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‘You’re all in sixth form now.’
She waggles her head. ‘I really don’t know. But it looks to me like Jenna and Rose kind of keep themselves to themselves these days.’
‘I thought Rose was bullying Jenna?’
‘I think it’s like… a love–hate thing.’ She looks down at her feet, bare on the terrace slabs, and I wonder if I see a hint of blush rising in her cheeks.
25
NOW
When I reach the kitchen, Mina is pouring olive oil on a bowl of steaming beetroot, her swan’s neck bent, her dark hair a silk curtain. At the table, Mother looks anxious, her watery eyes magnified by her glasses, while Father looks like the cat who got the cream. Which is quite normal. My father is a kind, generous man. But he’s also smart and wily and loves winding her up.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Mother. ‘I didn’t say you didn’t know what you were doing. I?—’
‘Did you tell me to “turn it anticlockwise”, dear?’ My father wears an amused smile.
‘Yes, but I?—’
‘Anticlockwise?’
‘I didn’t mean?—’
‘But you used that word, didn’t you, dear?’ Father sets down a jar of horseradish sauce.
‘I did. I?—’
‘What a strange word. It’s too logical. Anti. Clock. Wise. Against, opposite, the way of the clock.’
Mother is quiet. She’s so thin these days I worry she might snap.
‘It sounds like it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ says Father.
Mother nods. She tries to catch my eye, but if she doesn’t know Father is doing this on purpose, she’ll get no help from me.
‘Father, Mother, I?—’
But Father hates being interrupted. ‘Did you hear it somewhere, dear? Did you read it on the interweb? Or did you come up with it, my pretty little head?’
Mother’s mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Does she want to object to his assertion that ‘anticlockwise’ is made up? Or to his description of her as a ‘pretty little head’? She hates being called pretty. Especially now that her cheeks are dotted with sunspots. But she must know he’s just being cheeky.
‘Anticlockwise!’ Father snorts and throws a look over at Mina, who rolls her eyes with a smile.
He hasn’t looked at me yet and I realise he’s also annoyed with me for being late, again.
Mother worries her necklace and the click, click, click walks down my ear canal like a beetle. ‘David, it’s a word!’ Her voice goes shrill. ‘It’s a completely normal word people use every day.’ Her cheeks colour.
Father laughs. ‘Are you sure, dear?’
She nods, frowning, the red in her cheeks deepening.
‘Whatever next? Pro-sun-wards? Contra-tide-ways?’
‘It’s a word.’ Her mouth is determined, but then it wavers and she looks at me. ‘Fran? Tell me I’m not losing it.’
Father raises his palm at me. ‘You don’t need a Falmouth art graduate to teach you English, do you, Miss Cambridge?’
I stare at him. He’s always teasing Mother about her classics degree from Cambridge. He only went to Nottingham and achieved greatness, while she stayed home with the children. Which is a little unfair seeing as she’d wanted to work but he’d stopped her, and he’d inherited everything.
