Mum is still in her pyjamas. She doesn’t get out of them much these days. And she looks worn out, shrunken. She’s still got a bumpy-out tummy where Harry used to live, but her face is carved-looking with sharp angles that weren’t there before. It’s sort of like an invasion of bodysnatchers has happened and what we’ve been left with is a shell that’s still Mum, but Mum Lite. She’ll bounce back, I’m sure – it’s just strange that she’s so quiet and tired all the time.* And her eyes look sparkly yet hollow, like she’s ecstatic and the opposite all at once.
Dad takes charge of getting supper ready, which is better than Gran doing it but it may still be an experiment that none of us is ready for – it all depends on what takes his fancy in the fridge or freezer. He has a way of putting things together that is unexpected, or ‘eclectic’ as he calls it.
I love words and try to learn new ones all the time, so ‘eclectic’ got written in my notebook of good ones – it simply means mixing things up, really, but it sounds great, as well as being unusual for everyday conversation.†
Dad works with words because he’s in advertising, but he often uses them to persuade people to buy a product they don’t want or need, so there’s an element of jiggery-pokery there if you ask me. And if I’m plain cross with him, I tell him he works on ‘the Dark Side’, but he merely brushes it off, saying he’s putting bread on the table, food in our mouths, clothes on our backs, a roof over our heads, et cetera, et cetera. He really can go on and on (and on) with examples of all he does for us when it suits him.
Dermot got on his high horse about that once during a heated clan row and said, ‘You feel the end justifies the means?’ and Dad coolly said, ‘In this instance, yes.’ And Dermot muttered, ‘I was only doing my job,’ in a makey-uppy voice, because he says this is the excuse anyone gives when they’re in trouble and have done something bad and don’t want to take the blame for it. Harsh, but that’s a Quinn Family Barney for you: it’s v v rough-and-tumble and not for the faint-hearted.
If Dad knows he’s about to introduce a word into my vocabulary, he’ll raise his eyes as if to say, ‘Here’s a new one for you.’ Other times when I look puzzled or plain ask out loud, ‘What does that mean?’ he goes, ‘Look it up,’ and I do. For example, he called me a ‘refusenik’ once and I was thrilled (even just for the way it sounds) and, although it has a historical reason for existing,‡ it really does do exactly what it says in the word.
I also like to say ‘je refuse’б to whoever asks me to do something I don’t intend to do = all variations of refusing are v handy.
Tonight Dad announces we will have Pasta à la Doug (which is his name). Anything ‘à la Doug’ will be an adventure in cuisine. I’m beginning to worry about what might be lurking in the fridge.
‘Fusion cuisine,’ Dad adds, and this does nothing to calm me. It’s just another way of saying ‘eclectic’ as far as I’m concerned and means only that he’s going to MAKE some food elements mix whether they like it or not, whether we like it or not.
All right, to be fair, it’ll be edible (which is more than most of Gran’s concoctions), but it might not be ideal as a taste sensation. I really have to learn to cook properly and not just rely on my pizza and salad combo. Mind you, Dad does a mean cheese-and-onion omelette that I adore, so here’s hoping he can’t find any pasta and goes back to his classic, signature dish.§
Then Harry, who has been attached to our mum’s chest, falls asleep and his little head falls back. Mum is clearly also snoozing and doesn’t notice. There is nothing to stop it and suddenly a spurt of boob milk shoots across the kitchen. It is horribly awesome. I am MORTO and so relieved that there are none but family members here to see this oh-so-natural-and-utterly-embarrassing incident.
Dad thinks it’s hilair and laughs gustily.**
Dermot catches my eye. ‘Jen, a word,’ he says.
Uh-oh.
