word for the Dead End Kids (‘Thank you for that suggestion, Sima,’ said Sarah, her pen immobile). Mandy added Abba, and Cai countered with Roxy Music, while the Stranglers were put up against Bony M. When Sarah listed David Essex and 10cc without any reference to her companions, the fragile civility of horse-trading broke down once more.
‘Get it!’
Cai lunged across to Sarah, grabbed the notebook and flung it to Satish. As the girls headed for him, Satish ripped out the offending page and stuffed it in his mouth. His tongue worked against it as Sarah whacked him on the chest, overbalancing him onto the settee, but it was less soluble than he’d expected. Mandy grasped the protruding ends and started to tug.
‘What on earth?’ Mandy’s mum had come into the room. ‘What are you doing?’
The others straightened up. Satish pulled the paper out of his mouth. It peeled off his tongue dryly. Cai murmured, ‘Sorry, Mrs Hobbes,’ and she tutted at them.
‘I’ve done some flapjacks,’ she told them. ‘Ten minutes. In the kitchen.’
When she left, Sarah reached out to rescue her notebook. ‘Splat-eesh,’ she hissed.
‘Spaz,’ he returned.
‘Splatish’ wasn’t making so much of an appearance any more, and when the name did surface Satish found himself almost inured to its impact. Sticks and stones, he told himself. It was a nickname thought up by one of the Chandler brothers during his early months in Cherry Gardens. At first, Paul had called him ‘Diarrhoea’ – a little skid mark on the whiteness of Bourne Heath. Then Stephen, the younger and brighter of the two, came up with ‘Splatish’, and the pun had stuck for a long while, lingering until it was finally neutralised. In that sense it was like ‘Paki’, a term used so frequently in the daily hustle of the playground that Satish had been mystified when his casual mention of the term had seen his dad barrelling in to the Head’s office to complain. This tactless intervention, which threatened so much of the painstaking work Satish had done to shore himself up socially, would not be allowed to happen again. His job was to parry the blows, or absorb them. He didn’t need a protector.
Later they sat at Mandy’s kitchen counter, flapjacks in hand, glasses of milk lined up in front of them. Mandy’s mum’s flapjacks came soused in sweetness. Satish had once asked her what she put into them to make them so nice. ‘Golden syrup,’ she’d said. What else? he’d asked. ‘More golden syrup,’ she’d told him.
The can was still out on the side. Satish loved the picture of the lion and the bees, the old-fashioned look of the tin. He reached for it, dug his little finger into the notch around the lid and pulled it along, collecting a build-up of syrup. He popped the finger into his mouth and sucked. Cai was talking.
‘So I’ve got two more to get, Battleships and Rally Cars,’ he was telling Mandy. ‘And then I’ll have four gift cards, and then Satish will get one more, and he’ll give me his gift card. So that’s five, and I can get a free pack. I’m going to get World Record Holders.’
Sima dropped down from her bar stool.
‘I’m going home,’ she announced.
‘Top Trumps is brilliant,’ Sarah put in. ‘I’ve seen Cai’s Cars pack. It’s great.’
But Cai wasn’t looking at her. He was facing the other way, towards Mandy. ‘It’s fun,’ he told her. ‘You can play it with me, if you want.’
‘Yeah. Great. Maybe,’ and she winked at Satish as she turned away from Cai. ‘Which ones will you get, Satish?’ she asked. Under the counter, her knee nudged against his.
Out in the hall, he could hear his sister thanking Mrs Hobbes, preparing to leave. ‘Bombers,’ he said.
‘Fighters and Bombers,’ Cai corrected.
‘Same thing,’ said Mandy, but Satish made a mental note. There were so many things to remember, so many little details to keep hold of. You had to know which music to like, which sport to play,
‘Get it!’
Cai lunged across to Sarah, grabbed the notebook and flung it to Satish. As the girls headed for him, Satish ripped out the offending page and stuffed it in his mouth. His tongue worked against it as Sarah whacked him on the chest, overbalancing him onto the settee, but it was less soluble than he’d expected. Mandy grasped the protruding ends and started to tug.
‘What on earth?’ Mandy’s mum had come into the room. ‘What are you doing?’
The others straightened up. Satish pulled the paper out of his mouth. It peeled off his tongue dryly. Cai murmured, ‘Sorry, Mrs Hobbes,’ and she tutted at them.
‘I’ve done some flapjacks,’ she told them. ‘Ten minutes. In the kitchen.’
When she left, Sarah reached out to rescue her notebook. ‘Splat-eesh,’ she hissed.
‘Spaz,’ he returned.
‘Splatish’ wasn’t making so much of an appearance any more, and when the name did surface Satish found himself almost inured to its impact. Sticks and stones, he told himself. It was a nickname thought up by one of the Chandler brothers during his early months in Cherry Gardens. At first, Paul had called him ‘Diarrhoea’ – a little skid mark on the whiteness of Bourne Heath. Then Stephen, the younger and brighter of the two, came up with ‘Splatish’, and the pun had stuck for a long while, lingering until it was finally neutralised. In that sense it was like ‘Paki’, a term used so frequently in the daily hustle of the playground that Satish had been mystified when his casual mention of the term had seen his dad barrelling in to the Head’s office to complain. This tactless intervention, which threatened so much of the painstaking work Satish had done to shore himself up socially, would not be allowed to happen again. His job was to parry the blows, or absorb them. He didn’t need a protector.
Later they sat at Mandy’s kitchen counter, flapjacks in hand, glasses of milk lined up in front of them. Mandy’s mum’s flapjacks came soused in sweetness. Satish had once asked her what she put into them to make them so nice. ‘Golden syrup,’ she’d said. What else? he’d asked. ‘More golden syrup,’ she’d told him.
The can was still out on the side. Satish loved the picture of the lion and the bees, the old-fashioned look of the tin. He reached for it, dug his little finger into the notch around the lid and pulled it along, collecting a build-up of syrup. He popped the finger into his mouth and sucked. Cai was talking.
‘So I’ve got two more to get, Battleships and Rally Cars,’ he was telling Mandy. ‘And then I’ll have four gift cards, and then Satish will get one more, and he’ll give me his gift card. So that’s five, and I can get a free pack. I’m going to get World Record Holders.’
Sima dropped down from her bar stool.
‘I’m going home,’ she announced.
‘Top Trumps is brilliant,’ Sarah put in. ‘I’ve seen Cai’s Cars pack. It’s great.’
But Cai wasn’t looking at her. He was facing the other way, towards Mandy. ‘It’s fun,’ he told her. ‘You can play it with me, if you want.’
‘Yeah. Great. Maybe,’ and she winked at Satish as she turned away from Cai. ‘Which ones will you get, Satish?’ she asked. Under the counter, her knee nudged against his.
Out in the hall, he could hear his sister thanking Mrs Hobbes, preparing to leave. ‘Bombers,’ he said.
‘Fighters and Bombers,’ Cai corrected.
‘Same thing,’ said Mandy, but Satish made a mental note. There were so many things to remember, so many little details to keep hold of. You had to know which music to like, which sport to play,
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