The Son of a Certain Woman by Wayne Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

“I do get you, don’t I, Paynelope?”
    “You
get
her?”
    “I get her meaning.”
    “Well, I get her too, Pops. A lot.”
    “You’re secretly erudite?”
    “I’m secretly something, Pops. You can be sure of that.”
    “You’re the Abbott to my Costello. And I’m the Abbott to Paynelope’s Costello.”
    “I’ve heard of Abbott and Costello.”
    “Would you like to know who’s on first, what’s on second—”
    “What the fuck are you—”
    “Ceasefire!” my mother yelled.
    “See. She doesn’t even understand TV,” Pops protested.
    “I watch it when I’m here,” Medina said. “I haven’t got a TV. Don’t want one.”
    “That’s it,” my mother fumed. “Enough, enough,
enough
.”
    The three of them were silent for a while. I wondered if it would help if I said something.
    “So what happens when you run out of books, Pen?” Medina asked. “Do you get a Girl Guide’s medal or something?”
    “There are more books in the world than anyone has time toread. In university they keep track of what you read and write and give out what are called degrees. You can get a bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree or a PhD.”
    “Pops, you’re a bachelor.” Medina grinned at him. “Whoever taught you how to be one must have really known their stuff.”
    “I spent one year at university,” Pops said. “That’s all you needed back then to be a high school teacher. Brother Rice’s principal, Brother McHugh, has a master’s degree in theology.”
    “Religion,” my mother said to Medina.
    “Oh my,” Medina said, “a master of religion, what does that mean now? He must have spent a long time bettering himself. What’s he better at than other people? My great-uncle was a master mariner. Never went to school in his life. All he could do was sail a ship across an ocean of ice without getting himself or other people drowned. But who would you rather have around in a storm at sea, a master mariner or a master of religion?”
    “You’re not a master of anything,” Pops said.
    “I’m better than you at talking. I can
talk
the arse off you.”
    “Whereas I must confess that, often though I’ve wished that I had seen the last of it, I could not with the help of ten men remove your arse from this house by
any
method, least of all talking, even though I pay for the beer you drink.” Pops went to his bedroom and closed the door.
    Medina sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever give up on books, Pen.”
    “No. But I could teach you to read. You’re so smart. You’d learn quickly.”
    “So you keep saying. I’m not good enough the way I am, that’s what you think. I don’t want to know how to read and write. That’s what
I
keep saying.” She started to cry. She leaned her head on my mother’s shoulder. “Would you rather have a friend you could talk about books with?”
    “No, sweetheart,” my mother said, tenderly stroking her cheek and smiling reassuringly at me.
    “I can’t put things into words like you. Or even Pops.”
    “It’s not always bad to be lost for words. Besides, you have your own way with them.”
    “Oh fuck, look at me and look at you—”
    “Don’t you think Medina’s pretty, Perse?” My mother raised her eyebrows at me.
    “She’s really pretty,” I said quickly.
    And she was, in a way I see now but didn’t then. I haven’t done her justice yet. She had large brown eyes and the kind of ski-jump nose that these days some women pay plastic surgeons for; frank, lively, smart eyes that made her seem ever-vigilant, never at ease. She was big-boned but not fat, each of the features of her face and her body slightly out of proportion with the others, so that whatever she wore never suited more than part of her. A sweater that fit at the shoulders was too long at the hem. A skirt that was tight and flat at the front sagged in wrinkles at the back. It was as if her body had been well designed but badly made. Her chin moved from centre to left, centre to left,