hand â just one of those dumb, daft, nothing-y moments between friends that crack you up â but itâs like a damâs burst inside me.
Itâs been so long since Iâve had a friend to share dumb, daft, nothing-y moments with.
Itâs been so long since Iâve burst out laughing over small, silly stuff.
It feels so good to laugh till I cry that I donât care if the whole of the Art Club are staring.
And they are.
Ha!
*
âYou look divine, Daddy dearest!â says Clem, glancing up from the homework she has spread over the small kitchen table.
âWell, Iâve had a shave and put a clean top on,â he laughs, smoothing down the slightly wrinkly front of his three-button Fred Perry shirt.
âDo you want me to iron that for you?â I ask, wondering where the iron might be, since weâre still surrounded by mounds of boxes. If we had any pet goats theyâd be having a ball right now, in clambering heaven.
âThanks, but Iâm not that useless, Maisie!â says Dad, trying to smooth the creases out just a little more forcefully with his hands.
He is a bit.
I mean, heâs great at lots of stuff. Heâs great at making food, helping with homework and handing out hugs. Heâs great at fixing broken things, remembering PE kits and recording stuff on TV that he thinks weâll like. Heâs great at being cheerful, even those times when heâs probably not feeling cheerful inside.
Heâs just a bit useless at some of the domestic stuff, like ironing. When I was invited to Keira Murrayâs eighth birthday party, Dad left the iron on the back of my party dress so long that it melted the lace. It felt like I had an empty crisp packet under the cardie I wore on top to hide the mess.
Heâs not very good with bills either. He gets them, puts them in a purposeful pile, then loses the pile under stuff just long enough to risk the phone/gas/electricity being cut off.
Heâs also useless at telling us very much about Donna.
âSo ⦠is tonight the night?â Clem asks, her lazy catâs-eye stare fixed on Dad.
âWh â what?â he stumbles, unsure what she means.
âCan you please â finally â arrange a date for us and Donna to get together?â says Clem, affecting weariness, though I know sheâs just as keen as I am to meet Dadâs girlfriend.
âMaybe ⦠well, maybe itâs still too soon, eh?â he blusters.
âSix days is too soon, Dad. Six months is plenty,â I jump in to point out.
âI know, I know â but letâs not rush into anything,â he says, agitatedly rubbing his head now.
âHeâs ashamed of us, Maisie,â Clem says matter-of-factly, and turns back to her work.
âHey, do you suppose he hasnât told her he has children?â I suggest, trying to keep a straight face.
Clem glances up at me as if she can see inside my head, sees the new lightness in there.
âEnough, enough!â says Dad, backing away from the double-trouble teasing. âSee you later, girlsâ¦â
I follow him out, and watch as he goes down the path and through the iron gate in the tall railings.
âHave fun!â I call out after him.
Dad gives me a wave in reply, climbs into his car and slams the door shut.
I go to close the front door, then change my mind and lean against the frame, idly gazing at our battered silver Vauxhall Astra.
Dad knows and we know weâre just fooling around with him, I think to myself as I stand there, but it IS starting to get kind of silly, how little we actually know about Donna.
In fact, hereâs all weâve found out so farâ¦
Â
Dad met her through a dating site.
In the early days, Dad misled us. All the times he asked Clem to look after me because he was âhaving a pintâ with a new friend called âDonâ? Well, he was actually in cafes, bars or at the cinema with Donna
Learning to Kill: Stories