Big Bones Page 8

  ‘No, Dad.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Just. No.’

  NOODLES

  We wander into a vintage clothes shop on the way back from seeing Dad.

  ‘It STINKS in here,’ Dove moans. ‘It smells of armpit and musty mothballs and … Chinese food. Why do you come here?’

  ‘Because the clothes are unique and special and have history. You don’t have to worry about sizes or being compared; nobody is going to point you out in the street and say that grandma from the 1950s pulled that nightie off SO much better than you. New clothes judge you whereas vintage clothes hang out with you like a friend that stands by you, whispers in your ear and keeps you company.’ I flip a velvet shawl over my arms. ‘Plus, I don’t like being the same as everybody else.’

  Dove picks up a Fez hat and tries it on, does a face at me and then puts it back. ‘It’s too hot in here. I’m waiting for you outside.’

  ‘’K.’

  I’m kind of glad anyway. I don’t need Dove pinging back out of every mirror looking so effortlessly Miami 80s beach babe and trying things on for a laugh and managing to look like she’s rolled out of some blog about how to look so absolutely great a hundred per cent of the time. She would try on these vintage clothes for a joke and still look the best in the whole shop.

  The music is nice and chimey. Little funny sixties melodies. My eyes are dotting about, struggling to settle. I love the clashing of prints and colours, the tumble of patterns, the out-of-place mismatching scramble of straw hats and flowery head scarves, ski suits and plimsolls, feather boas, kimonos and sparkly capes, the blend of fancy dress and genius.

  ‘Hi.’ The girl looks up at me from her box of noodles. Where’d she get noodles from in a red box like they have in American films. Do you know how desperate I am to eat noodles from a box with chopsticks? Hence why the place smells of Chinese food. She’s so cool. She has blue hair and a hoop through her nose and is wearing a butter-yellow polo neck jumper not as a joke. Even in the summer. But she’s pale. It’s clearly her look.

  We could be friends. We could have noodles in boxes and go for a drive to the countryside if she has a car. But then she ruins it. As most of my girl crushes do.

  ‘Just to let you know …’ she begins, like she’s being helpful, ‘most vintage clothes come up pretty small and the sizes aren’t always what they say; they might appear bigger than they are.’ I stare back, like HUH, sorry WHAT? So she adds, ‘Some pieces come from abroad and the sizes might be confusing. So don’t be afraid to ask for help and if you want to try anything on, just ask before you try and squeeze into something.’

  Just ask. Just ask PERMISSION before you tear the seams. Before you enter, raging, like a grotesque exploding dinosaur made of hot boiling lava and ruin or eat all these bespoke ‘pieces’, you absolute gargantuan FREAK.

  ‘Oh, I’m leaving,’ I say. ‘My sister’s waiting for me. She says the shop stinks of Chinese takeaway anyway … Maybe it’s those noodles?’

  I bet she wouldn’t say anything about sizes to Dove.

  SHEPHERD’S PIE

  ‘Isn’t it a bit hot for shepherd’s pie, B?’ Mum peers over the pan.

  ‘Stop being so hawky judgey, Mum. Here I am just trying to pay my way and contribute to the homestead and this is how you repay me? With extra rude remarks?’

  ‘Homestead,’ Mum mutters. ‘Idiot. It smells very nice.’

  ‘AND guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alicia has my apprenticeship letter and she’s gonna sign it.’ Mum doesn’t look impressed enough so THEN I add/lie … ‘and also she’s gonna apply for Planet Coffee to take me on as an apprentice.’

  ‘Well done, that’s … good news …’ She is folding washing and decides to deliberately fold up a towel at this point to hide her eyes from me. ‘And any news on joining the gym yet?’

  ‘God, Mum, I do one good thing and you have to throw it back in my face.’

  ‘No I wasn’t, but it was part of the bargain, Bluebelle.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, thank you very much. I’m just trying to prioritise and be a successful “Power of Right Now” businesswoman. Some support wouldn’t go amiss.’

