Rachel's Holiday
Page 60

‘Anyway, you’re right,’ Helen continued triumphantly. ‘She’s not a pisshead, she’s a cokehead!’
Mum and Dad’s faces went blank and they both bowed their heads.
I watched from the window, immobile with unexpected grief. I wanted to kill Helen. I wanted to kill my parents. I wanted to kill myself.
We hugged awkwardly, the only way we knew how, and smiled. My eyes filled with tears.
Helen greeted me by saying ‘KERR-IST, I’m frozened.’ Mum greeted me by pushing Helen and saying ‘Don’t be taking the Lord’s name in vain.’
Dad greeted me by saying ‘Howdy’ At the time I didn’t pay too much attention to it.
Before a conversational lull could occur, Mum thrust a bag into my hand. ‘We brought up some things.’
‘Lovely,’ I said, sifting through it. ‘Tayto and Tayto and… more Tayto. Thanks.’
‘And Bounties,’ said Mum. ‘There should be a ten-pack of Bounties.’
I looked again. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I put them in,’ said Mum. ‘I remember doing it this morning, I’m certain of it.’
‘Ah, Mum,’ said Helen sympathetically, her little cat face the picture of innocence, ‘Your memory isn’t what it once was.’
‘Helen!’ Mum said sharply, ‘give them back.’
Sulkily Helen opened her bag. ‘Why can’t I have any?’
‘You know why,’ said Mum.
‘Because I’m not a junkie,’ said Helen. We all winced.
‘Well,’ she threatened, ‘It can be arranged.’
‘Have one,’ I offered, as she sullenly handed them over.
‘Three?’
I showed them around, proud, shy. Ashamed only when they said things like ‘This place could do with a coat of paint, it’s nearly as bad as our house.’ I saved Mum from tripping on Michelle’s My Little Pony.
‘Anyone famous here?’ Helen murmured at me.
‘Not at the moment,’ I said airily. And to my great relief she simply declared ‘For fuck’s sake!’ and left it at that.
I led the three of them into the dining-room. It was packed to the rafters and looked like the Day of Judgement. We managed to squash onto the end of a bench.
‘Waaaalll,’ said Dad in a strange voice, ‘it’s all mad purt.’
‘It’s what, Dad?’
‘Mad purt.’
I turned to Mum. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘He’s saying it’s all mighty pretty,’ she explained.
‘But why are you talking in such a stupid voice?’ I asked him. ‘And anyway it’s not. It’s far from mad purt.’
‘Oklahoma,’ Mum whispered. ‘He’s got a small part in the Blackrock Players’ production of it. He’s practising his accent. Aren’t you, Jack?’
‘Sure ay-am.’ Dad flicked the brim of an imaginary hat.
‘May-am,’ he added.
‘He has us driven demented,’ added Mum. ‘If I have to hear the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye one more time, I’m going to shoot the elephant.’
‘Get off your horse,’ Dad drawled,’and drink your milk.’
‘And that’s not Oklahoma, so it isn’t,’ Mum scolded. ‘That’s that other fella, go on punk, make my day – what’s his name?’
‘Sylvester Stallone?’ Dad said. ‘But that’s not… ah now. I’m forgetting to practise.’
He turned to me. ‘Method acting, you see. I have to live, eat and breathe my part.’
‘He’s had baked beans for his tea every night for a week,’ Helen said.
Out of the blue it occurred to me that perhaps it was not surprising I was in a treatment centre.
‘Jeeee-zus!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘Who’s yer man?’
We followed her gaze. She was looking at Chris.
‘Not bad! I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for farti… OW!
‘What did you hit me for?’ she demanded of Mum.
‘I’ll give you bed where you’ll feel it,’ Mum threatened. Then she noticed a few people were looking at her, so she gave them a bright papering-over-the-cracks smile that fooled no one.
‘It’s his legs, isn’t it?’ Helen said thoughtfully. ‘Does he play football?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Find out,’ she ordered.
We sat in awkward silence, the initial surge of joy at our meeting gone. I was ashamed that we weren’t even having the low, muttered conversations that everyone else was having.
Now and then one of us tried to kick-start a chat by saying something like ‘So, are they feeding you all right?’ or ‘February is a desperate month, isn’t it?’
All the while, Mum was looking sidelong at Chaquie, at her golden hair, her perfect make-up, her plentiful jewellery, her expensive clothes. Eventually, she nudged me and, in a stage-whisper they probably heard in Norway, hissed ‘What’s up with her?’
‘A bit louder and we could dance to it,’ I replied.
She glared at me.
Suddenly her face went white and she ducked her head. ‘Sacred heart of Jesus,’ she intoned.
‘What?’ We all twisted and stretched to see what she was looking at.
‘Don’t look,’ she hissed.’Keep your heads down.’
‘Wha-at? Whooooo?’
She turned to Dad, ‘It’s Philomena and Ted Hutchinson. What are they doing here? What if they see us?’
‘Who are they?’ Helen and I clamoured.
‘Folks your Maw and Paw know,’ said Dad.
‘How do you know them?’
‘From the golf-club,’ said Mum. ‘Saints preserve us, I’m mortified.’
‘Waall, that’s not how we first met ’um,’ drawled Dad. ‘It’s lak thee-yus. Their dog… ah mean… their dawg, ran away and we’all found the critter and…’
‘Oh God, they’re coming over,’ said Mum. She looked fit to pass out.
I was not feeling good. If she was so ashamed about me being here, I wanted to know why she had made me come in the first place.
From the terrifying saccharine smile she suddenly plastered across her face, I deduced she had made eye contact. ‘Oh hello, Philomena,’ she simpered.