are nothing to do with me. ‘We just lost track of the time.’
If Jessie looks wrecked, Mum and Dad look worse. Mum looks pale under her tan, still dressed in the clothes she was wearing in the pub last night, any relief she might feel at seeing us totally wiped out by the anger which has kept her going until now. Dad has sharp grey lines in the skin at the corners of his eyes which normally appear only after a night up working or a night out drinking with his partners.
‘You two,’ Dad says as we walk in the doorway and they both materialize from the kitchen, ‘are spoilt little arseholes.’ It’s dark in the hall—the cottage seems darker than it ever does at breakfast time, not that breakfast time is ever this early—but Mum’s and Dad’s faces are clearly visible, their eyes raking over the two of us, checking us for damage, speeding ahead of their mouths in accusation. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ Mum asks, staring at me but addressing Jessie, the older, more responsible one. ‘I’ll tell you this,’ Dad speaks slowly, trying to find the measure of his anger, close to taking us both and shaking us until it hurts either us or him, ‘if any of your motorcycle-riding friends comes around here looking for you, I’m going to take him off his bike and break both his bloody arms.’
‘Where were you?’ Mum has the aggrieved tone I’ve heard her use with her clients when they do a runner, fail to show up in court or for their probation officer. ‘Why did you turn your phones off? Your father’s been out all night, driving around looking for you.’
‘It was our decision,’ Jessie says, answering them both, making a show of strength which she knows will only count in her favor. ‘Well, not a decision really. We had a party on the beach. We just lost track of the time.’
‘It wasn’t much of a party,’ I add, seeing the next question forming on my parents’ lips. ‘We built a bonfire. And went swimming.’
‘Moron,’ Jessie whispers, crushing my burnt toes with her shoe. ‘Swimming?’ my mother echoes, a new look of horror transfiguring her face. ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous it is swimming off the shore here at night? What if one of you had got caught up in the current? Or swept against the rocks! What would you have done then? You couldn’t even see each other.’
‘There was a moon,’ Jessie offers, but she knows we’re just riding this one out. And we’re still standing in the hall, no one’s moved, the light hasn’t been switched on, we’re locked in this tableau of recrimination, but the gears are changing, the initial anger is running down, we’re bumping toward a new area of judgment and penalty. It’s Jake who breaks the spell that holds us all fixed to the spot by crying out with his eerie ‘I’m hungry’ call, the ghost of a cat’s wail, a sound which always leaves me feeling uneasy when I’m lying in bed at night. Mum turns and runs up the stairs to see to him and Dad, who isn’t nearly as ready as Mum to let go of his rage, ushers us into the kitchen, his silent, watchful gaze ominous as far as our getting off this lightly is concerned. He indicates two chairs where we should sit. This is the courtroom, we are the accused, but where’s our lawyer—Mum’s still upstairs? His back to us, he puts the kettle on. Jessie arches her eyebrows at me across the table, a look of superiority to everything, me, him, the situation. Dad’s hair, from behind, is sticking up on one side at a weird angle, like one of his architectural drawings gone wrong, as if he’s snatched an hour’s sleep in a chair at some point and it’s traumatized his hair, ironed it stiff in the wrong direction. ‘I called the police,’ he says, and my heart sinks. I can see this is going to take a great deal more explaining than either of us thought, we’re going to have to deal with the filth’s patronizing reprimands as well. ‘But I thought better of it.’ Dad
If Jessie looks wrecked, Mum and Dad look worse. Mum looks pale under her tan, still dressed in the clothes she was wearing in the pub last night, any relief she might feel at seeing us totally wiped out by the anger which has kept her going until now. Dad has sharp grey lines in the skin at the corners of his eyes which normally appear only after a night up working or a night out drinking with his partners.
‘You two,’ Dad says as we walk in the doorway and they both materialize from the kitchen, ‘are spoilt little arseholes.’ It’s dark in the hall—the cottage seems darker than it ever does at breakfast time, not that breakfast time is ever this early—but Mum’s and Dad’s faces are clearly visible, their eyes raking over the two of us, checking us for damage, speeding ahead of their mouths in accusation. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ Mum asks, staring at me but addressing Jessie, the older, more responsible one. ‘I’ll tell you this,’ Dad speaks slowly, trying to find the measure of his anger, close to taking us both and shaking us until it hurts either us or him, ‘if any of your motorcycle-riding friends comes around here looking for you, I’m going to take him off his bike and break both his bloody arms.’
‘Where were you?’ Mum has the aggrieved tone I’ve heard her use with her clients when they do a runner, fail to show up in court or for their probation officer. ‘Why did you turn your phones off? Your father’s been out all night, driving around looking for you.’
‘It was our decision,’ Jessie says, answering them both, making a show of strength which she knows will only count in her favor. ‘Well, not a decision really. We had a party on the beach. We just lost track of the time.’
‘It wasn’t much of a party,’ I add, seeing the next question forming on my parents’ lips. ‘We built a bonfire. And went swimming.’
‘Moron,’ Jessie whispers, crushing my burnt toes with her shoe. ‘Swimming?’ my mother echoes, a new look of horror transfiguring her face. ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous it is swimming off the shore here at night? What if one of you had got caught up in the current? Or swept against the rocks! What would you have done then? You couldn’t even see each other.’
‘There was a moon,’ Jessie offers, but she knows we’re just riding this one out. And we’re still standing in the hall, no one’s moved, the light hasn’t been switched on, we’re locked in this tableau of recrimination, but the gears are changing, the initial anger is running down, we’re bumping toward a new area of judgment and penalty. It’s Jake who breaks the spell that holds us all fixed to the spot by crying out with his eerie ‘I’m hungry’ call, the ghost of a cat’s wail, a sound which always leaves me feeling uneasy when I’m lying in bed at night. Mum turns and runs up the stairs to see to him and Dad, who isn’t nearly as ready as Mum to let go of his rage, ushers us into the kitchen, his silent, watchful gaze ominous as far as our getting off this lightly is concerned. He indicates two chairs where we should sit. This is the courtroom, we are the accused, but where’s our lawyer—Mum’s still upstairs? His back to us, he puts the kettle on. Jessie arches her eyebrows at me across the table, a look of superiority to everything, me, him, the situation. Dad’s hair, from behind, is sticking up on one side at a weird angle, like one of his architectural drawings gone wrong, as if he’s snatched an hour’s sleep in a chair at some point and it’s traumatized his hair, ironed it stiff in the wrong direction. ‘I called the police,’ he says, and my heart sinks. I can see this is going to take a great deal more explaining than either of us thought, we’re going to have to deal with the filth’s patronizing reprimands as well. ‘But I thought better of it.’ Dad
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