wondering if Ian will mind if I lick it clean. I know Mum would, but if he thought it was OK, she might let it pass.
‘That’s right.’
Experimentally, I dab at the edge of the plate with my finger and transfer the film of syrup to my mouth.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
Mum’s arms are crossed on the table in front of her, each hand nursing the bare, fleshy top of the opposite arm. She sits very straight, as she always does.
‘Ian’s very kindly invited us to stay with him,’ she tells me.
‘Oh.’
It seems fine to me. I presume that Ian has a house in Spain, or is inviting us to stay in a hotel with him. It isn’t until the next day, when Mum nervously expands on the holiday arrangements, that I realize we’re having a holiday ten minutes up the road.
‘The good thing is, you’ll still be able to go to school,’ says Mum, busying herself with her mascara brush. I’m sitting on the bed, watching her through her dressing-table mirror. She puts on the amazed expression she uses for mascara application. ‘You can get the bus.’
I don’t consider it much of a holiday if I still have to go to school.
‘Has Ian got a swimming pool?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Don’t be so spoilt,’ snaps Mum, viciously rodding the mascara wand in and out of its pot, and we leave it at that. Dad gives me a five-pound note when we go, all packed up, and tells me that I can come home any time. It’s only then that I realize that something quite important is happening. I feel sorry for Dad, not coming with us, and I prolong our farewell hug to let him know. As usual he detaches himself first, as though he’s late and has to get a move on.
Ian’s house is in a posh part of town, Old Cantley. Cantley proper isn’t particularly posh, but Old Cantley is. It’s a detached house, Mum points out. I’m not sure what this means, but I know it’s desirable, as is the fact that it’s a dormer bungalow. This means it has stairs, although I always thought the whole point of a bungalow was that it didn’t. It’s quite a bit bigger than our house, and brand new. It has a particular smell, of Ian’s soap or aftershave, and the mints he sucks. Despite the sweating and the fatness, he always seems extremely clean, and his house looks very clean as well, which is bound to appeal to Mum.
‘Your room, modom,’ Ian says, when he takes us to the upstairs part. The single bed is pushed up against a large window with a deep sill, which is a bit like the bed arrangement in Lallie’s room in her TV show. I love it, and tell him so. He nips my nose between his finger and thumb with his soft, fat fingers, just for a second.
‘I like a woman who’s easily pleased,’ he grins, and Mum shoos a backhand his way, without really hitting him.
‘Cheeky bugger,’ she says, approvingly. Then they leave me to settle in while Ian takes Mum to show her her room. I breathe in the new smell that surrounds me. I like it, but it seems to collect in my stomach and turn hard, like a stone. Only when I leave the house, when I go to school on the bus and breathe in everything familiar, does the hardness dissolve. Then I remember about being in a different class, and it comes back.
F RANK DENNY, OF Frank Denny Management, never felt entirely comfortable out of range of a phone. Journeys by train were a torment to him. At least in the car you could take regular stops and make calls along the way (he kept a bag of change from the bank in the glove compartment for just this purpose). Not that he was a fan of motoring per se. He was a nervous driver – he always had too much on his mind to concentrate entirely safely – but he bit the bullet and decided to make the run up to Doncaster in the Rover. He needed to sort out the Lallie situation in person. Good as he was on the phone, and few were better, some problems were best resolved face to face.
‘When will you be back?’ Laurence asked him, faffing about with sandwiches for the journey,
‘That’s right.’
Experimentally, I dab at the edge of the plate with my finger and transfer the film of syrup to my mouth.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
Mum’s arms are crossed on the table in front of her, each hand nursing the bare, fleshy top of the opposite arm. She sits very straight, as she always does.
‘Ian’s very kindly invited us to stay with him,’ she tells me.
‘Oh.’
It seems fine to me. I presume that Ian has a house in Spain, or is inviting us to stay in a hotel with him. It isn’t until the next day, when Mum nervously expands on the holiday arrangements, that I realize we’re having a holiday ten minutes up the road.
‘The good thing is, you’ll still be able to go to school,’ says Mum, busying herself with her mascara brush. I’m sitting on the bed, watching her through her dressing-table mirror. She puts on the amazed expression she uses for mascara application. ‘You can get the bus.’
I don’t consider it much of a holiday if I still have to go to school.
‘Has Ian got a swimming pool?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Don’t be so spoilt,’ snaps Mum, viciously rodding the mascara wand in and out of its pot, and we leave it at that. Dad gives me a five-pound note when we go, all packed up, and tells me that I can come home any time. It’s only then that I realize that something quite important is happening. I feel sorry for Dad, not coming with us, and I prolong our farewell hug to let him know. As usual he detaches himself first, as though he’s late and has to get a move on.
Ian’s house is in a posh part of town, Old Cantley. Cantley proper isn’t particularly posh, but Old Cantley is. It’s a detached house, Mum points out. I’m not sure what this means, but I know it’s desirable, as is the fact that it’s a dormer bungalow. This means it has stairs, although I always thought the whole point of a bungalow was that it didn’t. It’s quite a bit bigger than our house, and brand new. It has a particular smell, of Ian’s soap or aftershave, and the mints he sucks. Despite the sweating and the fatness, he always seems extremely clean, and his house looks very clean as well, which is bound to appeal to Mum.
‘Your room, modom,’ Ian says, when he takes us to the upstairs part. The single bed is pushed up against a large window with a deep sill, which is a bit like the bed arrangement in Lallie’s room in her TV show. I love it, and tell him so. He nips my nose between his finger and thumb with his soft, fat fingers, just for a second.
‘I like a woman who’s easily pleased,’ he grins, and Mum shoos a backhand his way, without really hitting him.
‘Cheeky bugger,’ she says, approvingly. Then they leave me to settle in while Ian takes Mum to show her her room. I breathe in the new smell that surrounds me. I like it, but it seems to collect in my stomach and turn hard, like a stone. Only when I leave the house, when I go to school on the bus and breathe in everything familiar, does the hardness dissolve. Then I remember about being in a different class, and it comes back.
F RANK DENNY, OF Frank Denny Management, never felt entirely comfortable out of range of a phone. Journeys by train were a torment to him. At least in the car you could take regular stops and make calls along the way (he kept a bag of change from the bank in the glove compartment for just this purpose). Not that he was a fan of motoring per se. He was a nervous driver – he always had too much on his mind to concentrate entirely safely – but he bit the bullet and decided to make the run up to Doncaster in the Rover. He needed to sort out the Lallie situation in person. Good as he was on the phone, and few were better, some problems were best resolved face to face.
‘When will you be back?’ Laurence asked him, faffing about with sandwiches for the journey,
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