Living In Perhaps by Julia Widdows

sprayed all over the floor, and two of the
bowls split neatly in half, their white china insides grinning
between the layers of sunshine-yellow glaze. 'Oh bugger!' Tillie
shouted. 'Bugger-bugger-bugger.' A chant unknown to me. Our
cereal bowls at home were made of convenient melamine so that
even if our mother knocked them carelessly to the floor they
wouldn't break. Nor would she jump lightly up and down and
shout so merrily if they did.
    To help in the kitchen, Patrick thumped the gas water-heater
to get the washing-up water going and sang the duet from The Pearl Fishers , both parts, alternating them. He loomed big
against the cupboards, his feet enormous, spanning each floor
tile. He would try to put things away, but was always asking,
'Where does this go, then?', holding up a cup by its handle as
if it were a small fish he'd caught, or an egg whisk or a place
mat, looking like he had no idea of its function, let alone
its home.
    The Hennessys all liked doors to be constantly open so that
they could look – and shout – through them, but also shut, so that
they could come flying through, kicking them open for preference,
flinging them back on their hinges. You could hear Patrick's
voice from all over the house, booming out instructions or
singing bits of opera and Irish jigs; and the flip-flap of Mattie's
boot-tops as he ran up and down, making crowing noises; and
Isolde clicking about in her heels and sighing heavily. 'I think I
must have been a changeling,' I heard her say, more than once.
    All in all, it was a rich diet for a girl like me.
    And then there was Tom Rose. He was a friend of Tom's, always
hanging round the house as if he had no home of his own to go
to. Like me, I suppose. I was always disappointed if I found him
there, too. But Barbara took his presence for granted so I didn't
dare complain. 'Oh, it's just Tom Rose,' she'd say.
    We would sit on the floor in Tom's room, just bare floorboards
stained with varnish, and he would teach us things: card tricks,
and how to roll dice properly. He taught Barbara and me to play
poker. Isolde wouldn't join in, but she watched from the doorway
with her arms folded and her nose in the air.
    'Corrupting the children again,' she said.
    'We want to be corrupted,' Barbara told her. And giving me that
glinting look, she added, 'We're not goody-goodies, all timid and
feeble, must-do-what-your-mummy-says. We're not bungalow kids.'
    When Isolde stalked off Tom called after her, 'Interfering bitch,'
and glanced conspiratorially at Tom Rose, who snickered with
amusement. And that was that. Nothing happened. No fire or
brimstone rained down on him for being rude, or disloyal about
a sister, or for using such a word. Nobody came crashing up the
stairs saying, 'I heard that!' No one suggested he wash his mouth
out with soap and water.
    Once, even, I was in the kitchen and Patrick was having a sort
of mock fight with Tom (I thought it was a mock fight), and had
grabbed him by both arms from behind. Tom, who was nearly as
tall, struck backwards with both elbows into his father's ribs, with
all his might. Patrick yelled and let him go, laughing and crying
out, 'You bloody little sod!' I froze. My ears turned crimson, and I
could feel a prickling sensation all over my face. Could other
people hear that sound as if a huge pane of glass had smashed, the
tinkling of the slivers of glass as they fell to the ground? Tom was
hovering in the doorway, cackling at his father's discomfort.
Patrick rubbed his ribs through his grubby jumper, and said,
'Little sod,' again, in wonder.
    No one ever uttered a swear word in our house. We knew there
were words one could not say, or even hear, without being defiled.
But we didn't know what they were. So, how come, from out of
that startling sentence, spoken by a father to his son, could I
unerringly pick out the words I knew to be wrong? Bloody little sod . And no one baulked, no one froze – except me – no one else did hear the glass crashing to the