for the eight hundred cups of tea I was needing, so I turned to the sink.
‘Stop,’ he said, before my hand was on the tap.
I looked round at him.
‘I don’t think we should use the water any more,’ he said.
I looked at the tap – dripping like it had been for weeks, waiting for Simon to fix it – and then at the thousands of containers full of water all over the kitchen.
‘Not those either,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to make do with what’s left in the kettle. There’s orange juice and milk in the fridge.’
I put the kettle back. I kind of stared at it, and then the tap, and then the sea of containers.
What?!
Was that disgusting little tentacle-y space thing in the house?!
‘Don’t touch any of that water,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll get rid of it.’
I was too thirsty and muddled to start thinking. I flicked the kettle on, poured myself a glass of orange juice and glugged it down. My stomach gurgled horribly.
‘I’m just gonna go to the loo,’ I mumbled.
‘You’ll have to use the bucket,’ said Simon, staring at his list.
‘
What?!
’ I said, but not a yee-haa ‘
What?!
’. It was just a ‘
What?!
’ kind of what, the kind of ‘
What?!
’ that
comes out of your mouth when your brain doesn’t get it.
‘We don’t know whether the water’s OK any more. It’s too risky.’
‘But . . . I need to . . .’ I wasn’t going to put my bum
in
the loo, just
on
it.
‘Sorry, Ru. Use the bucket.’ He added something to the list then.
I poo’d in the bucket (too much information?). I thought I wouldn’t be able to, but I was desperate and anyway I told myself . . . well, it was just like one of the
rubbish camping trips Simon took us on before Henry came along: rain pouring down, squatting on a plastic toilet thing. (We didn’t go to the kind of campsites where there were showers and
toilets and swimming pools and entertainment. Or even other people. We went to cold, windy fields in the middle of nowhere.) I piled layers of toilet paper on top of my poo . . . and even though it
was my own and you can’t smell that like you can smell other people’s – can you? – I felt so embarrassed. I felt . . . so . . . humiliated. Like it was so unfair – on
me.
Bristling – that’s what you call it, when you’re trying to not be cross even though you’re raging – I went back to the kitchen. Simon was making scrambled eggs.
‘I suppose I can’t even wash my hands,’ I said,
bristling
, as I sat down at the table and poured out the last of the orange juice.
‘Or have a shower,’ Simon said, pointing at a pack of Henry’s baby wipes across the table.
NO SHOWER?!
ARE YOU KIDDING?!
Mobile, friends, Caspar. Priorities, Ruby, I thought, priorities. I wiped my hands,
bristling
.
Simon put a pile of toast and eggs in front of me, plus butter and jam and the secret stash of peanut butter. He’d also made a cup of tea.
‘Last cup in the kettle,’ he said as I slurped.
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, feeling totally, bristlingly depressed.
Simon didn’t eat. He just kept staring at his stupid list. He didn’t add anything to it; he just kept looking at it.
When I had finished, I got a glass of milk.
‘Feel better?’ he asked.
It was harder to bristle; I did feel better.
‘Yes. Thanks,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
I glugged down the last of the milk – well, almost; I did what you always do, which is leave this little bit in the bottom of the bottle so’s you’re not forced to wash it up
and put it in the recycling. I felt about ready to tackle it; how I was going to get Simon to take me to Zak’s – though I reckoned it would be pretty hard to persuade him until the rain
had stopped. I looked out of the window; it was coming down in sheets, pouring down, from the kind of low, grey sky that’s got no hope of sun in it.
That’s nimbostratus; I know that now. I didn’t then. All I knew was it looked like the kind of gloomy total cloud-out that means forget it:
‘Stop,’ he said, before my hand was on the tap.
I looked round at him.
‘I don’t think we should use the water any more,’ he said.
I looked at the tap – dripping like it had been for weeks, waiting for Simon to fix it – and then at the thousands of containers full of water all over the kitchen.
‘Not those either,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to make do with what’s left in the kettle. There’s orange juice and milk in the fridge.’
I put the kettle back. I kind of stared at it, and then the tap, and then the sea of containers.
What?!
Was that disgusting little tentacle-y space thing in the house?!
‘Don’t touch any of that water,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll get rid of it.’
I was too thirsty and muddled to start thinking. I flicked the kettle on, poured myself a glass of orange juice and glugged it down. My stomach gurgled horribly.
‘I’m just gonna go to the loo,’ I mumbled.
‘You’ll have to use the bucket,’ said Simon, staring at his list.
‘
What?!
’ I said, but not a yee-haa ‘
What?!
’. It was just a ‘
What?!
’ kind of what, the kind of ‘
What?!
’ that
comes out of your mouth when your brain doesn’t get it.
‘We don’t know whether the water’s OK any more. It’s too risky.’
‘But . . . I need to . . .’ I wasn’t going to put my bum
in
the loo, just
on
it.
‘Sorry, Ru. Use the bucket.’ He added something to the list then.
I poo’d in the bucket (too much information?). I thought I wouldn’t be able to, but I was desperate and anyway I told myself . . . well, it was just like one of the
rubbish camping trips Simon took us on before Henry came along: rain pouring down, squatting on a plastic toilet thing. (We didn’t go to the kind of campsites where there were showers and
toilets and swimming pools and entertainment. Or even other people. We went to cold, windy fields in the middle of nowhere.) I piled layers of toilet paper on top of my poo . . . and even though it
was my own and you can’t smell that like you can smell other people’s – can you? – I felt so embarrassed. I felt . . . so . . . humiliated. Like it was so unfair – on
me.
Bristling – that’s what you call it, when you’re trying to not be cross even though you’re raging – I went back to the kitchen. Simon was making scrambled eggs.
‘I suppose I can’t even wash my hands,’ I said,
bristling
, as I sat down at the table and poured out the last of the orange juice.
‘Or have a shower,’ Simon said, pointing at a pack of Henry’s baby wipes across the table.
NO SHOWER?!
ARE YOU KIDDING?!
Mobile, friends, Caspar. Priorities, Ruby, I thought, priorities. I wiped my hands,
bristling
.
Simon put a pile of toast and eggs in front of me, plus butter and jam and the secret stash of peanut butter. He’d also made a cup of tea.
‘Last cup in the kettle,’ he said as I slurped.
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, feeling totally, bristlingly depressed.
Simon didn’t eat. He just kept staring at his stupid list. He didn’t add anything to it; he just kept looking at it.
When I had finished, I got a glass of milk.
‘Feel better?’ he asked.
It was harder to bristle; I did feel better.
‘Yes. Thanks,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
I glugged down the last of the milk – well, almost; I did what you always do, which is leave this little bit in the bottom of the bottle so’s you’re not forced to wash it up
and put it in the recycling. I felt about ready to tackle it; how I was going to get Simon to take me to Zak’s – though I reckoned it would be pretty hard to persuade him until the rain
had stopped. I looked out of the window; it was coming down in sheets, pouring down, from the kind of low, grey sky that’s got no hope of sun in it.
That’s nimbostratus; I know that now. I didn’t then. All I knew was it looked like the kind of gloomy total cloud-out that means forget it:
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