by John Newman
Well, Conor ate the meal because he has a stomach like a trash bin, but he did not say a word to anyone and his eyes looked red and puffy. When he was finished he went straight back to his room and banged his door shut so hard that the plates on the table jumped.
Eventually I managed to finish my dinner, even though I felt like throwing up a few times. The meat had to be chewed about five hundred times before it would go down, and I found it helped if I closed my eyes when eating the peas. The potatoes were OK . . . ish.
Sally ate nothing. She just sat there with her mouth shut while her dinner got colder and colder and Dad got madder and madder. He ordered me to go to my room and get ready for bed and said he would be up later to see me brush my teeth. It was only seven o’clock, but going to bed sounded like a good idea.
In twenty minutes Dad came up to make sure I brushed my teeth properly. Sally was still at the table, I supposed, because she hadn’t appeared. Dad stood with his arms folded and his face very red while I brushed my teeth for three minutes. I don’t think he heard the back door opening, but I did and it wasn’t hard to guess what Sally was up to. I had had enough upset for one day, so I hopped into my bed and closed the door after Dad had given me a quick kiss and a stern “Good night.” Even with the door closed I could hear Dad roaring at Sally for giving her perfectly good meal to Sparkler. It was the end of a lousy day, so I just pulled my pillow tight over my head to block out all the shouting, put my thumb in my mouth, and went to sleep without even saying good night to Mammy or Socky.
It was probably because I went to bed so early, or else it was the bright sun shining in my window, but whatever the reason I woke up bright and early. I knelt on my bed and pulled the curtains back and looked out into the back garden. We have a big back garden; the grass is very long, but even so it would have looked lovely in the sunshine if Sparkler hadn’t been squatting in the middle of it doing her morning poop. The garden must be full of dog poop by now because nobody cleans it up.
Mammy was an “avid” gardener, which I think means that she was very good at it. She certainly spent a lot of her time gardening, and our garden was full of flowers. But she always left room for us to play, so there was plenty of grass and a swing and a big slide and a real tree house with a little wooden ladder up to it. Sally and I used to spend a lot of time in the tree house. We always had a bucket of water up there to throw down onto Conor and his friends when they decided to attack us. Nobody plays in the garden now — except Sparkler, who has turned it into a big toilet.
I was just thinking about all this when Dad burst in, which was a big surprise because he hardly ever comes into my room now. The other big surprise was that he wasn’t tired and sad. “You’re up early,” he said cheerfully. “Now get dressed quickly, have your breakfast, and brush your teeth. And while you’re doing all that I’m going to wash this lot, and then I’ll take you to school.” And with that he scooped a load of my clothes up off the floor and headed downstairs to throw them in the washing machine.
It was only when I was half dressed that I realized he had taken all my uniform except the tie. “Dad!” I yelled. “My uniform!”— but it was too late. It was already sloshing around in the washing machine. I wasn’t too pleased.
“Oh, it’s not the end of the world, Mimi. Put on something else and stop making a fuss!”
He was cross again, but it wasn’t my fault. Sally wouldn’t get out of bed and Conor had spilled milk all over the kitchen floor — by accident on purpose, I think. Dad was doing his best to do everything, but his mood was not getting any better.
“Brush your teeth, Mimi, now,” he barked at me, which was just so unfair because I was the only one doing what she was told. “One, two, three . . .” He was counting now at the top of his voice, and if Sally wasn’t up by the time he got to ten he was grounding her for a week.
Sally got up exactly on ten and gave poor Dad one of her I-so-hate-you looks. By the time she was dressed it was nearly time to go.
“Eat your breakfast quickly. And brush your teeth,” ordered Dad.
“I don’t eat breakfast, which is something you would know if you showed any interest in us at all,” Sally told him.
Conor and me were standing at the door, but Dad wouldn’t go until Sally ate some breakfast.
Sally hates being late for school, so she shoveled down about three spoonfuls of cereal and looked as if she was going to throw up. “Satisfied?” she screamed at Dad, and grabbed her schoolbag. Black mascara was running down her nose where she hadn’t had time to put it on right — or maybe she was crying.
