Perfectly Ordinary People(33)

‘When we moved?’ Dad said. ‘I was five.’

‘So how come you don’t have an accent or anything?’

Dad shrugged. ‘Like I say, I was five.’

‘He does still say bizarre quite a bit,’ Mum said, smiling lovingly at my father.

‘Bizarre?’

‘Yeah. No one ever really says bizarre,’ Mum said. ‘Except the French.’

‘I say bizarre,’ I said.

‘Yes, you get that from me. And from your grandparents,’ Dad said.

‘Erm, I think you’ll find that I didn’t get much from my grandparents,’ I said.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Mum asked.

‘I meant from Dad’s side. We hardly ever saw them.’

‘Ah,’ Mum said, relieved that the honour and influence of her side of the family remained intact. ‘OK then.’

‘And you saw them plenty when you were kids,’ Dad said, sounding vaguely annoyed with me. ‘You just don’t remember.’

‘So, what is this?’ Mum asked, turning the tube in her hand.

‘Um, I have absolutely no idea,’ I said sarcastically. The tube was embellished with a massive photo of a custard tart. It even said ‘Handmade Portuguese Custard Tarts’ in English on the top.

‘Really?’ Mum said. ‘You didn’t take a peep?’

Both Dad and I snorted at this. I pointed at the picture and said, ‘Mum!’

‘But it’s not the right shape,’ Mum said, opening the end and sliding out the transparent tube of stacked tarts within. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. I was thinking it looked more like a bottle or something.’

I blinked at her in disbelief. Sometimes my mother scares me.

Dad caught my eye and winked. A few years back he would have made an unsavoury joke about her being Irish, but thankfully these days he just winks.

‘So shall I make a cup of tea to go with these?’ Mum asked.

‘I couldn’t, love,’ Dad said. ‘I’m still stuffed from lunch.’

‘Oh, you can have a taste,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll make tea and we can cut them in half. Or do we have to have some special Portuguese drink with these?’

‘Tea would be great,’ I said, pulling the bottle of Porto from my bag. ‘But I also got you this.’

‘Oh, lovely,’ Mum said. ‘That’s just lovely. But for the moment I’ll go with tea.’

Once she’d left the room, Dad picked up the bottle and examined the label. ‘She hates port,’ he said. ‘But luckily for you, I love the stuff.’

‘Well, good. That way you both have something.’

Dad caressed the bottle and put it down.

‘So where is everyone?’ I asked. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen my parents alone.

‘All busy. Harry’s at some birthday party in South London. Eirla’s taken his lot down to Margate for the day.’

‘In this weather?’ I asked. The forecast was grey and cold with occasional showers.

‘They’re going to the funfair, not the beach. And Tom is . . . I can’t remember where Tom is. A work thing, I think.’

‘And Mavaughn?’

‘Oh, she elbowed her way into the Margate trip.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’ll be nice for her.’

‘It’s good to have a bit of peace and quiet, to be honest.’

‘You’re a rude one!’ I said. ‘I can leave if you want.’

‘Nice to have a bit of peace and quiet so that I can talk to you.’

‘I saw Jake just now, for brunch,’ I told him, subconsciously prompted by my brother’s absence from Dad’s list.

‘Good,’ Dad said. ‘As long as someone knows he’s still alive.’

‘Oh, he phones me twice a week,’ Mum said. She’d popped her head back around the door jamb while she waited for the kettle to boil.

‘Yeah,’ Dad said. ‘At least he still phones your mother.’

‘So you know he’s still alive,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

‘So how is he?’ Dad asked, visibly forcing himself to sound upbeat. ‘What’s he up to?’

‘He’s well,’ I said. ‘They were discussing their wedding plans.’

‘It sounds like it’s going to be a riot,’ Mum said as she returned to the kitchen to finish making the teas.

‘Yes, it sounds like it’s going to be fun,’ I told Dad. ‘We were discussing whether or not it’s possible to combine an Irish jig with the hora.’

‘As long as they don’t make me wear one of those silly hats,’ Dad said.

‘What, a beret?’ I asked, being obtuse. ‘Because you’re French?’

‘No, those kippah things,’ Dad said. ‘Don’t even keep your head warm, they don’t.’

‘It would keep your bald patch warm,’ Mum said, returning with the mugs of tea on a tray.

‘Yes, I suppose there is that.’

‘Can’t you just . . . you know . . . ?’ I said, wincing. ‘Tone it down a bit?’

‘Tone what down?’