Logan grabs Pi’s hand, and we walk to the chippie. The rain has slowed considerably, now it’s bordering on mizzle. “You have three dares left, Aiden, and Dad has three too, but he only has one veto. What should we make him do? Ooh, I know. Dad, you need to order the fish and chips, but do it with Aiden’s voice.”
“So, you want me to offend an entire nation of people? Nah, veto.”
My kid gasps. “Oh my god, you don’t have any vetoes left! Aiden, I dare you to do it, but say it like Dad would say it.”
Pi looks at me. “What could go wrong? Fine, okay.”
I get my phone out in preparation to film this.
“Can I help you, darling?” the woman behind the chippie counter asks, waving Pi and me over.
“Alright, pard. Wasson?” Pi says, walking up to her. Logan screams with laughter. “Uh, ’orrible mizzly weather today, luh. Please may we have one kid’s cod and chips and two large cod and chips?” He looks at me. “And one mushy peas and a curry sauce?”
“And. . .” I say, like the unhelpful bastard I am.
“Shit yeah, and an extra-large battered sausage.”
“Salt and vinegar on the chips?” she asks.
“Ooh, yes. I mean . . .” He clears his throat. “Right on. Bewty.”
“Be about ten minutes, is that okay?” she asks, scribbling his order on a tiny notepad.
“’Ansum.” Then he looks at me and laughs. “That was terrible. I’m very sorry about that,” he adds in his normal Australian accent.
We take our fish and chips and my extra-large battered sausage back to the caravan, and the heavens open again when we’re twenty metres from the door. By the time the key is in the lock, we’re soaked through to our underpants. I shelter the most important things: my Wolverine face paint and the scran, which is tucked safely inside its plastic carrier bag prison. I get Logan dressed in dry PJs and pull a dry pair of joggers on myself whilst Pi sorts out plates and cutlery.
He bursts into the bedroom a few moments later, tearing his wet T-shirt from his body. His shorts are next to go, and I just stare at him until he throws the sodden things at me. Eventhough the radiators aren’t on, and most likely won’t be needed for months, I hang our damp clothes over the top.
“Come on, come eat your battered sausage,” he says, laughing.
“What shall we do now?” I ask, clearing the plates away after our fish and chips, which were fucking gorgeous by the way. “We could watch a movie, or see what games the caravan has? It’s still pissing down outside, so probably best if we stay in.”
“Can I have another Coke?” Logan asks.
It’s almost seven—not bedtime for him, even though the stormy sky is making it seem a lot later—but it’s also much too late to be giving my auDHD son any more sugar.
“No, sorry, squash or beer only.”
He squeals with laughter. “Squash, then. I don’t like beer.”
“When did you try beer?” I ask.
“When we went to Minehead at the beginning of the summer holidays. Mum went to the toilet, and I drank some.”
“You drank some of Mum’s beer?” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“No, it was Bran’s beer. Mum’s not allowed to drink booze any more for a bit.”
I look at Pi, who raises his eyebrows at me.
“Tell me, son, is Mum getting sick a lot recently?”
“Yeah. Like every morning. And evening. It’s probably because she only eats crackers and celery and pickled beetroot and Marmite. Wait, how did you know?”
“Oh my god,” I silently mouth to Pi. Jody’s pregnant. When she was pregnant with Logan, she suffered from terrible morning sickness. Apparently these things are supposed to ease after the first twelve weeks, but Jody was still throwing up until the day he was born.
“Right,” I say to Logan, mostly to distract myself before I get too excited for her, and him—he’s going to be a big brother—and accidentally let something slip. “I dare you to find the board games in this godforsaken hellhole.”
