Don’t You Forget About Me(37)

I knew as soon as I was prodding shards of poppadom into the mini lazy Susan with the sugary mango chutney and tangy lime pickle that I was going to be a fanatic.

‘But you hardly ever have this food?’ I said to Dad, through forkfuls of chicken tikka masala, after he’d expounded on the joys of moving on to more interesting dishes once I’d served my apprenticeship.

‘Your mum doesn’t like it.’

‘Don’t you miss it?’

Dad smiled. ‘Marriage is compromise. You’ll understand some day.’

‘I’m not marrying anyone who doesn’t like curry. No way.’

Mum usually tolerated our outings as a positive thing, but I remember that night we got back and she needed scraping off the ceiling.

Dad hadn’t warned her, cauliflower cheese had gone to waste, our clothes ‘reeked’ and would need washing, why wasn’t Esther invited, why couldn’t we do a family dinner, how much had that cost. At first I tried placating her but when that failed, I slid off upstairs and left them to it.

Esther was back from her first term at York, where from what I could tell she’d spent her time mixing with posher people and feeling ashamed of us. She came flying out of her bedroom and into mine.

‘Why do you do this?’

‘Do what?’

‘Stir things up between Mum and Dad? You knew she’d have a fit if you went out for dinner and you know you have Dad round your little finger and he’ll do it. Then you waltz off and leave them to a screaming match.’

‘I didn’t know Mum didn’t know.’

‘How was she going to find out if you didn’t tell her? Dad never uses that phone he has. He doesn’t even switch it on.’

Esther had a point. If I’m honest, I did know Mum didn’t know. I knew she’d just say no, that’s why I didn’t tell her. But you don’t admit to anyone already that angry with you that you know they have a point, or you might as well lie down, like antelope with lion, and invite them to gnaw your carotid vein.

It was in the unwritten rules of our dysfunctional unit: Dad vs Mum could always go nuclear and it was our role to act as go-betweens, to soothe and smooth.

‘Why was it on me to tell Mum, anyway?’ I said. Only because it was the only defence left open to me, I’d not really thought about it. Later, with Fay’s help, I would think about it.

Esther furiously jabbed a finger downwards, in the direction of the heated voices. ‘THAT’S WHY.

‘… I’ve had to spend my evening eating minging cold cauliflower cheese with Mum’s blood pressure going through the roof while you’re off having fun and now the atmosphere in this house is even WORSE. Fuck you, Georgina, you’re so fucking selfish.’

She slammed out and I lay on my bed listening to the bickering voices below. Mum’s voice carried up through the bedroom floorboards.

‘She’s not your plaything, to entertain you. She should be out with people her own age.’

‘I’m glad Georgina still wants to do things together. She won’t be here forever, will she?’

‘If you want a curry, you could go with Graham or some other friend?’

‘She suggested it!’

‘To please you. She’s only trying to please you and you’re selfish enough to let her.’

This was untrue, but years ago I’d learned that when Mum weaponised me against Dad, it went very badly if I contradicted her. Dad and I, the selfish ones. Mum and Esther had decreed it.

I realise with hindsight that even before Mum weighed in, there was a melancholy to the Glossop Road expedition. We were both nervous, Dad and I, about the day I would leave home, looming on horizon. We were pre-sad.

Not only as we’d miss each other; but because he was going to be alone with Mum. It was mine and my sister’s responsibility to act as buffer zones and brake pads, and simply to be someone living in their house that they liked. And we were both abandoning our posts. Both Esther and I had wondered how they’d function. They’d each recruited an ally in their children – without us, it was endless civil war.

Then, as it turned out, in a surprise twist, due to three blocked arteries, it was Dad who left home.

Here’s what life has taught me so far: don’t worry about that thing you’re worrying about. Chances are, it’ll be obliterated by something you didn’t anticipate that’s a million times worse.

Anyway, the point is, I love curry.

Cauliflower cheese, I can take or leave.

I wait until the waiter has delivered four pints of Kingfisher, condensation sliding down the glasses, and we’ve lifted, clinked cheers and sipped, to say:

‘Can I check, is my treat tonight invalid if I’ve got back with Robin?’

Rav does a comedy choke-spit on his lager, Jo sucks in a shocked breath and Clem says: ‘Your sanity is invalid if you’ve forgiven that rancid hound!’

I lower my eyes, Princess Diana style, and say: ‘He’s promised me he can change. He says he only slept with Lou because he was frightened by how much he felt for me. It was like a boobytrap in himself, a tripwire. He denies himself happiness with acts of … of … desecration.’

‘Is this real, because if so I’m going to be sick,’ Clem says flatly.

‘I want to help him be a better person,’ I conclude, looking round a trio of nauseated faces.