  I really don’t need the food to be tainted by my bad mood. I have to shake off Mum’s rudeness so it doesn’t infect the meal with all its bad feelings of bitterness and neglect. Because I am really good at making shepherd’s pie. Like, really good at it. I use proper meat from the butcher. I’m one of those people who would rather spend my money on a good bit of meat than a pair of shoes. Are there many people like us? Anyway, mince meat, not lean, the real one. If I can’t find the best-quality meat available, then I make vegetarian shepherd’s pie. I fry up the mince with good oil, of course, in a heavy pan. When the meat turns brown I drain off all the extra fat in a sieve and rinse the pan and dry it so it’s clean. Then I pour in new oil, heat it up. When it’s hot and goes all shiny I add one diced Spanish onion, chopped celery and chopped carrot. Once the onions are as clear as glass I add the meat back in. Now, I raid Dad’s cupboard and all of its treasures. I usually add Marmite, Worcester sauce, a bay leaf, a tin of Heinz baked beans, obvs, red wine if we have it, beef stock and seasoning.

  I use baked potatoes to make my mash. It’s hideously smooth. I add heaps of butter, a bit of milk and an egg and salt and pepper. I whip it up so it looks like a golden cloud. When the sauce has reduced and the meat is tender I pour this into our ancient olive green casserole dish and then top with the mash. I love to spread the mash out like I am icing a dreamy cake. I sometimes like to rake a fork over the top to make little grooves in my starchy terrain. Then I grate creamy mature Cheddar cheese all over the top of it. And it goes into the hot oven.

  I love the way the warm smell of it floats through the house, bloating the kitchen with comfort. I love watching the bubbling cheese and molten brown lava spots of meaty filling popping through the white mash.

  The thunder outside begins to crackle and pop. And the rain tumbles down. Mum will be grateful for the pie now the storm’s coming. Dove bounds down to let the dogs in, who immediately start catwalking the kitchen searching for odd ends of carrot tops and escape-peas.

  ‘Oh FOR THE LOVE OF –’ Mum shouts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which one of you little moos invited Dad over?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I say.

  ‘Well, why’s he running towards the front door then?’

  ‘I felt bad for him, Mum,’ Dove admits. ‘He’s all by himself.’

  ‘He’s not all by himself. He’s got his big fat ego to keep him company. Bloody hell, Dove.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘It’s fine. He’s your dad I suppose.’

  ‘And anyway, then you two can get back together.’

  ‘Ooooh, over a romantic sexy shepherd’s pie and a summer thunderstorm,’ Mum jokes. ‘Go on, let the old rat in.’

  Dad enters; sodden, with a soggy Guardian newspaper over his head. I bet he LOVES looking this rain-drenched, bet he thinks it gives him real hunky charm and artistic neediness.

  ‘Hello, my darlings,’ he almost sings to us in an overly good mood, and then he goes to the dogs, scruffing their ears. ‘Smells good, Bluebelle.’ I dump the hot pan on the table.

  Mum has hers with peas. Dad, the bedraggled lost property jumper of mankind, has his with buttered bread to mop because he constantly has to feel like a downtrodden, mule-riding travelling-man-with-no-money-peasant that’s turned up at an inn in the middle of the night for bread, cheese, ale, stew and a straw bed to sleep in. Which basically is an accurate representation of what he is. Dove has hers with a big splodge of ketchup.

  But I like mine just exactly like this. On its own. No distractions. Just warm melty strings of chewy cheese, clinging to buttery salty mash, protecting the moreish stew beneath.

  And I pop the pan back in the oven for whoever wants seconds.

  ‘Dunno where you keep it, Dove. It’s like you’ve got wor
ms or something,’ Dad jokes at Dove’s massive fruit-bowl-sized portion, which she hugs close to her chest as though she’s about to be mugged for it.

  ‘It’s good,’ she grunts like an ungrateful nanna over Christmas dinner.

  ‘’Tis,’ Dad agrees. ’Tis. We’re not in a period drama now, Dad. It’s too hot for him; I can see him tossing the hot potato around his mouth, hooting out steamy air.

  ‘You’re a very good cook, B,’ Mum chips in. She’s obviously just trying to make up for her mediumly rude and unnecessary gym comment.

  Admittedly, even with the press of a storm, it’s a way-too-hot, clammy day for shepherd’s pie but you can’t rely on English weather so you just basically have to eat whatever food you fancy whenever you fancy it. Plus, for London, summer just means overstuffed bins in local parks with half-eaten tubs of houmous frothing out of the top of them. So eat what you like. The whole time.

