“Oh, it’s not dull,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “No place is dull when you get to know what’s going on in people’s lives.”
“And do you do that?” Stella asked her. “Get to know what’s happening in people’s lives?”
“I seem to have the knack,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “And now I’ll have a piece of that porter cake, if you don’t mind, young Stella.”
“I don’t think so,” said Stella. “You’re supposed to be diabetic.”
“I’ll only have a small piece,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Just a nibble.”
CHAPTER
27
In a dream that night, Jake thought, “Poor Daisy, only got one dad.”
Next morning he remembered the dream thought.
What rubbish!
He didn’t have two dads. He had half a dad at best. The one who’d run away didn’t count, and the one he’d got wasn’t the real thing.
CHAPTER
28
“So tell me about this stickleback,” said Jake’s dad. They were washing up together after dinner. This was a new rule in their house, to give Mum time to feed Daisy in peace. Quite a lot of things had changed since Daisy had arrived.
“What stickleback?” asked Jake, though he knew exactly what Dad meant. He remembered the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago. It seemed a lifetime ago now. He was just playing for time, trying to decide what Dad was getting at.
“The one that goes blue in the face. Like me, trying to talk to you.” Dad coughed a nervous little laugh.
“It goes red in the face,” Jake said, “and blue in the body. Some books say the body has a bluish tinge; others say it goes brilliant blue. I suppose there must be differences between the species. There are lots of species, ones with three spines, ones with ten spines, and I suppose some with the numbers in between. And the eyes go bright, bright blue too, electric blue.”
“Three spines! Ten spines! You’d be crippled if you had ten spines. You couldn’t walk—or swim.”
“Not that kind of spine,” said Jake, suppressing a sigh. There was no doubt about it, his dad was slow on the uptake. “It means a little sticky-up bit, a stickle, on the back. Like a thorn on a rose. They’re a sort of armor, and weapons too. They get very fierce when they have babies.”
“Oh. So they take fatherhood very seriously, do they, these sticklebacks?”
“Yep,” said Jake, letting the water spill slowly out of the washing-up basin into the sink. The water was pale gray and greasy. He was going to have to wash the basin, to get the film of grease off it. He hunkered down to get the detergent from the cupboard under the sink.
“Well, go on,” said Dad. “I’m all ears.”
Jake laughed. It was a family joke, because it was true that Dad had rather large ears. Not like Jake’s, which, thankfully, were small and lay back neatly against the side of his head. He had his mother’s ears. His mother often said so. He didn’t know what his father’s ears had been like. It wasn’t the kind of question you asked your mother, somehow.
“I hope Daisy doesn’t inherit your ears,” Jake said, standing up with the squeezy detergent bottle in his hand. “You should have thought about that before you had her.”
“What! Not have a baby in case her ears stick out! I don’t think that’s very sensible, Jake, now, is it?”
Dad was riled, Jake could see. He smiled to himself and rubbed the detergent around the inside of the basin.
“But go on about the stickleback,” Dad said. “I want to know.”
“Well,” said Jake, “he builds this nest, see? And then he entices the female sticklebacks into it. They are brown, like female ducks, dull, but in the mating season, he is all in his bridal colors. That’s what they call it, don’t laugh, I’m just telling you.”
“I’m not laughing,” said Dad. “I’m listening.”
“He does this zigzag dance, it’s called a courtship dance, and she watches, and if she likes it, and she likes him and all his colors, and she likes his nest, then she goes in and lays her eggs, and then she swims off.”
“The hussy!”
“Yeah, well. So, he keeps on doing this, getting all the females he can to lay eggs in his nest, and he fertilizes all the eggs of course, so they’re all his, genetically—that’s the whole point, you see, he wants them to have sticky-out ears, you could say. And then he looks after the eggs and he fights off all the predators and, like I said, he is terribly fierce. And even after they hatch out, he looks after them until they are fully independent and able to mind themselves.”
“My word! So that’s the difference between sticklebacks and humans, then.”
“Yes, they’re better fathers.”
“No, I mean, in humans, it’s the female who wears the bridal dress. And all because she wants to pass on her lovely pearly conchlike ears to her offspring, but of course, she doesn’t know that’s why she’s doing it.”
“That’s not it at all,” said Jake. “That’s not the point.”
“Well, it’s one point, Jake,” said Dad. “And another point is that sticklebacks are interesting because they’re so unusual. They’re not some sort of good example for the rest of the species of the planet, you know. It’s just one little corner of evolution, the stickleback school of child maintenance and education.”
Jake didn’t know what Dad was on about; but he knew he didn’t want to continue this conversation. He felt it was getting all twisted.
“So that’s your bedtime story for tonight,” he said, turning the basin upside down in the sink to let it drain.
“Speaking of bridal dresses,” Dad went on, “you know there’s going to be a christening soon?”
Jake hadn’t known, but he nodded anyway.
“So we thought … your mum and I … we thought…”
Jake kept his eyes glued to the upturned bottom of the washing-up basin. He couldn’t look at Dad.
“We thought, Jake, that we might get married, make one big celebration of it. What do you think, Son?”
