Perfectly Ordinary People(34)

‘The whole anti-Jewish thing? Be a bit respectful? Stop being a knob, maybe?’

‘Oh, don’t get him started,’ Mum said, cutting one of the already small tarts into four and handing me a quarter.

‘I am,’ Dad said. ‘I’m totally respectful. Unlike you. Calling your own father a knob!’

‘Only you’re not being respectful.’

‘Look, if people want to believe in all sorts of nonsense, then that’s their business,’ Dad said. ‘But I’ve no time for it. No time at all. Ed, the electrician on the job I’m working on . . . he was saying only yesterday—’

‘You do realise, don’t you, that you don’t have to agree with other people’s traditions and beliefs to be respectful of them?’ I asked, interrupting him. I had no desire to partake of Ed-the-electrician’s wisdom. ‘That concept has crossed your mind in the fifty-six years you’ve been on the planet, right?’

‘Ah, I’m only having a laugh,’ Dad said. ‘It’s like when I pull Mavaughn’s leg about her holy water.’

‘Don’t you dare turn this one on my mother,’ Mum said.

‘Look, I’m always respectful of everyone,’ Dad said. ‘It’s just Jake. He gets the hump over nothing. He’s always been like that. Sensitive. Oversensitive.’

‘Only it’s not over nothing, Dad,’ I said. ‘This time you’re in the wrong, and you need to think about it until you get it. Otherwise it’s just going to go on and on.’

‘Is this still about that Abby thing?’ Dad said. ‘Because that was ages ago. That’s all water under the bridge. I apologised to Jake and he said it was fine.’

‘I do know what you asked her,’ I said. ‘What you said to her at Christmas. This Christmas, that is. Christmas just gone.’

Dad was feigning confusion, so I explained: ‘You asked Abby if Dan – my Dan – might be Jewish.’

‘Oh, you didn’t!’ Mum said. ‘You old fool.’

‘I did not.’

‘You so did.’

‘I did not,’ Dad insisted. ‘I asked if Daniel might be a Jewish name.’

Mum laughed at this and, when she’d swallowed her bite of custard tart, said, ‘Ah, now if that isn’t splitting hairs, I don’t know what is.’

‘It’s not the same thing at all,’ Dad said. ‘I was asking about a word. Am I not even allowed to ask the origin of a word anymore?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, in this case, you’re not allowed to ask, because it’s insensitive.’

‘It’s all this PC nonsense,’ Dad said. ‘Political correctness. The world’s gone crazy.’

‘These are lovely,’ Mum offered, rather obviously trying to change the subject. She reached for the spare quarter of tart. ‘Gosh, who knew the Portuguese could make such lovely custard tarts?’

‘It’s not political correctness gone crazy or otherwise,’ I told my father. ‘It’s called being sensitive to the issues that affect other people’s lives. Millions of people died because they had the wrong names. I think we need to remember that. I think you specifically need to remember that. Because Abby damned well will.’

‘They were killed because they were Jewish. Which is totally evil – don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t because of their names.’

‘That’s how they knew, Dad. The Nazis knew they were Jewish because they had names like Abigail and Joseph, and surnames like Cohen and Goldman.’

‘And because they wore those silly hats,’ Dad said.

‘Dad! Just stop it!’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right! I can see your point.’

‘So when you ask if a name is Jewish it’s insensitive. It’s how it all started. Or rather, for millions, very likely including some of Abby’s own descendants – I mean ascendants – it’s how it all ended. And asking Abby that is incredibly insensitive, especially after that Christmas. And anyway, why ask? What difference could it possibly make to anything if Dan is Jewish or not?’

‘Well, it’s good to know, isn’t it?’ Dad said. ‘I mean, if I’d known Abby was Jewish . . .’

‘. . . then you wouldn’t have said something crass and insensitive to her,’ I said, completing his sentence for him.

‘OK,’ Dad said again. ‘I give in. Now, can we please just enjoy these tarts?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Whatever. But you need to be much more careful.’

‘You do have a bit of a gob on yer,’ Mum said. ‘Especially when you’ve had a drink.’

Dad rolled his eyes and we each bit into our tiny quarters of tart.

Mum, I couldn’t help but notice, was already halfway through a whole new tart of her own. I forcibly reminded myself that they were my gift to her, so they were hers to do with as she pleased.

‘They’re good,’ Dad said. And though they weren’t anywhere near as good as they’d been when they were fresh from the bakery in Portugal, it was true that they were still pretty tasty, especially when associated with a cup of tea.

‘Anyway, is he?’ Dad asked. ‘Just out of interest.’