“No,” said Dad. “Go and brush your teeth . . . for three minutes.”
“I hate you!” she screamed, and raced up to the bathroom. Dad timed her to make sure that she did the full three minutes. She nearly broke the car door, she slammed it so hard.
“Thanks, Sally,” said Conor. “Now we’re all going to be late!”
“Shut up, Conor!” she yelled, and started punching him. Luckily I was in the front.
“Stop it, you two, this minute!” roared Dad, and I wondered if things could get any worse.
Yes, things could get worse. The whole class was working really quietly when I came in — dead late, of course, thanks to Sally. Twenty-seven heads turned to look at me, and I felt my face go red like a beet, although it didn’t look a beet. Because I have brownish skin nobody can see when I blush, but I was blushing inside.
Ms. Hardy looked at her watch. “You are very late, Mimi,” she said.
“I . . . I . . . I know,” I faltered, and I could hear some children giggling.
“Quiet!” said Ms. Hardy. “Go and sit down, Mimi, and take out your homework. By the way, where is your uniform?”
“In the wash, Miss,” I whispered. “Daddy threw it all in the washing machine this morning before I could stop him.”
Again I heard children giggle.
“Just bring me up your homework, Mimi,” said Ms. Hardy, kindly enough — but how I wished that Ms. Addle was back teaching us again.
Of course I had no homework to show Ms. Hardy, so I just looked down at my desk. I didn’t feel so well and I had to swallow hard not to cry.
“Your lines?” asked Ms. Hardy — and that was too much. I started blubbering like a baby. I tried to wipe away my tears with the back of my hand, which only spread snot all over my face. Orla put her arm around my shoulders.
“Mimi’s mother was run over by a bus so she doesn’t do any homework, Miss, except on Wednesdays,” called out Sarah.
“Did I ask you, Sarah?” snapped Ms. Hardy, and glared at her.
“No, Miss,” muttered Sarah, and her face went bright red.
Then Ms. Hardy crouched down in front of my desk and talked quietly to me. I sniffed and sobbed but her voice, though soft, was firm. Ms. Addle would have hugged me and said never mind. “Mimi, I’m very sorry about your mother,” Ms. Hardy said, “but that is not a reason to neglect your work. I expect you to do your homework every night and to come to school on time, in your full uniform, every morning. Pass in the missing homework and the lines tomorrow, please. Now, what is your home phone number?”
“Twoeightthreesevensixfournine,” I called out in a rush.
“A little slower, Mimi,” said Ms. Hardy, smiling.
“Two”— sniff —“eight”— sniff —“threeseven”— sniff, sniff —“sixfournine”— big sniff.
“Thank you,” said Ms. Hardy when she had written down the number. “I think I’ll have a little chat with your dad. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“‘I think I’ll have a little chat with your dad. Nothing for you to worry about,’” sneered Sarah in the school yard, and pushed me over. “You’re a pathetic loser and a Crybaby,” she jeered, and her gang laughed like drains before they all walked off.
“Rotten lousy scumbags,” whispered Orla as she helped me to my feet. “Did you hear what the policeman said to his tummy? ‘You’re under avest.’”
And e
ven though I was feeling very sad I just had to laugh, because I got that joke and it was really a silly one.
That afternoon I went straight to Aunt B.’s house. I didn’t stop at Mrs. Lemon’s shop because I was afraid if I got delayed Sarah would be waiting to kill me outside.
Emma answered the door. “Good day, Dig,” she greeted me, and then gave me one of her celebrity hugs. Emma and I are going to be celebrities when we grow up, so we have to practice our hugs. “How are you, darling?” she asked in a hoity-toity voice.
“I am absolutely shattered, my dear Dag,” I replied. “I have spent the whole day shopping. My poor legs are worn down to stumps, and my head is splitting!”
