White Goods by Guy Johnson Page B

lots of different
browns.
    ‘And don’t make it too
obvious when you’re done,’ Ian insisted.
    ‘Yeah, don’t
come charging in and say: ‘I’ve done
it!’ ’ Della added, and they both thought
this was hysterical.
    ‘I won’t,’ I said, but I
was still a bit worried about how I was going to pull this
off.
    The distracting bit took
quite a while to sort out.
    ‘I gotta stay with this
dish till it’s done,’ Auntie Stella kept insisting, whenever Ian or
Della asked for her attention. ‘Just give me a minute or
so.’
    Come and see
this on the TV, Auntie Stella? Can you have a look at my leg, I
think I hurt it? Auntie Stella, there’s a mark on the carpet – can
you have a look? Have you seen what’s going on over the road –
look?
    I kept expecting her to
catch on, but she just laughed lightly to herself. I think she was
pleased to be in high demand, like it was a sign we were accepting
her being there at last. I felt a bit mean, but then again we
hadn’t asked her to stay; hadn’t asked her to lose her flat. She’d
asked herself.
    ‘All finished,’ she
eventually announced, switching off the gas, giving it one final
stir, click-clacking with her stiletto slippers as she left the
kitchen in search of the others. ‘Now, what’s all this
about...’
    Somehow they
managed to entice her upstairs. Well, Della had – and Ian was on
lookout. ‘Oh, your Mum’s stuff,’ I heard Auntie Stella say. ‘You
wanna sort through it now?’ Which was interesting, because she
sounded all surprised, like it was a bit too soon to do it, even
though we knew she’d been ferreting-through-it-like-a-desperate-tramp (Della, in a bitter, teary voice) for
days.
    Down in the
kitchen, I was trying to remember the rules. ‘Don’t make it too obvious.’ ‘She’ll know if you make it too
bad.’ ‘We still need her to serve it up, for Dad to try it.’ ‘And
you mustn’t change the colour or anything.’
    I looked at
the kitchen clock. It was 5:50 by then. Dad might be back soon. I
was never sure what he was doing, what job
he was on . But it
usually brought him home around six.
    In the cupboards, there
were all sorts of ingredients to choose from. Gravy powder, pepper,
chilli powder, lots of herbs and stuff I’d never heard of or wasn’t
sure had ever been used. Custard powder too, which I thought about,
but I wondered if it just might change the colour a bit after
all.
    In the end, I picked up
the salt. Making it a bit saltier might be enough. It was in a big
bag, the size of a bag of flour, but plastic and see-through, apart
from the writing on it. Someone had snipped a corner off, so you
could pour it out. I took it down from the cupboard and began to
tip a little bit in, slowly.
    ‘She’s on her way!’ Ian
was suddenly behind me, his voice abruptly in my ear, making me
jump. Making my hand jolt.
    ‘Shit, Ian!’ I cried,
moving the bag away from the pan as quickly as possible, but it was
still at an angle, and it tipped over the cooker, then all over the
floor, making a huge mess. A thick white line of powder ran across
our black and red lino; a line of gunpowder, in my imagination,
just waiting for the fuse to be lit. It didn’t take
long.
    ‘You idiot,’ Ian scolded
me, taking the bag, shooing me away. ‘Get a dustpan and brush and
quick.’
    Then it all seemed to go
slow motion. Me getting the brush. Ian stirring the stew, clearing
up the salt that had spilt on the hob. Auntie Stella getting closer
and closer. Her voice too. The words coming out long and slow.
What. Are. You. Kids. Up. To? What. Have. You. Done?
    Then it all speeded up.
Very quick. Like it was urgent. Like it was life or
death.
    ‘Scotty was
looking for a snack and knocked the salt out of the cupboard,’ Ian
told her, which was partly good, because she instantly believed
him. It was the sort of thing I was famous
for (Mum), though I was certain I hadn’t
been on the telly or anything because of it. The bad bit was that
Auntie