‘There’s one really hard one my teacher taught me but I can’t do it.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Crow Pose?’
‘Aghhhh the good old crow, no problem, remind me …’
Mum laughs, all flirty. Awwright, Mum. Calm down.
I squat down to the decking, spreading my hands. Then with elbows wedged in between my inner thighs I try to lift my feet off the ground, tipping my head forward … I hold it for half a second before losing my nerve and dropping back down.
‘That’s serious!’ Dove laughs, impressed. ‘You can almost do it.’ Even though I definitely can’t.
‘Nah!’ Dad waves me off. ‘It’s a piddle. Say no more!’
He squats down. I hear his bony knees crick and he finds his balance and, using his hands, tips up. His grey hair floats up like a toupee; I see his bald patch like a little shiny moon twinkling on his skull. He looks old. Different from the frozen photograph I’ve captured of him in my mind. Mum watches, hand over mouth, trying not to laugh at Dad in his camo shorts and tropical shirt as he pouts his mouth and closes his eyes as though he is meditating. I can’t even begin to imagine the photograph Mum has of him in HER mind. It must be a completely different person altogether. Do we hold onto the person we love as the person we see before us today or is it the moment we decided we loved them?
Dad suddenly, drunkenly, FOOLISHLY, tips forward, makes the pose and holds the position and we all whoop, impressed, until he gets too cocky and …
BAM!
His face hits the ground. He’s tipped too far forward too quickly. SO drunk he couldn’t think fast enough to put his feet out to brace himself.
‘AHHH!’ He yells and he looks up and his nose is bleeding and he has cut the bridge of it, all bloody, and his lip has already swollen and his forehead is grazed and covered in black grit and his chin is scabbed and his eyes are already swelling. ‘OH. OH. NO. My face, my face …’ He wants to touch it. ‘Is it bad? Is it bad?’
‘No. No!’ We lie to him. Sitting him down as Mum scuttles over, reassuring him.
‘Come on, old man, let’s get you cleaned up,’ Mum says as she leads him indoors. Dad apologising to Mum, desperately trying to remind her how good he was at yoga back in the day. The dogs follow, of course; they love the drama.
Poor Dad.
Dove and I leave Mum and Dad to it. We can see them in the amber glow of the kitchen from the darkness outside. Dad on the kitchen table and Mum dabbing his head. Dad’s making Mum laugh, although I honestly can’t say if it’s intentional.
‘B, want to see what I’ve learnt?’
‘Sure.’
And suddenly, Dove whips her chair up onto one wheel and spins around on the decking in a pirouette.
‘What the hell was that?’
‘I dunno. Does it look cool?’
‘It looks amazing!’ I hug her. ‘So cool!’
‘I’m gonna learn more. I’ve been watching these videos. I’m also going to try out for a basketball team.’
‘Dove, that’s brilliant news.’
‘Tell you what is brilliant news …’ Dove glances over at the back window where Mum and Dad are hugging. I scrinch my nose up at them – they can be a bit cute.
‘Really, really wish we had marshmallows,’ Dove sighs, ‘always forget about how much I love them.’
Ooh sorry … What did we eat … OK … well, the fairy lights shine a teary dream canopy over the orange flames and cindered coals so we weren’t entirely sure when things were cooked. I guess cooking with fire makes you feel so animalistic and caveman you can almost trick yourself into thinking you are able to stomach pretty much anything.
But I’ll go with chicken. Moist and chargrilled on the outside, sausages that were herby and delicious, bread and cheese and coleslaw.
And you’re probably gonna tell me that most of that is bad for me but I just don’t care.
MARSHMALLOW
‘Let me just squeeze past your bot-bot.’ Alicia double-taps my side. ‘If you just breathe in for me there, babycakes …’ Alicia says as she unnecessarily inches past me to sit down. Exaggerating my size. I don’t take it personally. I’m over it.
‘Bluebelle, there’s something I have to confess to you, doll face. A little bit of … not so good news …’
‘OK …’
I watch a couple sharing an electric skateboard whizz over the zebra crossing towards the park. So annoying.
