The Dr Pepper Prophecies (9 page)

Cynthia nods slowly. 'I can do that,' she says, sounding more confident already. 'I’ll…I
’ll go straight home and…watch
The Weakest Link
.'

Not exactly the first thing that sprang to my mind.

'That’s…a start,' I say, not quite clear on the reasoning behind it.

'Mother always said that game shows encourage gambling,' Cynthia explains.

I can’t see
The Weakest Link
encouraging gambling.  Feelings of intellectual inadequacy yes, but not gambling.

'What else?' I ask, taking a sip of my drink.

Cynthia did look as if she was drowning.  Now I think she’s starting to fight her way to the shore. 'I’ll…get fish and chips and eat them out of the newspaper,' she says, starting to smile properly. 'I’ll read one of those trashy magazines, like…
Woman’s Weekly
.  I’ll…use tea bags instead of tea leaves.  I’ll buy supermarket bread instead of making my own.  I won’t vacuum this week.  I’ll…I’ll throw out that horrible cat ornament.  In fact,' she says, now grinning broadly, 'I’ll smash it to pieces like I always wanted to.'

I’m suddenly feeling very good about my life.

'Fabulous,' I say. 'A new start, a new life.  Starting right now.  In fact, I think you should take the day off tomorrow.  Call in sick.  I’ll even tell Martin for you.  You can have a three-day weekend to do whatever you want.'

It’s like releasing an animal back into the wild.  She’s hovering round the gate, trying to get back into her enclosure.

'I don’t know,' Cynthia says doubtfully. 'Three whole days…'

'I’ll tell you what,' I say, rummaging in my bag for a pen and a bit of paper. 'I’ll give you my phone number and address in case you need a confidence boost.  In fact, me and some of my friends are having a picnic on Sunday, either in the park or on the carpet, depending on the weather.  You should come.  My flatmate is the greatest cook.'

It’s amazing how much nicer Cynthia looks when she smiles.

'I might do,' she says shyly. 'I’ll see how I’m doing by Sunday.  I’ll try and follow your advice.'

'Do,' I say, 'and have a great time.'

Forget Martin, forget my family, forget my crappy job.  Today I made a difference in someone’s life.

And, as soon as I send off the advert I wrote, I’ll make a difference in Beth’s too.

I can’t wait!

I posted the adverts to the newspaper as soon as Cynthia went off to revel in the rebellious feelings associated with wearing shoes in the house.  For once Beth was home when I got there, which made it incredibly hard not to tell her what I’d done.

'It was just plain weird,' I say, between mouthfuls of chicken curry. 'I’ve been sitting opposite her for eighteen months without even being able to remember her last name.  She was just like part of the furniture.  And all of a sudden it was like I’d been sucked into
Beauty and the Beast
– the wardrobe started talking to me.'

I take another mouthful. 'God, this is fantastic,' I say, closing my eyes for a second and savouring the taste. 'Your best ever.  Is there more?  Are you going to finish that?'

Beth is sitting across from me, absent-mindedly stirring her curry with her spoon and staring at it, like it’s trying to hypnotise her.  It takes quite a few more mouthfuls before she registers that I’ve stopped talking and looks up.

'Hmmm?' she says. 'I’m sorry, did you say something?'

'I just wanted to know if you’re going to eat your curry or just make whirlpools all day,' I say, staring at her. 'What’s the matter?  You never play with your food.'

'Oh, nothing,' Beth says.  She seems to be saying that a lot lately. 'I’m just tired.  I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening properly.'

I shrug and grab another piece of bread.  I dip it into my curry while I get back to where I was before.

'Anyway, it’s really made me think about families,' I say. 'How important they are.  I’ve decided that I’m going to go down there on Saturday and I’m going to remember,' I spear a lump of chicken with my fork, 'that they could be a hell of a lot worse and I’d better learn to appreciate them while they’re here.  Family bonds are sacred…and, more importantly, they’re permanent.'