“What!” Jake spun around from the sink to face his dad.
“Well, you know, we are a family, after all. And we’re planning to stay being a family. Wouldn’t it be nice, Jake, to sort of announce it?”
“But then, everyone will know you weren’t married to start with.”
“So?”
“Well … I don’t know, it feels peculiar. Then you’d be my stepfather.”
“I am already.”
“But legally.”
“I don’t think it makes much difference, legally. You’re still Jim’s son, from the strictly stickleback point of view, if you see what I mean, and your ears will never stick out quite as well as mine do.…” He stopped here for Jake to laugh and, in spite of himself, Jake did give a small smile. “But I’ve been your dad for as long as you can remember, Jake. It doesn’t matter who’s married to whom.”
“If it doesn’t matter,” Jake said, “why bother?”
“It doesn’t matter to you and me, I mean,” Dad said. “It matters in other ways. Your mother and I would like to be married.”
“Because of Daisy.”
“Not only because of Daisy, Jake.”
“It didn’t matter when it was just me.”
“Jake, I know it must seem like that.”
“Because it is like that.”
“No!” said Dad. “We always intended doing it, but, well, we just let it drift … and then Daisy coming along just sort of reminded us.”
Jake stared at him, a long, cold stare. Dad stared back. He looked very uncomfortable, but he kept staring anyway, as if willing Jake to agree.
“Oh, do what you like,” said Jake at last. “What does it matter anyway? I don’t care what you do.”
CHAPTER
29
The weather had improved dramatically, which was lucky because they were having the wedding-cum-christening in the garden. At least, they had the actually getting married and getting christened part in the local chur
ch, and then they had the party in the garden, in the sunshine.
It all happened very fast. Jake hardly had time to think about it.
“So that’s the proof, Father,” Jake’s mum was saying to the priest who’d done the marrying and christening, as she served him his wedding lunch. “Salmon and raspberries just couldn’t be in season at the same time by a quirk of evolution, it’s too divine a coincidence.”
“So that means there’s a God?” said the priest, looking startled.
“Mmm,” said Jake’s mum, grinning at him.
“Well, it’s not a proof known to theology,” the priest said, “but it’s pretty convincing, I must say.”
“You could write a paper on it in a theological journal and send it to the Vatican and they might make you a bishop,” Jake’s mum suggested, waving her fish slice in the air. “I’d never let on I told you. It’d be our little secret. Have some more champagne.”
“So does this mean we’ll be seeing more of you at Mass?” the priest asked slyly.
“Oh, now!” said Jake’s mum noncommittally. “You never know your luck.”
“You’re drunk,” Jake hissed at her as the priest moved off with his plate of salmon and his glass of champagne, chuckling to himself.
“Only the teeniest bit, Jakey,” she said.
Her eyes were shining. She looked lovely, in her pearly-colored dress and with her hair all caught into a flowery headdress, though it had begun to work itself a bit loose by now and was drifting around her head in its usual wild way.
“It’s not every day you get married,” Jake’s mother was saying. “And champagne doesn’t make you drunk, you know. It only makes you merry. Have a Coke, why don’t you, Jake?”
“I’m full of bubbles already, thanks,” Jake said. “And I know when I’ve had enough. I hope Daisy doesn’t get drunk. Can you imagine, a baby with a hangover? Ugh!”
“Jake, I’ve only had two glasses. Stop lecturing me. It’s my wedding day!”
Jake shrugged. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to change my name,” he said.
“What?” asked his mother. “Why would you change your name?”
“Well, boys usually have the same name as their fathers. Isn’t that why people get married?”
“Or their mothers, Jake, as you have had all your life.”
“But you will be changing your name now. ‘Mrs. Burke.’ Ugh! It sounds so old, Mum.”
“You just think that because it’s your granny’s name. But anyway, I have no intention of changing my name, Jake. It’s not obligatory, you know, and I haven’t a notion of it, so you see, there is no problem.”
“So you and I will still be Cotter?”
“Of course.”
“And Dad will still be Burke?”
“Yes.”
“And what about Daisy?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. Burke, I suppose.”
“You see! It’s different for her. Because of your stupid wedding. That’s why you did it, so she could be a proper Burke.”
“Jake, this is ridiculous. Can we have this conversation some other time, some other place?”
“No,” said Jake. “I think this is a good time.”
“You can be Burke too if you like, darling, if you want to be the same as Daisy. I’m sure you can fill in a form or something. It’s no big deal and we can discuss it another time, Jake.”
“I just told you, Mum, I don’t want to change my name.”
“All right then! Don’t!” his mother yelled at him. “That’s just what I’ve been saying all along. You don’t have to! There IS no issue, Jake.”
Jake’s mother never yelled at him, but now she was shouting and her two fists were clenched in the air in front of her, and she was rocking back and forth, as if she wanted to shake him. He was so startled he let out a loud gasp and burst into tears. It was the shock, more than anything, of seeing his mother so exasperated with him. They never fought. And he never cried.
“Jake, Jake, I’m sorry!” His mother hunkered down with the crinkling sound of her wedding dress folding around her as she sank, and opened her arms to him.
