Scratch (12 page)

‘Of course, yes. No bother.’ I headed up the stairs.

As I reached the top landing I could hear grunts, groans and
bugger
s emanating from behind the closed door of my old room.

‘Dad?’ I pushed the door open, eager to help, and heard a thud.

‘
Aah
! For Christ’s ...’

I put my head round the door to see my dad rubbing the top of his scalp, which I had just banjoed with that very same door.

‘Shit, sorry. Do you need a hand?’

‘I need an ambulance with you around, and watch your language in front of your mother!’

‘Eh, okay.’ I didn’t bother pointing out Mum was downstairs and well out of earshot.

‘Don’t stand there like a loon, grab an end.’

I hurried to the far end of the computer desk, which he had been manipulating towards the door when I brained him. ‘Got it,’ I said, gripping under the lip of the desktop.

‘Don’t lift it from the top; it’s too ... oh for
Christ’s sake
, Jim!’

My end of the beech desktop rose easily when I pulled up. Unfortunately the rest of the desk remained on the floor. ‘Shit!’ I crouched and tried to line up the wooden dowels and those weird Ikea screw things back into their holes.

‘It’ll sit back in no bother, it’ll be fine,’ I said.

‘Leave it!’ My dad all but pushed me out of the way as he bent down to survey the damage. ‘Needs some wood glue.’ He left the room without another word and I heard him thump down the stairs. A couple of seconds later I heard the back door slam as he headed for the shed.

‘
Leave it, I need a bloody ambulance, mind your bloody language in front of your mum, don’t lift it from the top, loon!
’ I’m not sure what voice I was doing – something high-pitched and sarcastic – but it felt good even if didn’t sound anything like my dad. ‘Maybe if you’d spent more than a tenner on the desk it wouldn’t fall apart.’ I had stopped the bad impersonation and was just talking to myself now, but that felt good too. ‘And Mum’s down the bloody fucking stairs, isn’t she? She can’t fucking hear a bloody fucking thing, can she fucking now? Fuck prick fuck prick fuck prick, see?
She can’t hear me!
Daft old
ba
—’

‘Jim?’

I nearly shat myself. I turned to see my mum standing in the doorway. ‘Eh ...
hiya
.’ I felt like I had serious sunburn on my entire head.

‘Are you all right?’

 
‘Eh, I’m fine, yeah, sorry. I broke the desk. And hit dad on the head. With the door. Quite hard, I think.’

Mum nodded a few times. ‘You can be, yes.’

‘Did you, eh, hear ...?’

She nodded again. Now it felt like sunstroke. ‘So,’ she began, choosing her words carefully. ‘You’ve been here less than ten minutes and you’re already so angry at your dad that you’re standing up here swearing away to yourself like an
ASBO’d
eight year-old, and the reason you’re angry is that
you
broke
his
desk and gave him a head injury. Have I got that right?’

I’ve always hated logic. Spock was a smug bastard if you ask me. I tried a smile. The puppy dog look stopped working on my mum when I was about three.

She shook her head; slowly, this time. ‘Welcome home, Jim.’

***

I managed to stay out of my dad’s way until dinner time. His computer now sat atop its desk in the corner of the already cramped dining room. I tried to avoid its accusing stare as my mum brought out our food.

‘Thanks, Mum, looks great.’

‘It looks like chicken and oven chips, but thank you.’ She smiled as she sat down.

‘Cheers, love,’ Dad said, digging in.

‘How was your night on Friday?’ Mum asked a few minutes later when the silence began to get awkward.

‘Oh, it was a good laugh. They gave me a smoking jacket.’

‘Why?’ Mum asked.

‘Terry thought it would be funny.’

‘Was it?’

‘Not especially, no.’

My dad kept eating throughout this exchange and we re-joined him in silent consumption for another five minutes or so. Eventually, I felt obliged to re-open proceedings.

‘You’ll never guess who turned up.’

‘Who?’ Mum again, Dad still hadn’t raised his eyes from his plate.

‘Paula Fraser.’

‘Paula? My goodness, how is she?’ Mum sounded excited and Dad looked up, eyebrows high. Paula had that effect on pretty much everyone. She met my parents less than a dozen times but they had both adored her. I doubt they could even tell you the names of any girl I’d gone out with since.

‘Yeah, she’s okay. She was asking for you both.’

‘Is she back up from London, then?’ My dad asked.

‘How long is she here for?’ Mum asked.

‘What’s she up to now?’ Dad asked.

‘She was lovely,’ Mum said.

‘You missed the boat, there,’ Dad said.

‘Is she single?’ Mum asked.

‘Unlikely,’ Dad said.

Fuck off
, I thought. ‘She’s married and on the verge of bankruptcy. She moved to Germany but it didn’t work out. She’s back staying with her mum and dad.’
See, I’m not the only failure on the planet, hah!

‘She’s married?’ asked Mum.

‘She moved to Germany? It takes courage to broaden your horizons like that,’ said Dad.

