The Accidental Life of Greg Millar by Aimee Alexander Read Free Book Online Page A

your secret is, but I’ve never seen him so . . . so zesty .’
    We look over at him. He’s singing and acting out an Eartha Kitt song, in between flipping burgers.
    ‘But he’s always like that,’ I say.
    ‘Maybe with you.’
    ‘Not just with me, with everyone. He’s so . . . well, as you sa y, zesty.’
    He raises his eyebrows. ‘Must be love.’
    ‘What are you two talking about over there?’ Greg calls.
    ‘You,’ I say. And, as I get up and go to him, I rationalise. Lots of people are different with their families: more responsible, serious. I am, with my m other.
    Hilary and the children come out onto the patio.
    Automatically, I take a step back from Greg.
    Rachel’s carrying a fishing rod; Toby, a pair of binoculars; and Hilary, a picnic basket.
    ‘Where are you all off to?’ asks Rob.
    ‘Down to the sea for picnic!’ calls Toby excitedly. ‘Wanna come?’
    ‘No, thanks, buddy; someone has to eat the barbecue.’
    They head for a gate at the end of the garden.
    ‘Why aren’t they eating with us?’ I ask Greg.
    He looks awkward. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Luce. These things tak e time.’
    Which basically means they didn’t want to eat with me. That’s OK , I tell myself. It’s not personal. They’re just not ready for a stepmother . Any stepmother. And ‘These things take time’ is a lot more realistic than ‘They’ll love you’. How he ever thought they’d just automatically love me I don’t know. At least he didn’t force them to eat with us. They’d have really hated me then.

    Later that evening, Greg’s upstairs reading Toby a bedtime story. Rachel and Hilary are in another room watching a movie tha t Ra chel has, apparently, been dying to see. And Rob’s telling me something I didn’t know.
    ‘Yeah, Greg basically brought me up.’
    ‘He did ?’
    ‘Didn’t he tell you? Our father died when I was four. Greg wa s ten.’
    I’m stunned. ‘I knew your dad had died; I just assumed it was relatively recently.’
    He shakes his head. ‘I have two memories of my father. One is him wrapping me up in a warm towel after a bath. The other is him letting me blow my nose into his hand when we didn’t have a hankie. That’s it, apart from a few photos.’
    ‘You said Greg brought you up – what about your mum? Didn’t she look after you?’
    ‘She had to go out to work. Two jobs, both paying shite: a supermarket and a dive that called itself a hotel. She was always gone. Greg did everything. Got me to school, fed me, helped with homework, put me to bed. Never complained. Every night he read to me: Sinbad, Biggles, Superman, Spiderman, the Hobbit . . . Our heroes came from the library.’
    ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must have been, becoming a fathe r at ten.’
    ‘You know, he never made me feel it was a chore, never treated me like some stupid kid he was stuck with. He spoke to me man to man. I fucking worshipped the guy. Trailed around after him. Copied everything he did. Wanted to be just like him. He wasn’t like a father. And he was better than a brother. He was my hero, you know?’
    I wonder why Greg has never told me. I imagine them, Little and Large, side by side, but not holding hands. Large looking out for Little.
    ‘I was tough work, though,’ Rob continues. ‘Always first to put up the fists. I’d lose it, like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Greg was the one who stopped me hanging out with troublemakers. He taught me to fight through hard work, getting somewhere, not lashing out. He kept my eye on the ball, until I learned to do it for myself. He put me through teacher training college while he worked, in printers first, then bookshops, until his own books started to get published. I was so fucking proud of him when they did. If there was one person who deserved it, it was Greg.’
    ‘Wow.’
    ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. If I was him, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.’

    Much later, it’s just me and Greg sitting in front