Keith looked at Dad standing at the stove in a cloud of smoke, bottom wobbling as he jiggled the frying pan.
He noted the damp strands of hair plastered across Dad’s bald patch.
He took in the grease-stained Simpsons T-shirt that only just covered Dad’s tummy bulge.
He stared at the baked bean sitting on Dad’s left shoe.
He sighed with disappointment.
Come on Aunty Bev, thought Keith, you’re meant to be Dad’s personal grooming and fashion adviser. What have you been doing all day? You could at least have made a start on the ear hairs.
‘Hello Keith,’ said Dad. ‘Where are the others?’
Keith explained that Aunty Bev and Tracy were coming over from Mum’s shortly.
‘You alright Keith?’ asked Dad, concerned. ‘You seem a bit in the dumps.’
‘I’m OK,’ said Keith, trying hard not to look like someone who’d spent part of the day being let down by his best friend and the other part lying on his bed staring at the stack of tinned pineapple and trying to imagine what it’d be like going through life only four boxes high.
Being the only motorist in South London who couldn’t reach the pedals of the car.
Being sent to bed early at business conferences.
Being pushed around by big pensioners at the senior citizens club.
No point depressing Dad with all that.
Keith managed to give Dad half a smile.
Dad ruffled Keith’s hair.
Suddenly Keith wanted to give himself a boot up the bum for being so self-centred.
What was being vertically challenged compared to being lonely and depressed and headed for an early grave?
Mum and Dad were the ones he should be worrying about.
‘Righty-ho,’ said Dad with a wink, ‘well if you’re feeling tip-top, perhaps you wouldn’t mind whizzing Mr K’s dinner over to him.’
He handed Keith a plate of liver and onions.
On his way over to Mr Kristos’s table, Keith wondered why Dad sounded so cheerful.
For a fleeting moment he thought Tracy might have changed her mind and been round and perked Dad up.
Then he remembered Mum had said on the phone that Tracy and Aunty Bev had been at her place all afternoon.
Oh well, thought Keith, Len Tufnell must have been on time with the pork chops.
At least someone was trying to help.
Just as he reached Mr Kristos’s table, Keith heard the door behind him swing open.
‘G’day,’ said Aunty Bev’s voice. ‘Sorry we’re late.’
‘Aha,’ said Dad’s voice, ‘the guests of honour.’
Keith decided not to turn round.
He decided instead to have a long chat with Mr Kristos, and a long chat with each of the other customers, and with a bit of luck he wouldn’t have to talk to Tracy all evening.
He might never have to talk to her again.
‘G’day Keith,’ said Tracy’s voice softly.
Keith stopped in the middle of handing the plate to Mr Kristos.
He’d never heard Tracy so sad.
He turned round.
He’d never seen her so sad.
She stared at him, biting her lip.
He stared back helplessly, concern tugging at his insides.
‘Do you want a piece of liver,’ he said, holding out the plate.
‘No thanks,’ said Tracy quietly.
‘’Ere,’ said Mr Kristos from his table, ‘that’s mine.’
While Keith handed over the liver to Mr Kristos, and Dad struggled to help Aunty Bev out of her skintight leather jacket, Keith’s mind raced.
What had happened?
Had someone died?
Had Tracy’s travel brochure collection been lost in a cyclone?
Why wasn’t she saying anything?
Then he realised from her expression she needed to talk to him in private.
On the way up the stairs Keith tried desperately to think what to say.
‘Has your Dad’s ligament gone septic and killed him?’ seemed a bit blunt, specially if it had.
‘If your travel brochures have been blown away in a cyclone I can get you some more from Mrs Nottage in the travel agents’ sounded better.
But what if the cyclone had also blown away something that couldn’t be replaced? Like her parents or Buster the dog?
Keith still hadn’t decided what to say by the time they got to his room.
Then he looked at Tracy’s sad face again and the words just came out.
‘What’s up?’ he said anxiously.
Tracy sighed.
‘Aunty Bev’s giving me a bit of a hard time, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Carries on like a cracked record.’
Keith opened his mouth to say something about grown-ups who thought they were born aerobics or yoga or washing-up teachers, but before he could Tracy reached out and touched his arm.
‘Keith,’ she said, ‘sorry I acted like a prawn this morning.’
Keith felt relief rush through him.
‘That’s OK,’ he said, ‘you were probably just a bit jet-lagged.’
Tracy thought about this and nodded.
‘I can see you’re really worried about your mum and dad,’ she continued, ‘and I’m gunna try and cheer them up.’
Keith felt like four boxes of tinned pineapple had been lifted from his shoulders.
He resisted the temptation to stick his head out of the window and yodel.
He didn’t even give in to the urge to do cartwheels round the room.
