The Guest House by David Mark

Author:David Mark [Mark, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781800244023
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

PART TWO

14

It’s a foul night: wet and dark and filled with the roar of the storm. Beyond the garden the trees thrash like fighting stags, the sound fighting for superiority over the suck and surge of the water against the shingly bay across the road and the churn of the rising river beneath the bridge. On such nights I cannot help but think of the crofters who used to make their home here: huddling together in a single room, arthritic fingers struggling to light a peat fire in the cold, black hearth. I know I am a child of my time. I sometimes wonder how much weaker we will become before we turn our backs on softness altogether.

Within our safe, warm space, the children glower at each other across ketchup-crusted plates, debating the great issue of the day.

‘It’s a skua! Skew-ah! Like, a skewer you put marshmallows on. Or eyeballs. You are so stupid, Poppy. How can you even…?’

‘It’s pronounced squah! Like, I dunno, “car” or “far” or “I hope Atticus gets attacked by a jaguaaaar” or something! Mrs Lewis said it!’

‘Then she’s wrong as well! Who’d call a bird a squaaaah? That’s just dumb.’

‘Ask Alexa, if you need proof.’

‘I don’t need proof, I already know I’m right. Tell her, Mum, tell her she’s stupid.’

‘Poppy not stupid. Atcus stupid.’

‘Mum, did you hear what Lilly said? That’s not on. No way. Lilly stupid!’

I’ve tuned them all out. It’s like listening to the shipping forecast: a tapestry of random, indecipherable words that somehow provide a vaguely restful background hum. I only snap back in when Lilly picks up a cold chip from my plate and starts using it to clean her ear.

‘Don’t do that, baby – it’s unhygienic.’

‘What’s ’ngenic?’

‘It means it’s dirty. Germs. Yuk.’

‘Chips not yuk. Chips ’licious.’

‘Not with earwax on them,’ says Atticus, scowling. I glance at him. He looks so much like his dad that I want to turn away. I don’t let myself. It’s hardly his fault. I force myself to see the boy, and not the shadow of the man. It’s not easy, with his jaw set as if he’s sitting in a Friday night traffic jam. His fingertips are white where they grip the pages of his ornithology book. He and Poppy have been arguing since before I served up an evening meal of slightly overcooked chicken sticks, oven chips and spaghetti hoops. Atticus likes to think of himself as an expert in all things nature-related, having received the Bumper Book of Birds for Christmas, not much more than a fortnight ago. Poppy, on the other hand, likes to think of herself as the font of all knowledge, and has consistently been top of her class throughout her life. So far the debate has been relatively civil, though Poppy has definitely started changing her grip on her fork.

‘Mum, you decide. Skewer or Squah?’

I look at my children, expectant expressions on their faces. I’m in an impossible situation and they know it. But I’m an experienced parent and know how to play this game.

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