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Authors: Creina Mansfield
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afternoon when I got home from school, using the thin wood from the dividing fence as kindling. And there was still coal left frombefore Mum’s argument with Helen. But after nearly a month, the fire was slower and slower to light. Even when I got it alight, the coal produced more smoke than welcoming red glow.
Helen was worse than useless when consulted. ‘Why isn’t it lighting properly?’ I asked her.
She gazed at the fire blankly. ‘How would I know? Don’t ask me. I’ve done enough for you,’ she said bitterly.
I stared. I couldn’t remember her doing a single thing for anyone else, let alone me.
‘Just what have you done for me?’ I asked sarcastically. I consulted my watch. ‘Don’t hurry. I’ve got five seconds. That should be more than enough time for a detailed list.’ I’d heard her say this to Mum, years ago.
Helen narrowed her eyes at me just as Mum had done at her. ‘You don’t know how demanding it is running a house, David.’
‘Running,’ I laughed. ‘Helen, you’re not even walking this place.’
I looked around the sitting-room. One curtain was hanging lopsidedly from its rail. The once white carpet was mottled with pink and grey sticky circles. Up in the bathroom, the towelshad been emitting toxic fumes for days and the sink was growing a worrying mould on its grey rim. ‘Running,’ I repeated, ‘the only thing running around here is bacteria.’
But Helen had slammed out of the room. I sighed. My conscience wasn’t quite clear about the curtain rail. That might have come down during a fight that had developed between Joe and me, a fight that might also have been responsible for the splitting of one of the bean bags and the distribution of about a thousand plastic beans throughout the room.
Joe had been trying to strangle me with one of the curtains when Ian walked in – and this just goes to show how weird he is – ignored us completely. My older brother has never, not once, beaten anyone up on my behalf. Of course, with a physique like his he’s not well-equipped to do much beating up. In fact, my brother would be more likely to reduce Joe to a quivering wreck by singing him an aria, which is almost what happened.
Ian just headed towards the piano, as if in a dream. Joe stopped strangling me and listened. He knew Ian had won a scholarship for hissinging, but not that he could play the piano brilliantly. Ian began with ‘Chopsticks’, played with two fingers. As far as Joe was concerned, that’s how everyone plays the piano.
But the ‘Chopsticks’ turned into some concerto or other which seemed to need a hundred fingers and Ian was playing the piano as if his life depended on it. Joe stared in disbelief. When the playing came to an end with a dramatic crescendo, he let out a slow whistle of appreciation.
‘I never knew you could play like that,’ he said admiringly.
‘That,’ answered Ian contemptuously, more to himself than to Joe. ‘I want to play better than that.’ And he started playing again.
From then on he was always at the piano, so often that it interfered with our TV watching. We tried turning the volume right up but it’s very unnerving trying to concentrate with Beethoven in the room with you. Even if we chucked marshmallows at him, he just kept on playing. Now, don’t try to tell me that’s normal behaviour.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A Mess
A nd then a terrible thing happened. The TV controls went missing. We searched the whole room for them, flinging the bean bags about so that the beans from the torn one flew in all directions, but we couldn’t find the controls.
I challenged Psycho Phil who had turned up because he thought Helen would be home. ‘You’ve taken the controls,’ I said.
‘Controls? What controls?’
‘What controls? The supersonic jet controls. The border controls. The self controls. The TV controls, of course, you idiot.’ I looked at Psycho. He was tall, but I’ve seen more muscle on a gerbil. I guessed that he
Helen was worse than useless when consulted. ‘Why isn’t it lighting properly?’ I asked her.
She gazed at the fire blankly. ‘How would I know? Don’t ask me. I’ve done enough for you,’ she said bitterly.
I stared. I couldn’t remember her doing a single thing for anyone else, let alone me.
‘Just what have you done for me?’ I asked sarcastically. I consulted my watch. ‘Don’t hurry. I’ve got five seconds. That should be more than enough time for a detailed list.’ I’d heard her say this to Mum, years ago.
Helen narrowed her eyes at me just as Mum had done at her. ‘You don’t know how demanding it is running a house, David.’
‘Running,’ I laughed. ‘Helen, you’re not even walking this place.’
I looked around the sitting-room. One curtain was hanging lopsidedly from its rail. The once white carpet was mottled with pink and grey sticky circles. Up in the bathroom, the towelshad been emitting toxic fumes for days and the sink was growing a worrying mould on its grey rim. ‘Running,’ I repeated, ‘the only thing running around here is bacteria.’
But Helen had slammed out of the room. I sighed. My conscience wasn’t quite clear about the curtain rail. That might have come down during a fight that had developed between Joe and me, a fight that might also have been responsible for the splitting of one of the bean bags and the distribution of about a thousand plastic beans throughout the room.
Joe had been trying to strangle me with one of the curtains when Ian walked in – and this just goes to show how weird he is – ignored us completely. My older brother has never, not once, beaten anyone up on my behalf. Of course, with a physique like his he’s not well-equipped to do much beating up. In fact, my brother would be more likely to reduce Joe to a quivering wreck by singing him an aria, which is almost what happened.
Ian just headed towards the piano, as if in a dream. Joe stopped strangling me and listened. He knew Ian had won a scholarship for hissinging, but not that he could play the piano brilliantly. Ian began with ‘Chopsticks’, played with two fingers. As far as Joe was concerned, that’s how everyone plays the piano.
But the ‘Chopsticks’ turned into some concerto or other which seemed to need a hundred fingers and Ian was playing the piano as if his life depended on it. Joe stared in disbelief. When the playing came to an end with a dramatic crescendo, he let out a slow whistle of appreciation.
‘I never knew you could play like that,’ he said admiringly.
‘That,’ answered Ian contemptuously, more to himself than to Joe. ‘I want to play better than that.’ And he started playing again.
From then on he was always at the piano, so often that it interfered with our TV watching. We tried turning the volume right up but it’s very unnerving trying to concentrate with Beethoven in the room with you. Even if we chucked marshmallows at him, he just kept on playing. Now, don’t try to tell me that’s normal behaviour.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A Mess
A nd then a terrible thing happened. The TV controls went missing. We searched the whole room for them, flinging the bean bags about so that the beans from the torn one flew in all directions, but we couldn’t find the controls.
I challenged Psycho Phil who had turned up because he thought Helen would be home. ‘You’ve taken the controls,’ I said.
‘Controls? What controls?’
‘What controls? The supersonic jet controls. The border controls. The self controls. The TV controls, of course, you idiot.’ I looked at Psycho. He was tall, but I’ve seen more muscle on a gerbil. I guessed that he
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