‘I’ve had a call from head office …’ There is no head office; it’s basically a forty-five-year-old stoner called Daerren (yes with an a and an e) who lies on his couch with his iPad all day. ‘… and they –’ that’ll be Daerren – ‘are, regrettably, as I suspected, worried about committing to the apprenticeship. It’s not something that we – they – as a small independent coffee house can take on. It’s a big responsibility and, well … even though I’ve tried to convince them –’ Daerren – ‘it also didn’t look great that you’ve not really been here much; there’s lots of blanks in the rota, which doesn’t look too pro and when they asked why you weren’t here a lot I obviously had to explain about your sister’s illness and –’
‘Not an illness,’ I interrupt.
‘Sorry, beb, not illness, you know what I mean.’
‘No I don’t. Not really. She had an accident.’
‘Err … O … K, moody pants.’ Alicia looks put out. ‘I wouldn’t be going round acting like that, giving it the biggun after your little stunt with Maxy boy. You’re lucky I didn’t tell them about that or you both would’ve been fired on the spotty-spot-spot.’
I stay silent.
‘And I didn’t dob on you. “Thank you, Alicia.” “You’re welcome”,’ she says to herself through gritted teeth as though she’s being nice, even though she’s being snide. ‘And you should be thanking me anyway because I’ve made sure you can keep your job after I leave. I had a lovely chat with HR –’ HR? Give it a rest, that’ll be Daerren’s cat – ‘and we all agreed that. Perhaps you could speak with the new manager and he’ll give you some more shifts?’
‘Who is the new manager?’ Not that I care. (But obviously I do.)
‘Marcel.’
‘Marcel?’
‘He’s great with the customers and he makes a hell of a cup of coffee. Have you seen his latte art? I mean, it’s totally off the chain!’
‘He draws BREASTS with hot milk, Alicia.’
‘Well …’ Alicia sucks her cheeks in. ‘I’ve never seen the breasts.’
The cakes stare back at me. Their silence speaks volumes. I feel betrayed by the whole building and everything inside it. It’s almost the start of term and I don’t have an apprenticeship. I don’t have anything to go back to. I told Julian from Careers, I told Mum, I told Dad and Dove and Cam and Max. And now I’ll have to face them all.
‘Don’t be upset. Have a hot chocolate and help yourself to a pastry.’
‘I don’t want a pastry.’
‘Why don’t you just pop yourself in the diary more, like we talked about, get those shifts up, and when you’re eighteen maybe you’ll get the chance to even be manager yourself? If that’s not an incentive, I don’t know what is. Maybe you could even apply before you turn eighteen? That way you’ve got something lined up.’
Suddenly I see myself: washed-out. Working as the Planet Coffee manager until I’m forty. Earning more money for Daerren at a business I could run myself. My kids at the table, slurping their babyccinos as my boobs begin to look less and less like the ones on Marcel’s coffee froth.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘You said you’d make sure you had the apprenticeship lined up for me. I’ve told my school …’
‘Yes, I know, which is why I’ve kindly taken the time to write this letter to your school to say there was a miscommunication on our part.’
She holds the letter out in front of me. I reach for it. Alicia snatches it back.
‘Ah-ha
h! Not so fast, earthling. Less of that attitude, missy. I’ve got you out of a hole here.’
‘Not necessarily. If you hadn’t left this so late, I could have found another solution.’ I am so hurt. I don’t know what I’ll do now. I’ve been working so hard at everything, only for life to kick me right in the teeth.
‘I didn’t say it was a definite, Bluebelle.’ So then why does she look guilty? ‘Now, are you going to stop playing the blame game and calm down so I can hand you this letter?’
‘I am calm.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
‘I am.’
‘Give me one good reason why I should give it to you.’
‘How about: I’ve made hot drink after hot drink, sandwich after sandwich, scrubbed the toilets, scraped bogies off the walls, cleaned the fridges, I’ve emptied bins and mopped up YOUR SICK. I’ve smiled when I’ve not wanted to smile and got dribble on my hair and chewing gum on my dress. I’ve put up with rude comments from customers and never once been rude back. Once.’
‘Oh, newsflash, shock horror, it’s called WORKING IN A CAFE, princess, get over it. Sorry it’s not good enough for you.’
‘Whatever, I’m going home.’
Alicia’s jaw drops off. ‘Oh no you don’t.’