“What you need is an Indian head massage, my dear Dig,” Emma said. “And I am just the one to give it to you.” And then before I even had a chance to put down my bag, Emma shoved her fingers into my hair and started ruffling it all up.
“Stop,” said Aunt B., appearing in the hall. “Now, chop-chop, girls, we have lunch to make.”
Lunch was a chicken stir-fry that Aunt B. had prepared that very day at the butcher’s. She just loved her new job, and she told us all about how you made sausages and black pudding out of dried pig’s blood. Emma made a face at me when Aunt B. went to the door to let Sally in, but the chicken stir-fry, which I was given the job of stirring, certainly smelled yummy.
Emmett was with Sally and they had to set the table. Aunt B. put some stir-fry away for Conor. It was the nicest lunch I have had in ages — and to think that I made most of it myself. I might be a chef when I grow up — a celebrity chef.
We all washed the dishes together while Conor ate his lunch. He had a big bag of soccer gear with him.
“What’s in the big bag?” Aunt B. asked him.
“All the dirty jerseys of the soccer team,” he told her. “It’s my turn to wash them.”
Then we sat down to start our homework, which was a good thing because I had lots to do, and lines as well, for Ms. Hardy, but I had hardly gotten started when there was a ring at the door.
It was Dad! He didn’t look too happy — but then again, he never did look too happy these days. “OK, you three,” he ordered, “let’s go.”
“What?” said Sally. “It’s much too early. We never go home at this time!”
“Well, we do today, Sally. Say good-bye to your cousins and say thank you to your Aunt B. and get in the car.”
“What’s the rush, Paul?” Aunt B. asked Dad. “Horace can drop the children home later.”
“Thank you, but he will not, Betty,” Dad told her. “Those children are coming home right now. Mimi’s teacher rang me to come in to talk to her, and after I had seen her I paid a visit to Sally’s and Conor’s teachers as well, and I was horrified by what I was told . . . by all of them.” He sounded very annoyed.
Conor put his head in his hands and groaned. Sally closed her eyes tightly and pursed her lips, and I went red under my skin.
“OK, kids,” said Aunt B. in a surprisingly soft voice, “pack up your stuff and we’ll see you again next week. OK now, chop-chop.” And she helped me put my books into my bag and gave my shoulder a secret little squeeze.
I really would have liked to stay at Aunt B.’s house, but Dad was standing there with a face like thunder, jiggling the car keys.
It was a quiet drive home. The situation did not look too good. Sally had her arms folded across her chest and just stared out of the side window with her lips thin and her eyes black. Conor looked fed up and kept turning his eyes to heaven every time Dad muttered something.
Nobody asked Dad what the teachers had actually said. I didn’t like to think what Ms. Hardy might have said about me, but obviously I wasn’t the only one in the family who had been doing badly in school.
As soon as we were through the front door Dad ordered us upstairs to do our homework and do it properly and not to reappear until we had it done, and to show him our homework when we had finished it so he could check it — and if he was not satisfied we would be going straight up to do it again.
“Yes, sir,” muttered Sally, but I don’t think Dad heard her. Which was just as well because he was in a bad mood.
I closed my door, threw my bag in the corner and myself on the bed, and pulled Socky onto my hand. “Hi, Socky,” I whispered.
“Hi, Mimi,” whispered Socky, his mouth opening in perfect time with the words. I might be a puppeteer when I grow up (when I’m not being a celebrity), but I still have to get the hang of ventril . . . ventrilo-something-or-other. That’s when you talk without moving your lips. Your voice has to come out of your belly button, I think. It is very hard to do but you can do anything if you set your mind to it, I reckon. Anyway, that’s what Mammy says — I mean, what she used to say.
I could hear Conor opening his door and going downstairs.
“Is he dinished alldeddy?” said Socky, and I swear my lips didn’t move.
“Are you finished already?” I could hear Dad saying in an astonished voice.
“No,” snapped Conor. “I just have to put all the soccer jerseys in the wash. It’s my turn to wash them.”
“Conor does not know how to kut on the hoshing hachine,” said Socky. He sounded really quite convincing.
