Consequences.

Aren’t there always consequences? Life would be much better if we could just get rid of them. Anyway, here are a few:

Grandad was released without charge. The police were very good about it, because although Grandad was older than God’s dog, he had assaulted an officer. He had broken the law. Maybe the police figured it wouldn’t be good for public relations to charge a really old guy with assault. Maybe they just decided to cut him some slack. Whatever the reason, he was home a few hours later.

(I knew what had really happened. Pop had bought me and Andrew some time. He’d hit the officer so they’d be more concerned with him and leave us alone. I asked Grandad about this and he snorted. ‘Don’t kid yourselves,’ he said. ‘And don’t make assumptions. My actions are my responsibility. Just as yours are yours. And never, never disrespect the police,’ he added. ‘They do a fantastic job under trying circumstances.’ I was going to point out that I do respect the police and that it was Grandad who’d punched one of them, but I let it go.)

I made the front page of the newspaper. They spelled my name wrong, but that didn’t matter. (How could they spell ‘Rob’ wrong?) They also had a photo of Grandad being taken away. Surprisingly, our protest re-awakened interest in conditions at the abattoir. A few people wrote to the paper and expressed support for a meat boycott. This, in turn, prompted the butcher and the supermarket to announce they’d no longer source meat from the abattoir until there was an ironclad assurance that humane practices were being used all the time.

Humane practices were established in the local abattoir. Closed-circuit television cameras were installed and every part of the operation was open to scrutiny.

I got a text message:

Congratulations, Rob. You met the challenge. Expect another one soon.

I replied, Thanks Grandad. Looking forward to it.

I got another message. Not your grandad.

I wasn’t, of course, buying that.

Miss Cunningham wanted to suspend us for at least three days, but she couldn’t. I think someone pointed out that after school hours we could pretty much do what we wanted. We weren’t wearing our school uniforms and therefore couldn’t be accused of bringing the institution into disrepute. She wasn’t happy and I knew our school lives had just been made much trickier. But we could go to school and I was glad.

Mum and Dad grounded me, as they promised, not just for life but all eternity. Well, okay, a week. It felt like eternity. The following Saturday I turned up at the Old Farts’ Palace, took Trixie for a walk in the park and visited Grandad for a game of chess.