and pressing a long white finger to her cheek. Outside, down in the street, a dog barks, a door slams, the tricycle clatters along the cracked paving slabs. A cup of tea and two pieces of toast sorry? he says, and she smiles and claps her hands and says oh yes please how nice of you to offer. He smiles sarcastically at her, dropping the tissues in the bin, pulling on a pair of jeans and leaving the room.
She picks the remote control off the floor and flicks on the TV, sitting up in bed and watching someone stirring scrambled eggs and saying now back to you Anthea.
In the darkened front room of number nineteen, Anthea looks out into the sleepy eyes of a short hairless man with a very round belly. He sits forward on the sofa, hands curled around his stomach as though around a warm cup of tea, and he looks at the television and he mutters a song under his breath. He hears his two sons, the twins, they are in the kitchen and they are bothering their mother. Oh and they have so much energy he thinks to himself, and now it is the end of the summer and they have no idea what to be doing with it. It’s been a long summer he thinks, it will be good when they are back at school, it will do them good, it will tire them out a little maybe he thinks.
In the kitchen his wife slaps the hand of the older twin asit reaches up to where she is pressing out pink coconut sweets. No no no! she snaps, and it is her voice which makes him shrink away more than the passing pain of her hand. She turns and throws her frustration at the backs of her retreating sons, keep out of my way now she says, her voice loud and quick, don’t you come back in here until I’m ready for you and they disappear squealing into the front room and immediately she feels bad for her sharp words. She rubs her hand where it made contact with her son, as if trying to ease any pain he might have. She makes one of the sweets bigger than the rest, and kisses the sugar-pink taste of it before putting them in the fridge to set.
As soon as the boys bundle into the front room their father starts shaking his head and saying no no not in here, not now, your daddy is watching something okay and they press down on his legs, whining boredom and trying to spark life into him, one on either side like a pair of woodpecking bookends, going daddy daddy we’re bored there’s nothing to do there’s nothing to do.
He sighs heavily, a rumbling gust coming from somewhere far down in the roundness of his stomach, and he says boys I said not now, please, go outside and find something to do. It is a big world he says, you can never be bored in this big world he says and he looks each of them in the eye. They stand away from him and sidle out of the door.
Cricket! he calls after them as they disappear, why don’t you play cricket? and he settles back in the settee as Jamie welcomes the next guest back to the studio.
His daughter is still balancing on one foot at the other end of the street, and she sees her brothers leaping out of their front door, the older one wielding a cricket bat, the younger one swinging his arms like a dual-action spinbowler. She turns away, keeping her flamingo concentration, and she looks at the ground and she thinks about wings.
In the bathroom of number sixteen, the man with the young daughter looks at his hands, he holds them over the sink and looks at them.
They are better than they were.
The skin does not peel so much, and the colour is gradually returning. But still they are in a bad way. The scarring is hard and shiny and new-looking, swirling across his palms like smoke trapped under glass, damaged skin layered across damaged skin. He turns them over, his ruined hands, holding each side of them under the light as though admiring carved wooden artefacts. But he is not admiring. He looks for the small unharmed areas of skin, on the backs of his hands, towards the wrists, he holds them closer to his eyes, looks at the lines and the pores and the few hairs
She picks the remote control off the floor and flicks on the TV, sitting up in bed and watching someone stirring scrambled eggs and saying now back to you Anthea.
In the darkened front room of number nineteen, Anthea looks out into the sleepy eyes of a short hairless man with a very round belly. He sits forward on the sofa, hands curled around his stomach as though around a warm cup of tea, and he looks at the television and he mutters a song under his breath. He hears his two sons, the twins, they are in the kitchen and they are bothering their mother. Oh and they have so much energy he thinks to himself, and now it is the end of the summer and they have no idea what to be doing with it. It’s been a long summer he thinks, it will be good when they are back at school, it will do them good, it will tire them out a little maybe he thinks.
In the kitchen his wife slaps the hand of the older twin asit reaches up to where she is pressing out pink coconut sweets. No no no! she snaps, and it is her voice which makes him shrink away more than the passing pain of her hand. She turns and throws her frustration at the backs of her retreating sons, keep out of my way now she says, her voice loud and quick, don’t you come back in here until I’m ready for you and they disappear squealing into the front room and immediately she feels bad for her sharp words. She rubs her hand where it made contact with her son, as if trying to ease any pain he might have. She makes one of the sweets bigger than the rest, and kisses the sugar-pink taste of it before putting them in the fridge to set.
As soon as the boys bundle into the front room their father starts shaking his head and saying no no not in here, not now, your daddy is watching something okay and they press down on his legs, whining boredom and trying to spark life into him, one on either side like a pair of woodpecking bookends, going daddy daddy we’re bored there’s nothing to do there’s nothing to do.
He sighs heavily, a rumbling gust coming from somewhere far down in the roundness of his stomach, and he says boys I said not now, please, go outside and find something to do. It is a big world he says, you can never be bored in this big world he says and he looks each of them in the eye. They stand away from him and sidle out of the door.
Cricket! he calls after them as they disappear, why don’t you play cricket? and he settles back in the settee as Jamie welcomes the next guest back to the studio.
His daughter is still balancing on one foot at the other end of the street, and she sees her brothers leaping out of their front door, the older one wielding a cricket bat, the younger one swinging his arms like a dual-action spinbowler. She turns away, keeping her flamingo concentration, and she looks at the ground and she thinks about wings.
In the bathroom of number sixteen, the man with the young daughter looks at his hands, he holds them over the sink and looks at them.
They are better than they were.
The skin does not peel so much, and the colour is gradually returning. But still they are in a bad way. The scarring is hard and shiny and new-looking, swirling across his palms like smoke trapped under glass, damaged skin layered across damaged skin. He turns them over, his ruined hands, holding each side of them under the light as though admiring carved wooden artefacts. But he is not admiring. He looks for the small unharmed areas of skin, on the backs of his hands, towards the wrists, he holds them closer to his eyes, looks at the lines and the pores and the few hairs
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