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4
LIAM
We growup and leave home, become adults in the outside world, and forge our path in life. Then we come home to mums and dads, grandparents, family and all that new life is swept away by time rewinding. As I sit in the lounge with Mum and Dad, I finish my beer and feel eighteen again.
Dad has a beer too, but he isn’t drinking at my pace. He sits in the tatty greying armchair he’s had for years and refuses to upgrade. If I’d stayed in St David’s would I’ve become my dad? I look like him, although his red hair is shorter and receding these days. Now he’s the manager of the car garage he works at, he doesn’t come home covered in oil like years ago, but I’m annoyed he still chooses to work when he could retire early. They could travel; have fun after years of raising me and Louise.
Mum spends the evening fussing over Goldie, with the smelly animal sprawled across the sofa next to her. She settled Ella into bed after Cerys left, like a surrogate grandmother. It’s clear Mum likes having Ella around but over last day or two I’ve noticed Dad rub his temples and mutter during one of Ella’s tantrums. Cerys implied Ella isn’t a melt-down girl, which worries me. This four year old’s behaviour is enough for me; I can’t imagine having kids worse than she is.
Imagine having kids. I snort at myself. Sure, Honey will pop one out and drag it on tour with us. Unlikely. Besides, she’s still pursuing her big acting career. All she’s manages do far is small parts in sitcoms, with guys who like playing tonsil tennis with her.
Honey. Hadn’t I decided to forget about her over Christmas?
Conversation with my parents dried up after two days at home. What is there to share? The Honey subject is skirted around, but the other Blue Phoenix guys discussed. Mum imparted local gossip and a rundown of every extended family member’s health. Yep, definitely feel like a teen again—nothing in common with Mum and Dad.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go out with your sister,” says Mum, looking from the TV to me.
“I will one night. I got the impression I wasn’t invited.” And would’ve been dragged screaming too, if they’d asked.
“You still have the papers following you?” asks Dad, gruffly.
“Not so much recently.” I smile at his old-fashioned term for paparazzi.
He nods slowly and sips his beer, the unspoken hovering between us. Yeah, Dad, no drugs or family embarrassment to worry about.
“Are the other boys coming home for Christmas?” asks Mum.
Boys—as if we’re all eighteen again. Skinny Dylan and Jem, shy Bryn, and awkward me.
“Nah.” I have no idea where, what, or even who they’re doing so that’s the limit of my response.
I flick a look at the ticking cuckoo clock in the corner. 11 p.m.. Jesus, time slows watching crap TV with these two. Mum perks up as a reality show comes on, featuring a bright blue Mediterranean sea and sky, and whitewashed Spanish houses. A jumped-up TV presenter takes a middle class, middle-aged British couples to visit a variety of Spanish houses, to choose which one to buy and retire to. Mum gives us a running commentary on the pros and cons of each house as if she were the purchaser.
“I can buy a house in Spain,” I say.
Mum laughs at me. “But you have one in America by the sea.”
This sounds so quaint coming from her. “Yeah, Mum. Malibu. By theocean. I mean a place for you and Dad in Spain, or wherever. Hide from the shitty Welsh winters.”
Mum glances quickly at Dad then looks away again. Dad stares ahead at the TV and I bite back against pushing the suggestion. Why don’t they let me spend my money on making their life easier? Shit, I don’t want to be big-headed, but I have fuckloads of money—who else would I want to give some to but my family?
I’ve had the circular arguments with them many times so I drop the subject before I ruin the peaceful evening. Dad wants to pretend nothing’s changed; that I’m his son who needs support. Coping with the shift in fortune is tough for him, as if I make him less of a man. I’m glad Mum persuaded him to let me buy this place for them because I know if he’d made the decision, they’d still pay a mortgage.
“Beer, Dad?” I stand. He doesn’t look at me and nods.
Mum returns to her criticism of the Spanish townhouses and the people perusing them. Dad watches silently, lost in his own thoughts.
I head to the kitchen and grab another couple of beers then sit back with the pair. What choice do I have? There’s a four year old sleeping in my bedroom and the single bed in the spare room is only comfortable if I’m full of alcohol and fall asleep quickly.
Plus, how often do I get a chance to sit with my parents watching shit TV?
* * *
Mum and Dadgo to bed and I continue drinking, flicking the TV channels for something to distract me from thoughts of my surreal, real world. The relaxed buzz of one too many beers accompanies my one-eye-open amusement atBig Bang Theoryrepeats.
The front door clicks open and quietly closes, and hushed voices and suppressed giggling moves from the hallway into the kitchen. I smile to myself. Drunk chicks, always funny. Louise can get a bit antsy though. I ignore them and continue with my comedy shows and beer. The clink of bottles, shushing, and continued giggling intrigues me. I’ve spent an evening sitting with the olds; I want to see what they’re up to.
Goldie sleeps in his bed in the corner of the kitchen and lifts his head as I walk in. If a dog could look pissed off, that’s what he’d be. The kitchen light is on and the two girls snicker quietly, knocking back tumbler glasses full of clear liquid. A bottle of vodka and another of tonic water are side by side on the table, lids off, half-empty.
