and even though
milk wasn’t good for a cold, that’s what Aunty Jean said anyway, there wasn’t anything else. Harry wanted to make Miles the
best hot Milo ever and it was still early and they could watch the afternoon cartoons and put the fire on.
He heaped four tablespoons of Milo into Miles’s cup and the hot milk went dark brown. He sprinkled more Milo on the top, just
a bit, and it looked good. It smelled good. But when he took the cup over, Miles’s eyes were closed. He was already asleep,
his head leaning back, resting on the top of the couch.
Harry sat down beside him holding the Milo.
‘Miles?’ he said quietly. ‘Miles?’
But he didn’t wake up.
A unty Jean’s house was white on the outside and white on the inside, and they had to leave their boots at the door. Sometimes
she made them take off their socks as well in case they were damp and left marks on the thick new carpet. She always offered
them clean socks to put on but Miles would never touch them. Anyway, the carpet felt nice on his bare feet, springy and soft,
but the Saturday afternoon roast always took forever to cook.
It was some kind of dark meat this time. Beef, maybe, and it did taste good. The gravy was salty and it soaked into the roast
potatoes. Miles ate fast. If they got out of Aunty Jean’s soon, there would be time for a surf with Joe when he picked them
up. But when he finished he saw that Harry had barely touched his. He didn’t like meat much. He’d onlyeaten the potatoes. It was driving Miles mad watching him move bits of meat and carrot around and around making rings of gravy
on the plate.
‘Try and eat some meat, Harry,’ Aunty Jean said.
Harry looked at Miles and Miles stared back. He kicked Harry’s leg under the table, but that didn’t work. He wouldn’t eat
any more.
Aunty Jean put her knife and fork down on her plate and finally they were allowed to get up and take the dishes into the kitchen.
The clock above the cooker said it was 1:55 pm.
Miles filled the sink and started to wash the dishes. He squeezed the detergent hard, made the water slimy and full of suds.
And he washed like mad, lining the dishes up neatly in the rack until it was full.
Aunty Jean came into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She got out three teacups and put them on the bench.
‘I don’t want any tea,’ Miles said, and he picked up the tea towel, began drying the plates.
Aunty Jean crumpled up her nose. ‘Well, I do,’ she said.
‘I’ll have one,’ Harry called from the dining room.
Miles knew he just wanted the biscuits that came with the tea.
‘I’ll cut your hair after,’ Jean said. ‘You both need it.’
And then she smiled.
They were stuck.
Miles watched Harry squirm on the stool in the kitchen as Aunty Jean pulled at his hair with the comb.
Every time he tried to move his head, she grabbed his face and held him still.
‘That’s what you get for having curly hair, young man,’ she said.
She wasn’t even a bit like Mum. It was hard to believe they were sisters because Aunty Jean was like an old lady.
She dressed like an old lady and she smelled like an old lady and she had arthritis like an old lady.
And he hoped they hurt, her fat knees. Her puffy ankles that spilled over her shoes. All that fluid moving around when she
walked. Moving around but never going away.
‘Go to the cupboard and get a towel,’ she said suddenly, and when Miles looked up she was staring right at him.
He turned away, walked down the hall. The linen cupboard was huge and there were piles of sheets and pillowcases and quilts
and Miles didn’t know whatthe hell they were all for. Aunty Jean lived alone. She had been alone for ages, since Uncle Nick, and no one ever came to
visit except them and they never stayed over. Never.
The towels were on a shelf at eye height and they were all white. There were no other colours, not even cream. It was weird.
Miles pulled one out but they were packed
milk wasn’t good for a cold, that’s what Aunty Jean said anyway, there wasn’t anything else. Harry wanted to make Miles the
best hot Milo ever and it was still early and they could watch the afternoon cartoons and put the fire on.
He heaped four tablespoons of Milo into Miles’s cup and the hot milk went dark brown. He sprinkled more Milo on the top, just
a bit, and it looked good. It smelled good. But when he took the cup over, Miles’s eyes were closed. He was already asleep,
his head leaning back, resting on the top of the couch.
Harry sat down beside him holding the Milo.
‘Miles?’ he said quietly. ‘Miles?’
But he didn’t wake up.
A unty Jean’s house was white on the outside and white on the inside, and they had to leave their boots at the door. Sometimes
she made them take off their socks as well in case they were damp and left marks on the thick new carpet. She always offered
them clean socks to put on but Miles would never touch them. Anyway, the carpet felt nice on his bare feet, springy and soft,
but the Saturday afternoon roast always took forever to cook.
It was some kind of dark meat this time. Beef, maybe, and it did taste good. The gravy was salty and it soaked into the roast
potatoes. Miles ate fast. If they got out of Aunty Jean’s soon, there would be time for a surf with Joe when he picked them
up. But when he finished he saw that Harry had barely touched his. He didn’t like meat much. He’d onlyeaten the potatoes. It was driving Miles mad watching him move bits of meat and carrot around and around making rings of gravy
on the plate.
‘Try and eat some meat, Harry,’ Aunty Jean said.
Harry looked at Miles and Miles stared back. He kicked Harry’s leg under the table, but that didn’t work. He wouldn’t eat
any more.
Aunty Jean put her knife and fork down on her plate and finally they were allowed to get up and take the dishes into the kitchen.
The clock above the cooker said it was 1:55 pm.
Miles filled the sink and started to wash the dishes. He squeezed the detergent hard, made the water slimy and full of suds.
And he washed like mad, lining the dishes up neatly in the rack until it was full.
Aunty Jean came into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She got out three teacups and put them on the bench.
‘I don’t want any tea,’ Miles said, and he picked up the tea towel, began drying the plates.
Aunty Jean crumpled up her nose. ‘Well, I do,’ she said.
‘I’ll have one,’ Harry called from the dining room.
Miles knew he just wanted the biscuits that came with the tea.
‘I’ll cut your hair after,’ Jean said. ‘You both need it.’
And then she smiled.
They were stuck.
Miles watched Harry squirm on the stool in the kitchen as Aunty Jean pulled at his hair with the comb.
Every time he tried to move his head, she grabbed his face and held him still.
‘That’s what you get for having curly hair, young man,’ she said.
She wasn’t even a bit like Mum. It was hard to believe they were sisters because Aunty Jean was like an old lady.
She dressed like an old lady and she smelled like an old lady and she had arthritis like an old lady.
And he hoped they hurt, her fat knees. Her puffy ankles that spilled over her shoes. All that fluid moving around when she
walked. Moving around but never going away.
‘Go to the cupboard and get a towel,’ she said suddenly, and when Miles looked up she was staring right at him.
He turned away, walked down the hall. The linen cupboard was huge and there were piles of sheets and pillowcases and quilts
and Miles didn’t know whatthe hell they were all for. Aunty Jean lived alone. She had been alone for ages, since Uncle Nick, and no one ever came to
visit except them and they never stayed over. Never.
The towels were on a shelf at eye height and they were all white. There were no other colours, not even cream. It was weird.
Miles pulled one out but they were packed
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