Millions by Frank Cottrell Boyce

Author:Frank Cottrell Boyce [Boyce, Frank Cottrell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan Publishers UK
Published: 2008-04-08T22:00:00+00:00

13

Anthony tried to push the bag behind his back out of sight, which was a bit like trying to push a school behind you out of sight. It was never going to work. And anyway it was pointless, because the bin couldn’t actually see. It wasn’t the bin who was watching us. I knew who it was. It was the smart lady from school. When I looked at her, she lifted her hand and waved, with just her little finger. I’ve never seen anyone else do this before or since. It’s unique. She said, ‘Hello, Damian.’

I said, ‘Hello, Bin.’

‘Is that really your school bag? You’ll give yourself a hernia,’ said the smart lady.

For once Anthony was stumped. Luckily, she took his silence for a question. She said, ‘The speaker on my bin was broken. Your dad offered to fix it for me.’

‘Well, it’s fixed now,’ said Anthony. And he kept the front door open, as if she was going to leave.

‘My name’s Dorothy, by the way,’ said Dorothy. ‘And yes, your dad did a great job.’

She took her coat down from the coat rack. Dad came out of the kitchen, still carrying his screwdriver. He said, ‘Oh, you’ll stay and have a cup of tea?’

‘Well, maybe just a cuppa.’

She followed him into the kitchen with a backward glance at Anthony, who scowled and then hauled the bag upstairs.

In the kitchen Dad put the kettle on and pulled a bag of mince out of the fridge.

She said, ‘Couldn’t I do a bit of chopping or peeling while I’m waiting for the kettle?’

‘No need. Honestly, we know what we’re doing,’ said Dad.

‘I’ve been living on Pot Noodle for weeks. I just fancy a bit of chopping.’

Dad passed her an onion and a sharp knife. She split the onion in two and gave me half. ‘Just do what I do,’ she said. She turned her half over so it looked like an igloo, then cut it across the middle and looked at me. I copied her. She said, ‘Good.’ Then she cut it again, three times. I did the same. She said, ‘Good, good, good.’ Then she cut the onion into hundreds of tiny pieces, going, ‘Good, good, good, good, good, good . . .’ and I did the same until we were out of breath.

She looked at Dad and said, ‘Pan?’

He said, ‘The tea’s ready. We’ll take over now . . .’

But she’d spotted a pan. She put some oil in it, heated it up and we both dropped handfuls of onions into the oil. She gave me the wooden spoon and said, ‘Keep stirring these.’ I used to always stir things before we moved house. When everyone had a big craze on porridge, for instance, I used to stir that, and when we were making jelly, I used to stir the cubes in the boiling water until they disappeared. So I had experience.

Dorothy drank her tea and said, ‘That was lovely. I suppose I should go now really.’

Dad said, ‘I suppose you should stay now really.

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