  I am looking at Dad. We all fully know that he came not only for a hot meal but also to patch things up with Mum. Dad likes to look at Mum like she’s melting his heart right before his very eyes. I wonder if that’s how he looked at her when she was a student and he was her tutor. I can’t imagine fancying one of my teachers. Maybe it’s different when you’re nineteen and your armature dramatics teacher on your funny little course is a kind of hot teacher. Not that Dad’s hot or anything. You know what I mean.

  I do quite like it when we’re eating in the quiet like this. Knowing we are all experiencing the warmth of the same hot meal. The summer rain pattering outside. That we have something in common.

  A four. This is us. Complete. But he just can’t help himself, can he?

  ‘That farty-arty Keith guy been over recently?’ Dad asks Mum with an ugly jealous tone in his voice, and that’s all it takes.

  Mum and Dad are at it again. Rowing. And the sink is full of a snowstorm of starchy watery clumpy potato pellets that never seem to wash away and fill me with gloom. Luckily, Planet Coffee has taught me the importance of owning a pair of ‘dinner lady hands’ and not to be afraid of touching old food of any kind.

  EGG-FRIED RICE

  It doesn’t hurt to shield the ducks’ eyes from cooking eggs.

  ‘They don’t know what they are, you idiot,’ Dove moans as she thumps the wok down.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I say trying to wrap my fingers over their quacking heads. We have three boy ducks. However, we actually thought they were girl ducks at first and named them Mary, Kate and Ashley … (yes as in those Olsen twins, which I know is old-school but It Takes Two is probably one of my favourite I feel sick I want to watch … films) so we tried to give them boy names but we kept forgetting so we just call them their maiden names. I would say Ashley came off the best. Mary, not so much. Anyway they are all annoying and actually all rapists. I don’t trust a single one of them. I’ve seen them do it. Hence why we have no girl ducks but, oh no, trust me, that does not stop them. Still, doesn’t mean it makes it any easier to watch an egg being eaten.

  ‘Anyway, they’re ducks; these are hen’s eggs,’ Dove points out.

  Mary isn’t even letting me cover his eyes so I get bored of being nice anyway and sling the ducks outside.

  ‘Eggs aren’t anyone’s babies, you know, BB. It’s different. They aren’t chicks.’ Dove curls her body down into some odd yoga move and peels back up.

  ‘Dove, an egg is a chicken’s period.’

  ‘Seriously? That’s gross.’

  I make pretty much the best egg-fried rice, bar the boss at Happy Garden takeaway, than any other human. I rinse and then boil the basmati rice up – small tip: do NOT use cheap rice – then leave it to chill; once cooled, refrigerate. Then, when it’s all cold I heat up sesame oil and when it starts to smoke I dump the chilled rice in until it toasts and crackles. Then, I add two (OK, four) eggs … scribble the yellow around with a fork or chopstick, add lots of salt. I like the rice to catch a bit on the corners so it goes golden and crunchy. While it fries, I quickly slice two spring onions in horse-ear shapes and turn the heat off, sprinkle on top and serve with soy sauce. It’s nice to let people add their own soy. That’s how you’re meant to serve it.

  ‘You never put peas in!’ Dove moans.

  ‘You’re not meant to,’ I argue. She rolls her eyes and digs her hand into the Crunchy Nut cereal, pouring it into her mouth.

  ‘Don’t eat that, it’s gonna be ready in literally two minutes.’

  ‘Well, I literally can’t wait so …’

  ‘You won’t be hungry.’

  ‘Trust me, I will.’

  I know she will be annoying if I don’t get the peas out of the freezer and add them to the rice. I have to put the kettle on too to defrost them.

  We eat the rice. It’s obviously amazing.

  ‘Was nice having Dad over, no?’

  ‘Yeah, I just wish he wouldn’t always make dumb comments like that to rile Mum up. I can see why she finds him so annoying.’

  ‘Hey, do you remem—’ Dove starts laughing so hard she can’t get her words out.

  ‘What? What are you laughing at?’

  ‘Do you remember when we used to play that game Bum Tills?’

  ‘Oh my G—’ And we are both crying with laughter. Paralysed in a shuffling squeeze, heads tipped back so that the laughter is a mouth-open silent fit.

