How soon they settle into the old ways, how quickly normality is back. Explanations and jokes and an apology to pass on, from B, for not being here; he’s been madly busy getting another family safe and things haven’t gone according to plan, there were complications. And then Motl holds up his hands to all the questions; yes, yes, Mum is alive, she’s okay, don’t worry, B’s assured him you’re all right, you’re just sorting out a few things and as he speaks he looks straight at you, suddenly, straight into you, as if he knows, and you shake your head and in a blink he’s back at them; you must have imagined it; hang on, he’s laughing, aren’t there three starving mouths to be fed in this place? B has helped, snuck him in, has even let him deliver this trolley; it’s highly dangerous but what the heck, Motl had to get to them, had to. ‘I promised, didn’t I?’ and then he sweeps his hand across three silver domes and it is everything the children could want.
He salutes, clicks his heels. ‘For my big, brave soldiers — only the best.’
The children dive in. In the thick of it Soli puts down her milkshake and takes her father’s hand and encases it in both of hers like it is a fragile, injured animal; like she is the grownup in all this. She leads him to the bed and pats a space beside her. His face looks old, now, for the first time in his life; suddenly it is allowed to be that. All his impishness is blown out. His eyes are reddened like they’ve been scrubbed with steel wool, his hands tremble as if still in shock. How can such a large-spirited man be so reduced? What happened out there? He pulls away as if he can see inside her thinking and doesn’t like it. Flops onto his back. His face irons out.
‘Eat, my lovelies,’ he says wearily now, bereft of any spark, ‘come on, you need to build up your strength. We’ve got a big journey ahead of us.’
Soli places her cardigan gently over his shoulders and he draws it around him like it’s the finest mink then closes his eyes with a contented sigh, as if it’s the first time he’s closed them in a week.
Who, being loved, is poor?