He just touched Tracy on the arm.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
He realised she wasn’t listening.
She was gawking at the stacks of boxes.
‘Jeez,’ she said, ‘do you get a bit hungry at night?’
Keith and Tracy walked back into the cafe.
They stopped and stared.
A tall, sophisticated figure was standing at the stove in a cloud of smoke jiggling a frying pan.
For a sec Keith thought Dad had gone off to watch telly and been replaced by a nightclub playboy in a tropical shirt who liked to cook his own sausages.
Then the figure stepped out of the smoke and Keith saw it was Dad.
‘What do you think?’ grinned Dad, modelling the shirt. ‘Bit of all right, eh?’
Even the parrots on the shirt looked impressed with how smart they were.
Keith tingled with excitement.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘brilliant.’
‘And,’ said Dad, ‘smell.’
He bent over and Keith sniffed his neck. A sweet spicy aroma of tropical fruit and seaweed and air freshener filled Keith’s nostrils.
‘Barrier Reef For Men,’ said Dad. ‘The real stuff.’
Keith felt dizzy, partly from the amount of Barrier Reef Dad was wearing, and partly from happiness.
‘Couple of little prezzies,’ said Aunty Bev, ‘to say thanks for your dad’s hospitality.’ She gave Keith a big wink.
Keith beamed at her and wondered if people who wore really tight clothes could be nominated as saints.
‘OK,’ said Dad, ‘let’s eat.’
He led them all over to the stove and Keith saw what was on the benchtop.
A bowl of creamy batter.
Pieces of cod in matzo flour.
Hand-cut potatoes.
‘Fish and chips!’ yelled Keith in delight.
Just like the old days.
It was working.
Dad really was perking up.
‘Yum,’ said Tracy, ‘I’m starving.’
While Dad slid the fish through the batter and dropped them into a big pan of foaming oil, Keith glanced around the cafe.
The customers were taking notice of the new Dad too.
A couple of women over by the window couldn’t take their eyes off him, and they were both over seventy.
As Keith and Tracy and Aunty Bev and Dad ate the fish and chips, Keith decided it was the best meal he’d had since Mum and Dad split up.
Even though Aunty Bev only ate three mouthfuls of fish and no chips.
‘Would you prefer sausages?’ Keith asked her. ‘Or a burger?’
Aunty Bev just smiled and shook her head.
What a trooper, thought Keith. Doesn’t want to off end Dad.
Then Tracy told them about her second cousin Glennys who made fish sausages once and nearly choked the cat because she forgot to take the bones out.
Dad chuckled.
Aunty Bev added that she wasn’t surprised as Glennys always ate prawns with the shells on.
Dad roared.
It continued to be Keith’s best meal right up to the point where Dad offered Tracy seconds.
‘Yes please,’ said Tracy, ‘this fish is tops.’
Before Dad could put a couple more pieces on Tracy’s plate, Aunty Bev raised an arm. Keith sent her an urgent message.
Leave it out.
The message didn’t get through.
Aunty Bev began tweaking.
Tracy’s face fell.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I won’t have any more, thanks.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Dad.
‘I’m feeling a bit tired,’ said Tracy. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.’
Keith watched her go with concern.
‘Is she OK?’ said Dad.
‘Just a bit highly-strung,’ said Aunty Bev. ‘Always has been.’
Funny, thought Keith, I’ve never noticed that.
He resisted the temptation to tell Aunty Bev how too much aerobics could be damaging for kids whose bones were still growing.
After all, Aunty Bev was almost a saint.
But as soon as he’d eaten Tracy’s bits offish, he went up to see how she was.
The first thing Keith saw as he got to the top of the stairs were the tins lying on his bedroom floor.
Corned beef.
Apricot halves.
Both empty.
Then, as he reached the doorway, he saw Tracy.
She was sitting on his bed reading one of his video game magazines and spooning baked beans into her mouth with the fold-out spoon on her Swiss Army knife.
Poor thing, thought Keith. Her body clock’s all haywire. One minute she wants to go to bed, the next she wants to have breakfast.
‘Tracy,’ he said softly, ‘why don’t you ask Aunty Bev to leave the aerobics till you’ve got over your jet lag? She’s a reasonable woman, she’ll understand.’
Tracy stared at him, startled.
He waited for her to say something.
She tried to, but Keith could see she couldn’t find the right words.
He was glad he hadn’t had jet lag this bad when he went to Australia.
Suddenly Tracy jumped up and dropped the tin and pushed past him and ran down the stairs.
Keith stood there for a second, stunned, watching the baked beans make a puddle on the floor.
Then he realised what was going on.
‘Wait,’ he shouted as he hurried down after her. ‘It’s OK. They’re for you.’