He longed to run into those outstretched arms and hug her, but something made him hang back. Maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe it was embarrassment at his own tears, or maybe it was just the thought of the starchy texture of her dress crunching against his face. But he stood there and shook his head, and fought to push back the tears.
CHAPTER
30
Jake was invited to Stella’s for tea on the day after the wedding. He was glad to get away. His parents had announced that morning that they were on their honeymoon, and they had no intention of doing anything for the whole weekend except staying late in bed reading the papers, and watching some crime thing on the television. Jake was to help himself to leftovers from the wedding party and not interrupt. His mother would have to feed Daisy, of course, but that was the only thing they were definitely doing all day.
The kitchen was in chaos. No wonder his parents didn’t want to get up and face it. Jake found the cornflakes easily, but he had to wash a cereal bowl that someone had clearly eaten raspberry pavlova out of. He scrubbed the bowl hard and tried not to think about the person who’d last eaten out of it, but his heart wasn’t in it, and he only ate half the cornflakes.
When Stella rang to invite him to tea, he was thrilled to accept. He told his stunned parents that he expected to see some order in the kitchen by the time he got home, and left early, because he’d decided that he would visit Mrs. Kennedy before presenting himself at Stella’s.
Mrs. Kennedy was surprised to see him. She hadn’t heard about the wedding.
“That’s nice,” she said, when Jake told her the story. “You must be pleased.”
“Why?” asked Jake. “What’s it got to do with me?”
“Well, I don’t know, but you must be pleased for your mother.”
“I’m not,” said Jake. It felt good to be able to tell someone this, someone who wasn’t going to get upset about it.
“And it must be nice to know that your dad is, you know, legally your stepfather.”
“Not really,” said Jake.
“Do you feel bad about your other father?” Mrs. Kennedy asked. “Is that the problem? Do you miss him?”
“No,” said Jake. “I don’t miss him, exactly. But I wish he hadn’t just disappeared. It’s not a nice feeling to think that a person left because you were born.”
“Oh, I’m sure that wasn’t the reason.”
“I think so,” said Jake. “That’s more or less how Mum explained it, anyway.”
“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “all families are different, aren’t they?”
“No,” said Jake. “Most families are the same. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about families.”
“You’re right,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Very dull.”
“Like Hull,” said Jake.
“Not in the slightest,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “I’ll tell you what. I have something to show you, only you’ll have to get it yourself.”
“OK,” said Jake.
“You know where my room is, don’t you? Well, go into the room beside that, it’s the study, if you don’t mind.”
“We have a study,” said Jake. “My mother works there.”
“Well, my daughter-in-law does nothing at all. Anyway, there is a thing in there called library steps. Do you know what those are?”
“Yes,” said Jake. “Like a little ladder.”
“That’s it. Now, take this little ladder thing and go into my room, and climb up to the top of the wardrobe.”
Jake laughed.
“No, I mean, just so you can see the top of the wardrobe.”
“All right,” said Jake.
“You will see a hatbox there. It’s a pink-and-white striped cylinder. Behind the hatbox is a shoebox. That’s the thing I want.”
“All right,” said Jake again, wondering what could be
in the shoebox. Jewels maybe. Or money.
He went up the stairs, past all the paintings. He winked at the beautiful girl with the candle.
Or a letter from a famous person to another famous person, he thought. Like from Napoleon to Florence Nightingale. Or a will. Or bomb-making equipment. Or the title deeds to a castle in Transylvania. Or the plans of a dungeon where Mrs. Kennedy’s ancestors were buried. Or a skull.
He found the library steps. He climbed up to the wardrobe. He sneezed. He moved the pink-and-white hatbox to one side and sneezed again. It was very dusty on top of the wardrobe. He found the shoebox, white with black writing on it.
Carefully he lifted it down and put it on the bed. Then he returned the library steps to the study, and went back into the bedroom for the shoebox.
It couldn’t be anything alive, he thought, because it would die of hunger and thirst and lack of air in the shoebox. But it might be an egg. A dragon’s egg. Or an ostrich egg. On the whole, an ostrich egg was more likely. It felt a bit heavy for an egg, even a big one, but he held it carefully all the same and carried it downstairs.
“Why do you keep it on top of the wardrobe?” he asked as he came back into the sitting room. “You must have an awful job getting it down.”
“To keep it safe,” said Mrs Kennedy. “I can get it down easily enough by poking at it with my stick. A stick has many purposes, you know, apart from holding you up when you get wobbly on your feet. Also, I’m taller than you.”
Jake thought it must be something pretty precious if she put it away so carefully.
“Postcards!” he said, when she took the lid off.
“Yes,” she said. “Lovely ones.”
“Oh!” said Jake.
“You sound disappointed,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Are postcards not exciting enough for you?”
“No,” said Jake. All this honesty was going to his head.
“Oh, they’re not holiday ones,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “They’re ones of paintings.”
That sounded marginally better, but not as good as the castle in Transylvania or the dragon’s egg.
“But the house is full of real paintings. Why would you want postcards of paintings?”
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