‘What does her husband do?’ asked Mum.

‘Brave girl, good for her,’ said Dad.

Peeved
. That’s the polite word for what I was feeling, right then. ‘He’s a teacher, she’s a teacher,’ I said, with more vehemence than was perhaps warranted. ‘They started a school and messed it up, and now they’re back here with nothing. Actually, he’s not even here yet, because his
grandad’s
sick and he doesn’t want to leave him.’ I managed to avoid adding
nyaa-nyaa-nyaa-nyaa-nyaa
.

‘Aw, God love her, the poor wee lassie,’ Mum said. ‘Is she coping okay?’

‘Sounds like her man’s got a principled head on his shoulders,’ my dad said. ‘Got to admire that.’

‘What’s his name?’ Mum.

‘Any kids yet?’ Dad.

‘Opening a school, that’s wonderful. She always was a clever one.’ Mum, again.

‘Now that is brave, starting a business abroad. Good for them.’ Dad, again.

Screaming would have been inappropriate, so I just sulked and ate the remains of my dinner. ‘She’s coping fine,’ I said finally, forcing my frustration down along with the last mouthful of (frankly overcooked) chicken. ‘Seemed pretty happy, actually.’ Happened to be true, sadly.

‘That’s a relief,’ Mum said. ‘What are her plans now, then?’

‘She’s got a job at Glasgow Uni. as a German language lecturer.’

‘Oh, that’s excellent.’

‘What about ...’ Dad began.

‘English teacher at
Holyrood
,’ I said, resigned to what I knew was likely to follow.

‘He’s not even in the country yet and he’s already got a job lined up? That’s impressive.’ He waited for me to comment. I didn’t bother. It had to come up eventually, after all. ‘And here’s you ...’ Dad went on.

‘I’m starting a new job on Tuesday,’ I interrupted. That shut them up. For about two seconds.

‘Where?’ Mum said, failing to hide her excitement.

‘Oh thank
fu
...
hrgmm
.’ My dad faked a cough and glanced at Mum. ‘Thank-s
fu
-for,’ he said very deliberately, ‘doing ... that. Jim.’ I didn’t smirk as he continued. ‘Good news, very good news. Good on you. Jim. So, what’s the job?’ He smiled, bless.

‘Bet you can’t guess,’ I said, for no obvious reason.

Mum looked worried. ‘Do you want us to?’

‘Not really, no,’ I admitted. It wasn’t as though I was about to surprise them with news of my sudden appointment as CEO of the Adult Children You Can Finally Be Proud Of Conglomerate, so flippancy was almost certainly unwise.

‘I’m going to be a barman again. In The Basement. Again.’

I gave the puppy-dog look another go, more for old-time’s sake and a desire to bid it a fond farewell than any hope of it doing any good. The silence at the start of the meal hadn’t exactly been comfortable, but it was only silence. What spread throughout the room, the house and, possibly, the country now was no mere absence of sound.
This
silence spoke volumes; it
shouted
volumes, and none of it anything I wanted to hear.

I probably could have looked them in the eye, but I wasn’t about to.

At my last visit two weeks previously I had decided to hit them with all my news at once, to get it over with. Simon would have been proud of me.
I’ve handed in my notice and sold the flat
was a rough approximation of what I said.

Eh, why?
(or words to that effect) they had responded.

Because I’ve decided I don’t like my life and want to have another go
, was the gist of my answer.

Are you a fucking moron?
(I’m paraphrasing) came their considered reply.

I don’t think so, no
, I countered, defending my corner.

You are, you’re a fucking moron
(not paraphrasing so much on that one).

Imagine the above exchange lasting an hour-and-a-half, with a fair amount of repetition, a liberal use of glowering and looks aghast, and no sense of resolution whatsoever.

I had, understandably I feel, skipped the next Sunday’s visit, to give both sides an opportunity to reflect. I didn’t just not show up, I’m not a coward. I phoned my mum and explained I had sprained my ankle and couldn’t make it over. Then, as I was on the line anyway and there being no point in wasting free weekend talk-time, I asked if I could move back in.

And here I was. The really loud silence lasted a really long time, and I was running out of places to look that didn’t contain my parents. I was contemplating getting up and leaving, though I’d no idea where I’d go, when my mum finally spoke.

‘I hope the wages have gone up a bit since last time.’ She was, through gritted teeth, attempting to lighten the mood. God love her.

‘Hey!’ I joined her valiant quest. ‘Minimum wage is over a fiver an hour now!’

And that was the end of that. Mum’s fake and feeble smile became a very genuine grimace and Dad’s head moved from side to side, his eyes on the table.

‘Sixty,’ Dad said, head still down.

I had no clue what he was talking about. He was sixty-two.

‘I was thinking maybe seventy,’ Mum said. She was fifty-nine, so I was no less confused.

‘Good for you.’ Dad looked up and smiled at my mum. ‘Seventy it is.’