‘I’m sick of proving myself. I don’t want to be here right now. I want to go and so that’s what I’m doing. I’m listening to myself.’
‘If you leave now you don’t have a job. Not even a weekend one. You will be an alien no longer. You can wave goodbye to THIS planet once and for all, and let me tell you, Planet Earth will not be as lenient with you as I’ve been.’
‘Fine. I quit.’
‘Oh, soz that you just decided you don’t want to work here right now because things aren’t going your way, Little Miss Choosy Brat-Face, but that’s not how real life works. If you’re leaving, it’s called TWO WEEKS’ NOTICE. Read the small print.’
‘Life is too short for small print, Alicia.’
Alicia frowns. She tries to reach her hand out to me. ‘OK, here’s the letter.’ She boots her chin out to stop it wobbling from nerves. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind just bleaching the back b—’
‘I’ve just told you I’m leaving,’ I say. Alicia looks at me like she’s been slapped round the face. She turns ugly immediately.
‘I’ll rip this letter up right now, right in front of you, missy moo, then you’ll be sorry.’ She is shaking; she has worked herself into such a stupid frenzy. Her wrists are rattling.
‘Rip it up, Alicia. I don’t care. It’s just a stupid letter from you that will mean absolutely nothing. I could die in this place. I’ve got things I want to do so … I’m going.’
I unpeel my apron. Alicia cries out some annoying dramatic gasp that I adore to ignore.
Marcel comes in from a break, smelling of stale fags and chewing gum.
‘Where you off to?’
‘Home.’
‘Did you hear the news? You’re talking to the manager of Planet Coffee! Imagine all the girls I’m gonna get!’
‘Yes, congratulations. I’m leaving now.’
‘I thought your name was on the rota? Aren’t you meant to be working?’
‘Nah. I’m going to hang with my sister.’ I pick up the glass jar of dusty pink, purple and white mini marshmallows by the till. ‘And I’m taking these too.’
Both Alicia and Marcel stare at me, mouths ajar, in absolute shock. Alicia runs after me, her clip-cloppy heels and annoying voice yelping behind me.
‘Wait!’ Marcel shouts. ‘You have to ask me! I’m the manager!’
‘Yeah, well, you’ve not even started your job and I already quit. Great managerial skills.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘Oh, and Marcel, just a few tips … Your breath stinks of dehydration: drink more water. Which reminds me, if you ever want to get a girlfriend maybe stop being such a sexist pervert?’ I bark. Marcel and Alicia stand stunned as I turn to leave. ‘AND will you widen this bloody door so wheelchairs can get in and out, and lose that stupid step, get a ramp? Seriously.’
And I just manage to hear Alicia say to Marcel, ‘Well, she’s not wrong is she?’ And I smile in the end-of-summer sun.
THAI RED CURRY
I think one of the worst things that could ever happen to a person would be for a bottle of fish sauce to smash on their dress. Imagine that? IT ABSOLUTELY STINKS.
I help Dad with the curry. We make a paste out of ginger root, lemongrass, garlic, chilli, sugar, oil and fish sauce and add it to fried onion. The broth is silky-smooth coconut milk and stock. The king prawns need their gross horrid grey veins scooped out of their backs. It’s the nerve. That gets the information to the prawn’s head.
‘What information does a prawn even need?’ Dove asks innocently.
‘Information that says … AAAARRGGHH I AM IN A POT OF BOILING HOT WATER before dying,’ Dad shrieks.
‘Dad, did you just act out a prawn?’
‘Yes, I’ve perfected it, I’m waiting for my call – Prawns, the movie.’
Dove takes a carrot from the fridge and chomps off with it.
We plop the prawns in at the end, top with coriander and a squeeze of lime. We have it with steaming jasmine rice. Some people HATE coriander, it’s like one of those things that you’re programmed to either love or hate. I think it tastes different to different people. To me, it’s aromatic, but to some people it’s like skunk stench.
Mum and Dove join us at the table. Mum and Dad have beers; they offer us one each too but we say no.
The curry is warm and friendly, a comforting spicy bowl of heat.
I take another spoonful of the aromatic curry. The prawns feel fleshy and human, like eating fingers.
