‘Where did you get to last night?’
Martha’s in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast counter, eating yoghurt and muesli with bits of fruit cut up in it. It looks disgusting, like sick. She’s still in her dressing gown but she’s probably been up for hours. She’s got the sections of the Guardian spread out in front of her. She actually reads it, cover to cover, apart from the sport, of course. I think she’s a pretentious cow and she thinks I’m a moron because that’s the only bit I look at. I go to the bread bin and get out two slices.
‘I’m making toast. Want some?’
She shakes her head. ‘And don’t start frying bacon while I’m in here,’ she says without looking up from the paper.
Martha is veggie, has been since she was a little girl and Rob told her where lamb chops came from on a trip to Wales.
‘You don’t have to worry. There isn’t any.’ I shut the fridge door. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Gone to the supermarket. Hence, no bacon.’
‘Is there any coffee?’
‘Coffee’s bad for you.’ She dunks the bag in her herb tea. Caffeine. That’s another of her things. ‘What happened to your arm?’
I glance down. There’s a bracelet of bruises where Rob had hold of me last night. I rub at it, as if it’s ink and will wipe away.
I look vague and shrug, as if I can’t remember, hoping that Martha won’t guess, or question me further.
I put the bread in the toaster and boil the kettle to make the coffee. I drink it black with plenty of sugar.
‘You shouldn’t have that, either,’ she says as I stir.
I take a sip. It’s scalding. ‘When I want dietary advice, I’ll know where to come.’
‘Where did you get to last night? I saw Cal with Sophie. Did he run out on you? Leave you all on your own?’
‘Rob was out with the lads. I went with them.’
‘That must have been fun Alpha male stuff. Let’s see how much beer we can throw down our necks, then fight, fuck, curry and spew, not necessarily in that order.’
‘Fight is right. I found him outside the town hall. He’d been beaten up. He’s OK, thanks for asking. Lads looked after him. Don’t tell Mum. She’ll only worry.’
Martha shrugs and goes back to the Review. ‘Oh.’ She looks up again. ‘Before I forget. You’ve got a fan.’
My heart skips. Can she mean Caro? Can’t be. If they met, they’d be bound to blank each other. I’m thinking this, but still it could be. They could have bumped into one another. In the Ladies, say, redoing their make-up. Caro could have leaned over, asked to borrow a mascara, and said, ‘You know your brother? I think he’s really hot.’
‘Lee. She likes you.’
I fiddle with the toaster controls to hide my disappointment.
‘She’s really, really nice,’ Martha goes on. ‘And attractive. Want me to put in a word? You could do a lot worse. Let me rephrase that slightly. You could do a lot worse. Oh, let me think, you have done a lot worse.’
‘’S OK. I’m good at the moment. Want to stay single.’
She looks up. ‘And why’s that? Because of your burgeoning social life? Without Cal, you have no social life. Now him and Sophie are a “couple”.’ She sketches quotation marks. ‘Where does that leave you, Billy-No-Mates?’
‘I’m doing all right. If I want your match-making skills, I’ll ask.’
‘Or maybe you’re saving yourself.’ Her eyes light up. She’s on to it. You can’t get much past her. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re saving yourself for the divine Caro!’
‘Don’t be stupid. I don’t even know her.’
‘But you’d like to, wouldn’t you? You’d like to know her really well. I knew it! You’re blushing!’ She holds up her hands pretending to warm herself. ‘No need to use the toaster!’
This could go on all morning, but just then Mum comes struggling in through the back door, carting Sainsbury’s bags, Jack behind her. ‘Hello, you two,’ she says. I get up to help her put things away. Martha finishes her muesli.
‘Good night?’ Mum asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘All right.’
‘Rob got into a fight,’ Martha says as she puts her bowl in the dishwasher.
Mum freezes, her hand halfway into the fridge. Her expression changes from sunny Saturday morning to anxious. Any mention of Rob puts years on her. Unless it’s good news and it’s usually not good news.
She leaves the fridge door swinging open and comes to the counter. Jack takes over putting stuff away.
‘Is he all right? How do you know? The police. The hospital. Did they call?’
It has happened before. Sometimes the call doesn’t come until Saturday morning. Friday night being just too busy.
‘No, Jamie found him bleeding all over the pavement outside the town hall.’
Mum turns to me, her brow furrowed. ‘What happened? Is he all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He’d been in a bit of a fight. The lads took him back to Grandpa’s.’
‘Why don’t you go and see if he’s OK?’ She says this in a bright and breezy, what-a-good-idea kind of way.
‘Do I have to? It’s not exactly what I had planned and I’m working this afternoon!’
I’ve had enough of Rob for the time being. I’m feeling bruised from the night before, and not just on my arm.
‘Please, Jamie. It’ll put my mind at rest and you know I can’t go.’
‘Oh, OK.’ I figure she’s got enough on her plate without me making her life more difficult. Besides, I’m spent up from last night and need to be in her good books.
‘You can take him these.’ She hands me a stack of ready-meals. ‘I’m worried he’s not eating properly.’
