tolerate a little kitten on her territory.

Willy comes round to borrow some milk and I tell him about Mum’s disastrous dinner. We laugh. He looks rather pleased with himself this morning. He’s dressed in paisley patterned silk dressing gown with a yellow silk scarf tucked in at the neck. I think it’s called a cravat. He looks like a suave old Cary Grant.

‘Will you have a coffee, Willy? There’s loads left.’

‘
Danke schön
, Gussie, but no. I have a… a very special guest upstairs.’

For breakfast? I think but don’t say. I am attempting to be discreet. Mum says I speak my mind too often and should think of other people’s feelings.

‘Is your
Mutti
here?’

‘In the bathroom.’

‘Ah yes, of course. You don’t have any biscuits to spare, do you, Gussie? Croissants? I haven’t done any baking this week. No? Smoked salmon? No? Ach well, never mind. I must go back. I hope your
Mutti
is better soon. You seem to spend your time looking after her, you poor child.’ He gives a little skip on his way out.