“Leave it,” said Dad roughly. “I’ll do it for you. You don’t know the first thing about putting on a wash. Now get back upstairs.” I could hear Conor tramping back up the stairs, and then Dad calling out, “Sally! Mimi! If either of you has any washing, throw it down now. I’m putting on a wash!”
I threw down my fluorescent red T-shirt and Sally flung a load of black clothes.
“You’re welcome!” said Dad sarcastically as he picked them up off the hall floor.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, but Sally just flounced back into her room, slamming her door after her. She was in one of her moods.
I went back into my room too and sat down to do my homework. I didn’t want to do it, but I decided I’d better or Dad might just kill me, so I threw Socky on the bed and opened up my math book.
Would you believe it? Fractions for homework. Fractions were invented by some evil madman who got his kicks out of making schoolchildren miserable.
“If there were twenty-five sweets in a bag and Anne ate three-fifths of them, how many sweets were left?”
I mean, who cares? Why didn’t she just eat all the sweets like a normal child? Then the problem would have been easy. She was probably one of those horrible girls who always saves some sweets for later so that they can suck them slowly in front of you when you’ve finished all your own, and you just feel like smacking them.
Anyway, there was no point in getting all worked up over some greedy little girl, so I just got on with the problem. Three-fifths of twenty-five — I mean, how hard can that be? Too hard for me! So I texted Orla.
Divide by the bottom and multiply by the top and subtract your answer from 25. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Luv u Orla.
That didn’t sound too hard. So I had to divide twenty-five by five, which was the bottom of the fraction. If I’d had the sweets it would have been easier — because dividing is pretty tricky when you haven’t done it for as long as I hadn’t. So I started doing it on my fingers, but that didn’t work so well because I don’t have twenty-five fingers.
Then Dad called us down for dinner, which was a relief because I was starving — but it did make me lose count. At this rate I was never going to get my homework done.
Dinner was a sad, quiet affair. Dad had made some sort of pig swill that was meant to be a stew, and you would have had to be starving to eat it. Or afraid that your father was going to kill you if you didn’t. I was both. So I managed to get it down. Conor, of course, shoveled it in. I seriously think that he has no taste buds at all. Sally pushed her stew around the plate and ate the odd forkful. The fight seemed a bit knocked out of her — or else she just wanted to get away as quick as she could.
“So how’s the homework going?” Dad asked no one in particular. So no o
ne in particular answered. Dad seemed to be enjoying his dinner — he was already taking seconds. You can see clearly where Conor gets his sense of taste. “Conor? Any problems with your homework?” he asked the top of Conor’s head. (When Conor eats, his nose nearly touches the plate.)
“No,” said Conor.
“OK. How about you, Sally?”
Sally grunted something that nobody caught and Dad didn’t ask her again.
“Do you need any help with your homework, Mimi?” Dad turned to me. He was trying to be helpful, and Conor and Sally were being so rude to him. I felt sorry for Dad, so I said that I did need help with math . . . which was true, actually.
So after dinner when the others had gone back to their rooms to finish their homework or whatever they were doing, I brought down my math book and sat down with Dad at the kitchen table. Mammy used to help me every day with my homework, and although we’d sometimes end up shouting at each other, I’d have done anything to have her back for one minute, even of shouting.
I was thinking about this while Dad read out the question. “Three-fifths of twenty-five. Right. First things first. Do you know what a fifth is?” he asked me.
“Not really,” I had to admit.
“That’s no problem,” said Dad. “It’s easily explained. Imagine a pizza.”
“I’d prefer not to,” I said with a little smile. The pizza that jumped into my mind was as black as an old tire . . . and it suddenly reminded me of Sparkler. “Hey, Dad — did anyone feed Sparkler?”
“Don’t worry about Sparkler; I’ll give her the leftovers of the stew later on. Now imagine the pizza is cut into five slices. Can you picture that?”
Poor old Sparkler was what I was thinking about, having to finish off that stew — but I didn’t say it.