'You should,' Beth says in a funny voice.  I look up and realise to my amazement that she’s got tears in her eyes. 'You should.  Or you’ll regret it later.  It’s hard enough to know that they’re alive in the world and you can’t tell them how much you care.  It must be worse still when you know they’re gone and there’s no hope anymore.'

I so shouldn’t have started this subject.  One of the few things Beth has told me is that her father moved to Australia after her parents got divorced.  She hardly ever sees him, even now.

'I’m sorry I said anything,' I say.

'It’s okay,' Beth says, waving off my apology as she produces a spotless handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her eyes. 'It’s silly.  I’m overreacting.'

'Of course you’re not,' I say comfortingly. 'My family live so near I could see them everyday and I only see them when I can’t avoid it, but Australia might as well be the moon on what you earn.'

I’m so much better off than Beth really.  My whole family live nearby, I still get to visit the house I grew up in and my parents barely even fight.  I’m lucky, I really am.

'Don’t be,' Beth says, looking worried. 'Not everyone gets on with their family.  Don’t feel bad.  I made pavlova for dessert.'

I immediately feel better.  Sometimes I think I should w
orry about my using sugar like Prozac.  Then I decide it could actually be Prozac that I’m addicted to.  If sugar were that serious, surely it would only be available on prescription?

'Thank,' I say gratefully. 'Let’s stop talking about families now.'

**

As the crow flies
or, more realistically down here in the south, the pigeon, it’s really not that far to my parents’ house.  The bus journey, however, is an absolute bitch.  Three different buses and nearly two hours to go fifteen miles.  And they wonder why more people don’t use public transport.

As I walk slowly down the road, getting nearer and nearer to my ex-home, the semi-detached, brick doll’s house that I spent eighteen years in before I went off to university, the Earth’s gravity seems to get stronger and stronger.  It’s harder and harder to keep picking my feet up.  And the desire to spin round and run home grows.

I picture seeing the house again.  The spring daffodils and tulips.  The bed of primroses in the shape of a wonky cross.  My dad found religion at the same time as he discovered the joy of gardening, mainly because the local vicar is in the club with him.

Before I’m ready, I arrive.  I stare at the place I used to call home.
The paint work has been redone.  The gate doesn’t squeak when I open it.  Weird.

At the door I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.

This time I’m greeted by my nephew, James.  He’s two months old and this is the first time I’ve seen him, due to many good reasons – okay, excuses – why I couldn’t visit before now.  His face is bright red and he’s screaming his head off.  I know exactly how he feels.

Attached to him is his slave and milk-dispenser.  If I were her, I’d have gone on strike.

Super mum, God forbid, actually looks slightly stressed, although she rearranges her features very quickly when she sees me.

'Wind,' she says, smiling at the scarlet blob as if perforated eardrums are only to be expected. 'How lovely to see you.  James is thrilled to meet his Aunty Melanie, aren’t you?' she coos.

God, how does he greet the ones he doesn’t like?  Projectile vomiting probably.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I don’t like children.  I may even want to have one
or two of my own someday.  It’s just that I prefer them asleep.  Or making cute noises like they do in adverts on TV.  Not acting like they could star in another re-make of
The Omen
.  Is that so very unreasonable?

I’m ushered through to the sitting room.  It’s too late to escape.  I’m stuck here, in the torture chamber.

Family bonds are sacred.  Family bonds are sacred.

Who am I kidding?  How long until this is over?

I glance at my watch.  It’s 12 o’clock.  Minimum four hours.  What was I thinking?

Wow!  The room’s all been done up.  It looks amazing.  New creamy wallpaper, curtains with this funky gold writing all over them.  A strange, but nice, coffee table with curved legs.  I love it.

'Hello, darling,' my mum says softly, coming over to me.  I hug her.  My mum’s by far the best of the family, in that I think she actually likes me.

