heaven?”
“Oh, I would think so.”
“And what about if he meets the devil? The devil could take him to hell, where it’s really hot like in Majorca.”
I decided it was time for some light relief. I reached for the scruffy copy of
The Twits
, which was lying on the floor. The description of Mr. Twit’s beard and the bits of old breakfasts, lunches and dinners that clung to it always had them shrieking with laughter.“OK,
Twits
time,” I said. “But only if you both get back into bed and lie down.”
They did as I asked. I thought Ella might get upset again when we got to the bit where Mrs. Twit serves Mr. Twit worm spaghetti, but she laughed as usual. Twenty minutes later I kissed them both good night, turned off the light. As I headed downstairs, I could hear them giggling.
“Night-night, Mummy Twit,” Ella called out.
“Night-night, Daughter Twit.”
More giggles.
• • •
M um was in the kitchen getting up off her hands and knees. She made an oo-phing sound as she went. “Right, that’s the floor done. It took three goes, but it’s finally come up OK.”
“Three goes? It looked pretty clean to me.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t. I had to get between the floorboards with Q-tips. You should have seen the muck that came up.”
Mum and Dad had insisted on helping me move in. Yesterday and today, Dad and I had arranged furniture and unpacked boxes. Mum had scrubbed, scoured and dusted. The place reeked of ammonia and bleach.
“You know,” Mum said, rinsing her cloth under the tap, “that sofa’s far too big for the living room.”
“I know, but it reminds the kids of the old house.” I’d been forced to sell all our old furniture because there wasn’t space for it here. I couldn’t face parting with the sofa.
Just then Dad walked in carrying a bag of Chinese food.
“Did you tip the delivery guy?” Mum said.
“No.”
“Why on earth not?”
“He was Chinese. I figured he owned the business. I only tip the Poles.”
“But even if he was the boss, he’s still driven out on a cold night. Doesn’t he deserve a tip?”
“You never tip the owner. They find it demeaning. Tell me something. If Hyatt took your luggage up to your room, would you tip him?”
“What? We’re not talking about Hyatt. We’re talking about the guy who owns the China Garden.”
“The principle’s the same.”
“Of course it’s not. Hyatt—if there even is a Hyatt, which I doubt—is a billionaire. The bloke from the China Garden probably drives a fifteen-year-old Nissan.”
“Guys, fascinating as this debate is, do you think we could eat? The food’s getting cold.”
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tip the guy,” my mother mumbled.
After we’d eaten, I insisted Mum and Dad call it a day. “You’ve done enough and you both look exhausted.”
“Fine,” Mum said, “but just let me load the dishwasher and wipe over the dishwasher liquid bottle.”
“What?”
“I noticed it’s a bit gloopy, that’s all.”
Dad tapped my arm. “Best just let her get on with it,” he whispered. “Tends to be quicker in the long run.”
“Guess you’re right.” I glanced at my mother. She looked pale andshe’d lost weight. “Mum . . . come on . . . go home. You need some rest.”
“I’ll rest in the next world. Funnily enough, being here with you and the children has taken my mind off everything.”
By “everything,” she meant her sister, Shirley. Shirley was dying. Having found a lump in her breast, she’d put off going to the doctor. A few weeks after Mike died, Mum finally persuaded her to get the lump checked out. It was cancer. What’s more, it had spread to her lymph nodes. Now, despite a double mastectomy and several rounds of chemo, the disease had traveled to her spine.
“You know, I blame myself,” Mum said. “I should have got her to the doctor earlier.”
“What are you talking about?” Dad came back. “You didn’t know earlier. She had
“Oh, I would think so.”
“And what about if he meets the devil? The devil could take him to hell, where it’s really hot like in Majorca.”
I decided it was time for some light relief. I reached for the scruffy copy of
The Twits
, which was lying on the floor. The description of Mr. Twit’s beard and the bits of old breakfasts, lunches and dinners that clung to it always had them shrieking with laughter.“OK,
Twits
time,” I said. “But only if you both get back into bed and lie down.”
They did as I asked. I thought Ella might get upset again when we got to the bit where Mrs. Twit serves Mr. Twit worm spaghetti, but she laughed as usual. Twenty minutes later I kissed them both good night, turned off the light. As I headed downstairs, I could hear them giggling.
“Night-night, Mummy Twit,” Ella called out.
“Night-night, Daughter Twit.”
More giggles.
• • •
M um was in the kitchen getting up off her hands and knees. She made an oo-phing sound as she went. “Right, that’s the floor done. It took three goes, but it’s finally come up OK.”
“Three goes? It looked pretty clean to me.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t. I had to get between the floorboards with Q-tips. You should have seen the muck that came up.”
Mum and Dad had insisted on helping me move in. Yesterday and today, Dad and I had arranged furniture and unpacked boxes. Mum had scrubbed, scoured and dusted. The place reeked of ammonia and bleach.
“You know,” Mum said, rinsing her cloth under the tap, “that sofa’s far too big for the living room.”
“I know, but it reminds the kids of the old house.” I’d been forced to sell all our old furniture because there wasn’t space for it here. I couldn’t face parting with the sofa.
Just then Dad walked in carrying a bag of Chinese food.
“Did you tip the delivery guy?” Mum said.
“No.”
“Why on earth not?”
“He was Chinese. I figured he owned the business. I only tip the Poles.”
“But even if he was the boss, he’s still driven out on a cold night. Doesn’t he deserve a tip?”
“You never tip the owner. They find it demeaning. Tell me something. If Hyatt took your luggage up to your room, would you tip him?”
“What? We’re not talking about Hyatt. We’re talking about the guy who owns the China Garden.”
“The principle’s the same.”
“Of course it’s not. Hyatt—if there even is a Hyatt, which I doubt—is a billionaire. The bloke from the China Garden probably drives a fifteen-year-old Nissan.”
“Guys, fascinating as this debate is, do you think we could eat? The food’s getting cold.”
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tip the guy,” my mother mumbled.
After we’d eaten, I insisted Mum and Dad call it a day. “You’ve done enough and you both look exhausted.”
“Fine,” Mum said, “but just let me load the dishwasher and wipe over the dishwasher liquid bottle.”
“What?”
“I noticed it’s a bit gloopy, that’s all.”
Dad tapped my arm. “Best just let her get on with it,” he whispered. “Tends to be quicker in the long run.”
“Guess you’re right.” I glanced at my mother. She looked pale andshe’d lost weight. “Mum . . . come on . . . go home. You need some rest.”
“I’ll rest in the next world. Funnily enough, being here with you and the children has taken my mind off everything.”
By “everything,” she meant her sister, Shirley. Shirley was dying. Having found a lump in her breast, she’d put off going to the doctor. A few weeks after Mike died, Mum finally persuaded her to get the lump checked out. It was cancer. What’s more, it had spread to her lymph nodes. Now, despite a double mastectomy and several rounds of chemo, the disease had traveled to her spine.
“You know, I blame myself,” Mum said. “I should have got her to the doctor earlier.”
“What are you talking about?” Dad came back. “You didn’t know earlier. She had
Similar Books
