I like Wittgenstein now I know a bit more about him. I felt so bad this morning that I didn’t want to go out, so I Googled the man Banks told me about and that quote sort of summed it up. At the same time I was trying to ignore the orange flash of an instant message alert because it had to be Joe. In the end I gave in.
On and on, miles of it the same. I turn my phone off without answering. There were emails too, asking me to phone and talk, saying he was sorry, but I had nothing to say. I didn’t go to school, but this time I really couldn’t. I felt cold and sick and fit for nothing but my duvet. Mum didn’t argue, so I must have looked as bad as I felt. I slept and woke and slept, until it was dark, and now I’m laying the table though I can’t face the thought of eating. Mum has the radio on and says nothing apart from asking me to put the forks straight and not to forget the salt and pepper. She’s using the bright, breezy voice she brings out when she’s trying to pretend everything is okay when it’s not. I wonder whether I should just say I feel ill and go back upstairs, but I know a lecture is coming. It’s just a question of when – there’s no way out of it.
Dad starts. He holds a fork loaded with cabbage and potato halfway to his mouth. Mum is looking at her plate as if the whole thing is of no interest.
‘Corinne,’ he says, and I know it’s serious. Corinne rather than Coo.
‘What Dad? Look. I know what you want to say and I assure you I feel really bad, okay? I haven’t done it before, have I? Lots of people at school do it every weekend. It was a mistake. I hated it and I won’t do it again, okay?’
I found out a long time ago that sometimes if you say everything in one go, cover all the bases, that it stops an argument in its tracks. Dad looks confused a moment.
‘I’m sure you are sorry, Corinne, and I know you’re not in the habit of doing it, but we still need to talk about it, don’t you think?’
‘I certainly think we need to talk about it,’ Mum chimes in. ‘It’s about more than the state you came home in. It’s your whole attitude. You walk out of the house, then you—’
Dad interrupts her. ‘Karen! Let me, please.’ He sighs, sees he’s still holding the cabbage and puts the fork down. ‘Corinne,’ he says, ‘Coo—’ and then he stops talking, just like that. I wait, but he doesn’t speak, just sits there with his head low over his plate.
Mum looks up. ‘Mark?’ she says. ‘Mark?’
Mum and I look at each other; we don’t know what to do.
‘It’s not just this—’ Dad starts to say, but Mum jumps in.
‘No – it’s not just this. You were seen the other day – when you should have been in school – walking with a tramp! And you were carrying beer.’
‘Who said so?’ I demand, but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Dad, where he’s still sitting with his head down.
‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Come on – the dinner’s getting cold. I said I’m sorry.’
Dad looks up and starts on the cabbage again, chewing it like its grass or something. Mum begins a conversation about some woman who came into the shop and we all pretend, as always, that nothing in the world is wrong.
After dinner, Dad goes upstairs to watch some football and I help to clean up. While I’m putting things away, Mum talks about how worried they’ve been, about how much they love me, about how it hasn’t been easy for any of us. And she wants to know about Banks.
‘It was good of him to see you home,’ she says, ‘but he was so much older than you Coo, and he was—’ She stops.
‘He was like Sam?’ I supply. ‘And I don’t know him. You should be pleased he brought me home. Anything could have happened without him.’
Mum isn’t convinced and makes a face. ‘Anything could have happened to you with him,’ she says. ‘He was drunk! What were you thinking?’
‘Mum. I lived with a drunk, remember? We all did.’
‘Your brother wasn’t like that.’
‘Yes he was. He was just like Banks.’
‘Banks? How do you know that man’s name?’
I make my own face, to tell her she just said something dumb. ‘He brought me home,’ I say. ‘Do you think I’d just go with anyone? Of course I know his name.’ I realise this is a stupid comment. It sounds like I’d go off with a serial killer just as long as we’d been introduced. ‘Do you think we should invite him round?’ I say. ‘To dinner or whatever – to say thanks?’
Mum stops in the middle of putting a plate away. ‘No Coo, I don’t. We said thank you and your father gave him ten pounds to get some food. I think that’s enough.’
We finish clearing away and I go upstairs to sit with Dad. We watch the whole of a match even though I don’t like football. We’re right next to each other on the sofa, and when a goal is scored Dad grins and looks at me. Towards the end he falls asleep but I stay there trying to remember him before all this happened, when I wasn’t angry all the time. When he’s asleep, Dad’s face relaxes and he looks the same as he did years ago, when I was still his baby girl.
I hibernate until Sunday, when Ben and Matt knock. I wonder if Mum has called them because they insist I come out and help them choose furniture. The real mission is me of course, like always. We wander around looking at leather chairs and a table made like a pair of lips, but they don’t buy anything. In the end they take me for coffee and cake. Well, coffee for them and only a tiny bit of cake for me.
‘Not hungry?’ Ben asks. ‘That’s not like you.’
Matt looks me in the eye until I have to look away. ‘Did Mum make you come over?’ I ask him. ‘Because I hate that.’
Matt shakes his head. ‘She only said she was worried about you. We wanted to come over. What’s up with you coming in drunk anyway? Next time, knock on our door and talk. I’ve told you – any time.’
He pauses. He’s waiting for me to tell him what’s on my mind, and I want to, I really do. ‘It’s embarrassing,’ I say. ‘You’d laugh.’
‘Never,’ Matt says, and I know he means it. I want to tell him about Joe, and how I really thought he was going to kiss me, and how stupid I felt after. I want to tell them about Banks and how warm and safe I felt even while I felt sick and ill.
I wanted to, but I didn’t.