‘And those are “eating properly”?’ Martha raises an eyebrow.
‘It’s better than chips and takeaways.’
‘Only marginally.’
‘Give it a rest, Martha.’ Mum gives her a look. ‘I don’t want a lecture on nutrition from you.’
Martha doesn’t reply but looks mutinous and sulky. Nobody’s saying it, but Mum’s main worry about Rob isn’t to do with food, it’s to do with a drug intake and alcohol consumption which is verging on heroic. Mum doesn’t know the half of it, but what she does know about has her worried. She’d never blame him for it. He holds such rage deep inside him; drinking and smoking dope are the only way to damp it down. Mum knows that as well as I do.
‘Your dad had his own demons,’ is what she says. ‘I’m the last one to judge.’
It was her forgiveness, her understanding that made it so Rob couldn’t stand to be near her. It’s better now he doesn’t live here, but he doesn’t like her going down there. When she does go to see him, she does things that really annoy him, like collecting all the bottles and putting them into the recycling. She doesn’t mean to, but she just gets on his nerves.
‘Anything else you want me to take?’
‘Yes – I’ve got some stuff in the freezer. I suppose he was drinking last night?’
It’s so obvious, I don’t even answer.
‘He really shouldn’t, not with all the medication he’s taking.’
‘Supposed to be taking,’ Martha says. ‘He knows that, Mum. We know that. How do you stop him?’
‘That’s why I wish he was back here . . .’
Mum stops what she’s doing and leans on the kitchen counter. All her concerns about him settling on her, pulling her face down into sagging lines.
‘Oh!’ Martha turns on her. ‘And that worked, didn’t it? He still drank like a fish, smoked all the time, came in at all hours, making the whole place stink of beer and takeaways. He never took a bit of notice of you, or any of us. It was a nightmare, Mum, and you know it. It’s been loads better since he went down to Grandpa’s.’
Mum does not reply. She just winces as though each one of Martha’s words is a little tiny blow and goes to get things out of the freezer.
‘Take these down, too,’ she says to me. ‘They’re home-made.’ She looks over at Martha. ‘And I wish one of you at least would go and visit Grandpa. He does so like to see you.’
Mum is trying to deflect the conversation away from Rob, but Martha’s not having any.
‘Never mind Grandpa. He doesn’t even know who we are! Rob’s a fuck-up, Mum. Why don’t you admit it?’
Swearing was a mistake. Mum rallies. ‘I won’t have you swearing, Martha.’
‘Why not? Rob does, so does Jamie.’
‘Hey! Don’t drag me into it!’
‘I don’t like any of you swearing. Not in the house. You know that.’
‘I wasn’t swearing as such, Mother, just making a statement of fact.’ When she’s in the wrong, when she’s cornered, Martha shows her claws. ‘Perhaps you prefer the term “nutter”. Is that more acceptable?’
‘He’s your brother, Martha. I would expect you to be more understanding.’
‘Whatever. He’s only happy when he’s causing trouble, I know that. He’s doing it now and he isn’t even here. He nearly split you and Jack up and . . .’
‘Don’t drag me into it, either,’ Jack says, trying to make light of it but his shoulders tighten. He carries on putting cans and groceries away.
‘I’ll be off now,’ he says. ‘See you later.’
He goes without anyone really noticing. He doesn’t like it when we row like this. Who would? It doesn’t happen all that often, and it’s always about Rob. Martha’s right. He doesn’t have to be there – he can detonate rows by remote control.
‘He’s had his problems, you know that, Martha,’ Mum says. ‘He was very badly wounded. It takes a long time to get over it. It’s up to us to be understanding. He’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘Is he crap! That’s just an excuse for doing what he likes and being a total prick. No one asked him to join the Army. No one asked the Army to go to Iraq and Afghanistan. He joined up because he wanted to. He loved it. He actually liked killing people. He told me.’
‘You are making out he’s a monster.’ Mum rounds on her. ‘I won’t have it.’
‘He didn’t actually say that,’ I point out. ‘He said he liked being a sniper.’
‘And what do snipers do? They kill people!’
‘Only bad guys.’
‘We all know that’s not strictly true.’ Martha glares, defiant, but I can tell that she knows she has gone too far.
The kitchen goes quiet. You can hear the tap drip, drip, dripping in the silence. When Rob first came back, he’d wake up sobbing and Mum would go in to him. He talked to her about things he’d done that he shouldn’t. One time, Martha overheard them. She’s stored it away to use against him.
‘We don’t talk about that, Martha.’ Mum’s voice drops to just above a whisper. ‘Not ever. Do you understand me?’
Martha nods. Her face is still flushed with anger but she doesn’t say anything. She bites down on her lip and looks away from me quickly to hide the tears starting in her eyes. However hard she tries to be, she doesn’t like to fight with Mum. Mum doesn’t like to fight, either. I dash upstairs to grab a shower. I’m still in T-shirt and boxers. I don’t want to be around for the hugging and crying and girly heart-to-heart.