Dad proudly places the bottle of fish sauce in the larder. He can begin restocking it again.
Dad’s nose is already starting to crisp up, thanks to the sun. It looks like it’s healing. Thank goodness. I’ve had enough of him walking around like he’s earned the injury like a member of the Mafia, replying to the neighbours’ questions, ‘Don’t you worry ’bout where that came from.’
He’s just happy he feels a sense of community. Of belonging.
But really though …
‘BB?’ Dove asks. ‘Was it you that left a jar of marshmallows on my bed?’
‘Maybe.’
BREAD
‘What would be your last meal on earth?’ Max asks as we picnic on the trifle.
‘Hmm. Bread. Any bread. Farmhouse tin loaf with crusty edges, stale bread, warm bread, tiger loaf – did you know the crackly bit comes from ground toasted rice?’
‘Yeah, I heard that.’
‘Isn’t it great? I heard that a little girl wrote to a supermarket and said that the bread looked more like a giraffe than a tiger and so they changed it to giraffe bread instead of tiger. How good is that?’
‘So good.’
‘Or … warm baguette – the ends, the knob bit, with a wedge of thick cheese or butter, ooooh, or even cheap sliced bread, toasted, buttered. Garlic bread with warm, leaky butter – cheap garlic bread where the garlic butter is sponged into the centre and it’s pre-sliced … don’t care; it’s a different taste, ready for a different day. Or those half-baked baguettes that come in the plastic packets?’
‘Ah yeah, my brother likes those.’
‘Complete life-saver, full of raising agent but can transform a lunch when you’re too scared to face the rain. Olive bread, studded with little black and green nibs wearing treasures of salt crystals and the toasty top. Cheese bread. Ummm. Cheese and ONION bread … mmmmmm. I like ripping the inside out of bread, rolling it in between my hands into doughy cigars, housing my hand in the new mitten.’
‘Hahaha, Bluebelle, you’re so funny.’
‘I want to try fool’s gold loaf, have you ever heard of it? It’s the sandwich that Elvis Presley would order and gobble with champagne. It’s 8,000 calories per serving!’
‘Huh? What the – how co
me?’
‘Errr, because he can have whatever sandwich he wants. He’s Elvis!’
‘Fair enough. What’s in it?’
‘Basically it’s a whole loaf of white bread with all the soft middle innards scooped out, so you are just left with the outer crust, then all that middle stuff is replaced with the filling. First it’s smeared with butter then it’s stuffed with fried bacon, peanut butter and jam. Then the whole thing gets wrapped in foil and put in the oven. I would so eat that. Just to taste it.’
‘Me too, sounds unreal.’ Max nods. ‘Any other bread?’
‘Focaccia. With rosemary needles and olive oil. Wafer-thin ham and milky cheese. Ciabatta, stuffed with mozzarella, tomatoes and pesto. Any bread. At any time.’
‘Yeah, I think bread’s a pretty good last meal. You know those people who do the NO CARBS diets? That’s crazy, I could never do that.’
‘I know, so unhealthy. So they can eat a whole entire plate of cheese and salty bacon and fatty sausages but they can’t eat ONE slice of bread. I just think that’s mental.’
‘I can actually make bread.’
‘Can you?’
‘Yeah. When I was younger I used to be well into it. Now I only bake every so often. It just takes so long, with the yeast and everything.’
‘PLEASE bake me some bread.’
‘OK. I’ll put your order in.’ Max goes quiet. ‘I’d like to be a baker, actually.’
‘What? Really?’
‘Yeah, it’s so therapeutic working with dough. Really calming. I’d like to do brioche and croissants and buns and all that.’
‘How did I not know this about you?’
‘I just … I dunno … Planet Coffee kind of sucks all that stuff out of you, I guess.’
‘I think you’d make an amazing baker.’
‘How’d you know? You’ve never even tasted my bakes!’
‘My bakes!’ I imitate him.
‘What?’ He giggles. ‘That’s what you say.’
‘Did you know you shouldn’t feed bread to ducks in the pond because sliced bread from the supermarket has calcium in it and ducks don’t like calcium? It’s bad for them. Maybe it makes their beaks grow bigger and it weighs them down so much and drowns them?’
Big Bones Page 26
