He stays over a couple of times before he moves in. I never hear them at it because I go right down under the covers, put my fingers in my ears and breathe through my mouth so all I get is the air moving in my head like a big sea. The door goes, their laughter creeps up the stairs, and I go under.
His name’s Simon. In the morning, he’s there at our breakfast table, beaming behind his packet of Alpen. Mum goes out and buys that for him because he says he can’t eat bacon and eggs. ‘Pinch an inch!’ he says, digging a tiny roll of flesh out of his waistband. ‘Roughage. That’s what you need in the morning, Jan.’ She nods as if she knows what he means.
I’ve done something about this in Home Economics, so I speak up. ‘Fibre, that’s what they call it now.’
He lets go of his bit of stomach. ‘Is it now? Same difference, though. New word, same difference. Like spastic and person with cerebral palsy. See?’ He winks at Mum. ‘She’s a feisty one, Jan!’ He puts one hand on my arm and leans towards me. ‘Don’t let anyone change that, Joanna. Good for you.’ He looks at Mum. ‘Good for you.’
She gives him her little smile. Her dressing gown’s unzipped too far, showing the yellow-looking dip between her tits. Usually she does the zip right up, because there’s no heating in the kitchen. And she isn’t wearing her normal slippers, the ones with the cream fur trim. She’s wearing the ones with curved heels and fluffy fronts. Dad bought her those one Christmas. ‘Whenever am I going to wear those, Dan?’ she’d asked him then.
‘Muesli, Jan, it’s the only way forward for the great British breakfast.’
I twist myself free of Simon’s hand. Mum sits down next to him, crosses her legs. Lets a slipper dangle from her foot.
‘Wouldn’t you say, Joanna?’ The glass of his big watch winks at me. His watch is gold coloured. There’s loads of dials on
the face, and at least four buttons on the side. I wonder what they all do, how many buttons and hands and dials you need
to tell the time, and why he doesn’t have a digital, like everyone else.
That night Mum’s jumpy all through tea, picking at her cardigan, twirling a bit of hair around her finger, getting up to look out the window. She doesn’t even put any food out for herself. She keeps dishing the beefburgers onto my plate, getting up and sliding another from under the grill as soon as I’ve finished one.
She picks at a bit of bread without bothering to spread any marg on it.
‘Joanna.’
I can tell she’s going to say something she thinks is important, because she starts off with my name.
‘I’ve got some news.’
I chew on burger. I imagine how many cows it takes to stock the new Tesco’s with burgers. There’s cows in the fields beyond our village, but I’ve never looked at one up close. In the butcher’s round the corner sometimes you see half a cow hung up in the window. A side of beef. Two fat legs and bloody meat on the ribs. I’ve watched mince turn brown in the pan when Mum cooks it for mince and mash. Dad’s favourite. One minute it’s pink and soft, the next it’s brown and hard.
‘What news?’
Before she can answer, his Volvo pulls up and she’s out the door, running down the path like he’s come home from the war. I go to the living room window and look out. Her flat brown hair flies out behind her as she runs to him. He gets out of the car and puts an arm round her. After he’s patted her on the arse, I hear him say, ‘Have you told her?’
Mum looks back at the house, so I duck down from the window and get back to my burger. I pick up a blackened chip and bite into it. It’s hard and sour.
There’s a lot of banging as he brings his suitcases into the hallway. They feel the need to whisper as he does this. Bang, crash, whisper, whisper. Bags scrape along the wallpaper. We’ve got the bobbly stuff you paint over. Dad was good at that sort of thing, anything with ladders and brushes and screwdrivers. In the summer holidays he’d let me help, and when we sat down for our tea we’d both have paint in our hair. Once we painted my room all different colours: one wall blue, one red, the other white. It was Jubilee year.
‘Joanna. Simon’s here.’ Mum stands in the kitchen doorway, all pink up her neck. You can tell when she’s lying or embarrassed, because a pink blotch spreads right up her neck, and she puts her hand there to try to cover it up. But I can still see it. It runs up to her ears and over her jaw and onto both cheeks, like a spilled pot of blusher.
I put down a cold chip and look at her. She wraps her cardigan around her middle. For a second I wonder if I should cry. Whether that would stop him.
‘Hi, Joanna. Remember me?’ He’s still wearing his raincoat, sticking one hand out towards me. That watch pokes through his cuff.
‘Of course I remember you. You were here this morning. At breakfast.’
‘That’s right! I’m the muesli king! How could you forget?’
He looks at Mum, who nods. He takes a step closer and glances at my plate, still holding out a hand. ‘Shake?’
I pick up the remains of my cold beefburger, dip it in the blob of tomato sauce, put it in my mouth, and chew.
Mum touches his shoulder. ‘Simon. Why don’t you take the stuff upstairs?’
He just stands there, though, arm extended and bobbing.
‘Joanna,’ he says, ‘Joanna, I’d like it if we could get off on the right foot.’ He pauses, flicks his fringe. ‘I’d really like that, Joanna.’ He smiles then, showing his small teeth, and I touch his outstretched fingers, just lightly.