A Quiet Kind of Thunder(18)

He nods. Mum is a big musical buff. As if on cue, a white woman with silver-streaked brown hair comes out of the kitchen, beaming. And here she is, he adds. Hi.

‘Hello,’ the woman says. ‘You must be Steffi.’ Like Rhys’s interpreter at school, she talks with her hands and her mouth. ‘I’m Sandra.’

Hi, I sign.

We’re going to watch a film, Rhys says. So, we’ll see you later, OK?

‘Come and have a cup of tea first,’ Sandra says. She is still smiling at me. ‘I want to find out more about the famous Steffi.’

I feel my face flame and I turn, horrified, to Rhys, who has reacted in exactly the same way.

‘It’s so wonderful that he’s been able to meet someone who speaks BSL,’ Sandra adds. ‘You’re a gift, Steffi.’

I seriously consider running away.

OK, bye. Rhys takes my elbow and starts steering me towards the stairs.

‘Um, excuse me,’ Sandra says, eyebrows raised. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Rhys gives her a look. My bedroom.

‘Not today, mister.’ Sandra looks torn between stern and amused. ‘The living room is right through there.’

Rhys lets out a loud huff of frustration through his nose. He makes a sign I don’t recognize, following it with always go in my bedroom.

‘Steffi is not Meg,’ Sandra says patiently, and though her hands are fingerspelling like an expert they may as well be punching me in the stomach with four simple words. ‘Living room.’

Rhys sighs loudly, but obeys. Sorry, he says to me and I blink at him, unsure how to reply. Should I express sadness that we can’t watch a film together in the privacy of his bedroom? On the comfort of his . . . um, bed? And should I do this in front of his mother?

‘Steffi,’ Sandra says to me when Rhys’s back is turned. ‘Cup of tea?’

I freeze. I can feel the old familiar fight happening inside of me. What will win? Politeness or social anxiety? Or will this be the moment my muteness rears its ugly head and shouts (silently) HI STEFFI, DID YOU THINK I’D –

‘OK,’ I say. I imagine pushing against a straining cupboard door and locking the beast inside. Gotcha. This time.

I touch Rhys’s wrist and he turns back to me, halfway through the living room door. I’m going to have tea with your mum.

He spins round and throws his mother another glare, before turning back to me. You really don’t have to do that.

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘You set up the DVD.’

Rhys hesitates, looks at his mother again and shrugs reluctantly. I go into the kitchen to find his mother already pouring out water from the kettle. Either she has a super-speedy kettle or she’d been planning this.

‘How do you take your tea?’ Sandra asks me with a smile.

‘Just milk,’ I say, hovering over a kitchen stool then forcing myself to sit on it.

Sandra busies herself making the tea without speaking, and the silence hangs over us, awkward and loud.

‘Thanks,’ I say finally when she rests the cup in front of me.

‘I’m so pleased you’ve been able to help Rhys settle in,’ Sandra says, sitting on a seat opposite me. ‘It’s such a relief for me that he’s been able to make such a good friend.’

Did she emphasize good friend, or am I just being paranoid? I try to smile, but it doesn’t feel very convincing so I take a scalding gulp of tea instead.

‘Rhys says you’d like to work with animals,’ she says.

I’m so surprised I can’t even nod. They really must have talked about me if they got to the level of detail that includes my wish to work with animals.

‘I’ve been thinking about getting a dog,’ Sandra continues gamely. ‘I’d quite like a bit of company.’

‘You should adopt,’ I blurt, thrilled to have something to say. ‘I work at the kennels in town, and there are some really sweet dogs that need homes.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Sandra says. ‘Well . . .’ She stands up, and I understand that I am now allowed to leave the kitchen. What was that all about? Weird. ‘I wanted to let you know that you’re welcome here any time,’ she adds.

‘Thanks,’ I say. I swallow my tea in three sickening swallows and plonk the cup down on to the table. I inch out of the kitchen, throwing out another ‘Thank you!’ as I go.

When I go through to the living room, I see that Rhys has created a tiny fort out of cushions and blankets, closer to the screen than I’d usually sit and with a careful amount of space between what is obviously his main cushion and mine. The sofa, which takes up the length of the back of the room, has been stripped bare.

Rhys’s back is to me and he is playing with the remote, scrolling through subtitle options. I walk over to him and settle on to my side of the faux fort. He glances at me and smiles. Hi. Sorry about my mother.

That’s OK. She just wanted to say hello. I gesture around me. What’s this?

He pauses and I see anxiety sweep across his face. I thought it would be better to watch it like this. That way we can watch and talk. Is that OK?

I smile, understanding. Our cushions and TV make a kind of triangle, making it possible for us to communicate while we watch. On the sofa, it would have been more awkward, bunched up on either side. Here we have space. Great idea.