  BUM TILLS

  Bum Tills.

  I am going to take you back to my childhood. When bath time was playing pubs and mermaids, and our bedroom became the supermarket. The shelves were adorned with fabulous supermarket treats, where one-legged Barbie posed as a carrot or Marshmallow the Teddy Bear acted rather impressively as a convincing loaf of sliced bread.

  I would always be the cashier, because I was oldest, obviously, AND it was my idea. Dove, being the recessive, would play the till.

  Let me explain …

  I’d set myself up, on the bottom bunk, a fistful of empty carrier bags from a real actual supermarket behind me, flattened by a heavy book to look legit and fresh from the box and not crumpled as they are normally in the cupboard.

  And Dove would have to lie over my lap with her trousers down and her pale little bum sticking in the air.

  On the cheeks of her bum I would draw a till: various buttons dotted in felt-tip to push and prod, a keypad of numbers and a little screen for the total amount to roll through. I would draw this in ink and use an ink eraser for reality, so I could change the amount for each customer every time. It was pretty much exactly identical to a real-life supermarket check out.

  Our school friends would come over and pretend to buy stuff from the supermarket, filling up carrier bags with the odd shoe or sticker book, instrument or tennis racket. They’d browse. Sometimes I’d hum some valid pop tunes I knew to make the supermarket seem even more authentic but nothing too cool or distracting – it was a supermarket after all, and had to seem genuine.

  BUT the best bit was to come. When the school friend shoppers came to the cashier – yes, me – it was my time to truly shine. I’d eke out the paying process, scanning each item, tallying it over Dove’s flobbering little bum cheeks. She’d squeal and giggle while I prodded the numbers and talked to the shoppers about their ‘plans’ for the week and asked them if they noticed the recent promotion on the toilet roll, did they have a club card (fingers crossed) and did they find everything they needed. When it came to paying, they’d all, of course, want to pay with a ‘credit card’ (a playing card, dad’s driving licence or … anything card-shaped lying around.) And I would take the card and swipe it through Dove’s bum cheeks, like at a real till point.

  The transaction was complete.

  BACK TO RICE

  The dogs sniff around for scraps. We eat until we hear the fork scraping the china of the bowl.

  ‘Right.’ Dove stands, stretches and begins packing a bag.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Parkour.’

  ‘Oh, Dove!’

  ‘What?’

 
‘Can’t we be cosy in our sloppies?’

  ‘No. Dylan has borrowed his dad’s drone, so we’re gonna film ourselves jumping off the bus shelter.’

  ‘LONG!’ I moan. ‘I HATE parkour. It always steals you away.’

  ‘You could come do it with me? Why don’t you try it?’

  ‘Dove, in case you haven’t noticed, I happen to be fat.’

  ‘What, and that means you can’t move?’

  ‘I have asthma really bad and I’m fat, so no, I can’t go running around jumping off roofs and bus stops and stuff.’

  ‘There’s always an excuse with you.’

  ‘Plus, I don’t own a sports bra. My boobs would be, you know, all everywhere.’

  ‘Sports bra? I never need a sports bra.’

  ‘Dove. There’s a big difference between you and me. You are thirteen. A lot can happen in three years.’

  She glances at my chest. ‘No thanks.’ She wraps her hair in her hands. ‘Better be getting your sports bra soon though for the old gym or else Mum will be livid.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’ I press a worm of rice with my forefinger, smushing it by the weight of my fingerprint. ‘Off you go then, to your best friend parkour.’ I begin tidying away. ‘What’ve the London streets got that I HAVEN’T?’

  Dove blows me a kiss and skips upstairs. She moves like she’s constantly on a pogo stick. ‘Thanks for dinner.’ Her voice pings off the pans – that I have to wash up.

  ‘Be careful!’ I yell after her.

  ‘You be careful,’ she shouts after me, ‘you’re the clumsy one!’

  I fill a spoon of rice and lean it back like a slingshot towards the dogs. The rice spills up into the air like confetti and the dogs leap up to grab it. Wet mouths and clunky teeth, slobber and chatter.

  Dogs don’t even chew. Their mouths open like singing Muppets; they breathe in a gust of air and close like pedal bins.

  CAMOMILE TEA