that jumped into my mind was as black as an old tire . . . and it suddenly reminded me of Sparkler. “Hey, Dad — did anyone feed Sparkler?”
“Don’t worry about Sparkler; I’ll give her the leftovers of the stew later on. Now imagine the pizza is cut into five slices. Can you picture that?”
Poor old Sparkler was what I was thinking about, having to finish off that stew — but I didn’t say it.
“Now picture this. There are twenty-five olives on the pizza. How many olives on each slice?”
At this stage, I was seriously sorry that I had asked for Dad’s help at all. “I don’t like olives,” I said.
“Well, bits of pineapple, then. It doesn’t really matter if it’s olives or pineapples or lumps of rock!” said Dad, and his voice was getting a bit louder. So I was glad when at that very moment the doorbell rang.
It was Mrs. Lemon from the shop. I don’t think she had ever been to our house before. Well, maybe when Mammy died. Lots of people came then “to pay their respects,” but otherwise for Mrs. Lemon this was a first.
“Hello, Mrs. Lemon,” I said, opening the door wide.
“Hello, Mimi,” said Mrs. Lemon in a quiet voice. “Can I speak to your father, please?”
I didn’t have to call Dad because he was right behind me. I wasn’t sure if he even knew Mrs. Lemon.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. . . . ?” he asked.
“Mrs. Lemon. From the shop,” she explained. “Could I have a private word with you please, Mr. Roche?” She nodded her head toward me in that way that adults have of saying, “Not in front of the kids, please.”
So Dad told me to run along and finish my homework while he showed Mrs. Lemon into the sitting room — but I stayed behind the door and put my ear quietly up against it. I could hear almost every word.
Mrs. Lemon sounded very embarrassed. She kept apologizing and, at first, I didn’t know what she was talking about. I was sure that Dad didn’t have a clue either. It was worse than pizzas and olives.
“I’m really sorry to disturb you like this, Mr. Roche,” she started, “because I know you must have enough on your plate since your wife died, and it can’t be easy with three children . . . and they must be very upset . . . so I suppose you can’t blame Sally for . . .” and she trailed off.
“You can’t blame Sally for what?” said Dad.
“Mr. Roche, I can assure you that I haven’t gone to the police about this, and I’m just so sorry to trouble you with —”
“The police?” repeated Dad, sounding a bit upset now.
The police? What had Sally done?
“You see, when I got the CCTV camera installed I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t even know how to work it properly, to be honest with you, but stuff kept disappearing off the shelves.”
“What stuff?” asked Dad.
Yeah, what stuff?
I wanted to know.
“Well, stationery, mostly. Pens and markers and folders and such.”
“I know what stationery is,” said Dad, a bit rudely.
A bad thought was growing in my mind. I had to cover my mouth with my hand.
“Are you accusing my Sally of shoplifting, Mrs. Lemon?” said Dad very loudly and angrily. I wondered if Sally could hear him from her bedroom. “Because if you are, you are very much mistaken! I will have you know that my daughter Sally would never,
never
steal from anybody!”
I wished I felt as sure about that as Dad seemed to.
“Of course not. Of course not,” wailed Mrs. Lemon, and she really was wailing now. “It’s just that she is on the films. . . . Here, see for yourself. I’m really sorry.”
It went quiet then. I could hear Dad pushing a DVD into the machine and the whirring sound it made. Oh, why was this stupid door not made of glass!
Then I heard Dad saying quietly, in a broken kind of voice, “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
So I supposed Sally had been caught on camera after all.
“It’s all right, Mr. Roche. It really is.” I could hear Mrs. Lemon trying to console Dad. “I shouldn’t have come.
“Don’t worry about Sparkler; I’ll give her the leftovers of the stew later on. Now imagine the pizza is cut into five slices. Can you picture that?”
Poor old Sparkler was what I was thinking about, having to finish off that stew — but I didn’t say it.
“Now picture this. There are twenty-five olives on the pizza. How many olives on each slice?”
At this stage, I was seriously sorry that I had asked for Dad’s help at all. “I don’t like olives,” I said.
“Well, bits of pineapple, then. It doesn’t really matter if it’s olives or pineapples or lumps of rock!” said Dad, and his voice was getting a bit louder. So I was glad when at that very moment the doorbell rang.
It was Mrs. Lemon from the shop. I don’t think she had ever been to our house before. Well, maybe when Mammy died. Lots of people came then “to pay their respects,” but otherwise for Mrs. Lemon this was a first.
“Hello, Mrs. Lemon,” I said, opening the door wide.
“Hello, Mimi,” said Mrs. Lemon in a quiet voice. “Can I speak to your father, please?”
I didn’t have to call Dad because he was right behind me. I wasn’t sure if he even knew Mrs. Lemon.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. . . . ?” he asked.
“Mrs. Lemon. From the shop,” she explained. “Could I have a private word with you please, Mr. Roche?” She nodded her head toward me in that way that adults have of saying, “Not in front of the kids, please.”
So Dad told me to run along and finish my homework while he showed Mrs. Lemon into the sitting room — but I stayed behind the door and put my ear quietly up against it. I could hear almost every word.
Mrs. Lemon sounded very embarrassed. She kept apologizing and, at first, I didn’t know what she was talking about. I was sure that Dad didn’t have a clue either. It was worse than pizzas and olives.
“I’m really sorry to disturb you like this, Mr. Roche,” she started, “because I know you must have enough on your plate since your wife died, and it can’t be easy with three children . . . and they must be very upset . . . so I suppose you can’t blame Sally for . . .” and she trailed off.
“You can’t blame Sally for what?” said Dad.
“Mr. Roche, I can assure you that I haven’t gone to the police about this, and I’m just so sorry to trouble you with —”
“The police?” repeated Dad, sounding a bit upset now.
The police? What had Sally done?
“You see, when I got the CCTV camera installed I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t even know how to work it properly, to be honest with you, but stuff kept disappearing off the shelves.”
“What stuff?” asked Dad.
Yeah, what stuff?
I wanted to know.
“Well, stationery, mostly. Pens and markers and folders and such.”
“I know what stationery is,” said Dad, a bit rudely.
A bad thought was growing in my mind. I had to cover my mouth with my hand.
“Are you accusing my Sally of shoplifting, Mrs. Lemon?” said Dad very loudly and angrily. I wondered if Sally could hear him from her bedroom. “Because if you are, you are very much mistaken! I will have you know that my daughter Sally would never,
never
steal from anybody!”
I wished I felt as sure about that as Dad seemed to.
“Of course not. Of course not,” wailed Mrs. Lemon, and she really was wailing now. “It’s just that she is on the films. . . . Here, see for yourself. I’m really sorry.”
It went quiet then. I could hear Dad pushing a DVD into the machine and the whirring sound it made. Oh, why was this stupid door not made of glass!
Then I heard Dad saying quietly, in a broken kind of voice, “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
So I supposed Sally had been caught on camera after all.
“It’s all right, Mr. Roche. It really is.” I could hear Mrs. Lemon trying to console Dad. “I shouldn’t have come.
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