'Hi mum,' I say. 'The house looks great.'

Two little spots like pink Smarties appear on my mum’s cheekbones. 'Thank you,' she says, embarrassed. 'How was the journey?'

'Okay,' I say, looking round the room again as I put my bag down on a chair. 'Buses were running on time for once, thank God.'

'There’ll be no blasphemy in this house, thank you,' a voice much louder and stronger than my mum’s says from one of the armchairs.

My d
ad.  A man who still believes that an Englishman’s house is his castle.  And, therefore, that it’s his duty to keep everyone locked up inside it.

'Sorry, Dad,' I say meekly, even though
I’d love to point out that my dad’s taken the Lord’s name in vain so often in his time that he’s practically become the common law owner of it.

'Those big city types are a bad
influence on you, my girl,' my dad says, making disapproving noises with his tongue. 'Should’ve stayed around here.  This is a good area, where you meet the right kind of people.'

And so it begins…

'Let me take him, darling,' my mum is saying to Brittany.  James is still screaming blue murder. 'I think he needs his grandmother.'

Why blue murder?  Surely red would be more logical?

'Now,' my dad says, as Brittany sits down in the chair opposite him, 'as I was saying.  What are your plans for his education?'

Education.  The boy’s two months old.  He hasn’t even learned to burp without help yet.

'Phillip feels we should put his name down for Eton,' Brittany replies smoothly, glancing sideways at me, 'but we’ve also heard favourable reports of Harrow.'

Phillip is Brittany’s husband.  The son-in-law parents dream of.  Those who’ve never truly left the 1950s anyway.  The only thing I actually like about Phillip is that he almost always has to work when we have family gatherings, so I hardly ever have to see him.

My dad looks frankly horrified.  He’s gone puce. 'I’m not having no grandson of mine walking around in one of those ridiculous uniforms, talking like he’s got a plum in his mouth and a pole up his backside.  Private education never did anyone any good.'

There’s no point in arguing with my dad.  Ever.  He’s selectively deaf.

'The school of life,' my dad continues, gesturing emphatically with his finger, 'that’s where I went.  Hard work and hard knocks, that’s what makes a man a man.  You stick a silver spoon in his mouth now and in twenty years he’ll want a whole flaming dinner service.'

There’s an interesting battle going on in Brittany’s head.  It’s almost visible.  On one hand she wants to annoy me, on the o
ther she doesn’t want to annoy Dad.  And, for once, the two are mutually exclusive.

I glance round quickly.  Mum must have taken James into the kitchen.  If I just stay quiet, maybe they’ll forget I’m here.

'Well,' Brittany says, settling reluctantly on a compromise. 'Phillip is quite an advocate for the system.  Perhaps you should discuss it with him.'

'I’ll do that,' my dad says. 'Can’t have him doing such a foolish thing, not realising the consequences.'

He pats Brittany’s hand.

'Don
’t you worry, my girl,' he says, 'I’ll talk some sense into him.  Just needs a guiding hand, that boy does.  And, as head of this family, I’ll see that things turn out all right.'

For ‘all right’ read ‘the way I want them’.

Hey!  I just realised something.  They’re not talking about me.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

**

I can’t believe I even thought that for one second.  Have I learnt nothing in twenty-five years as part of this family?

'I only want what’s best for my grandson,' my dad says, now gesturing with his fork. 'Since it looks like he’ll be the only one.'

My d
ad has been talking about grandchildren since I turned sixteen.  I must be the only girl in England whose father wanted her to be a teenage mother.

'Still, I did warn you,' Dad continues, digging into a pile of mashed potato the size of Everest. 'A university education doesn’t do a woman any favours.'

Don’t speak.  Don’t react.  Just endure.

'I told you when you applied that no man would wait three years for you.  That Alan Marshall would’ve put a ring on your finger by the time you were
nineteen, but you had to go gallivanting off halfway across the country.'