Tree Palace by Craig Sherborne Read Free Book Online Page B

deckchair into a strip of shade shaped like a long trapdoor in the ground by the side of the caravan. The trapdoor was getting shorter by the minute but it would last for breakfast, then twist into other shapes around the back of the caravan, branch-fingers by the dozens, twig-toes.
    She told Rory to come into the house with her and get some corn flakes. He complained about the long-life milk not tasting like proper milk, as he did every morning. On this morning Moira asked him to consider Mathew and not wake him with whining complaints. She told him to be more generous with the sugar to sweeten the milk flavour and go outside, quietly.
    She prepared corn flakes for Shane and put on some extra sugar for him. He never complained about the milk, but Moira wanted to spoil him. She took the bowl out and stood looking at his face before she handed it over. His left cheek looked so painful she felt an urge to kneel close and spoon the corn flakes up to his mouth. Instead she said, ‘I’m going to clean you up.’
    She asked Midge to go to the barbeque and light the cooker. He was still in a dreamy state and she had to ask him twice before he jolted himself into stride. She went into the house for a saucepan of water. The jerry-can water was tepid but Moira wanted it hotter. And wanted something to put in it for those wounds. All they had was the methylated spirits they used for cleaning the glass in leadlight windows. That would be good enough, she decided. The smell would be awful, and the stinging too, but Shane would pride himself on not wincing, especially with Rory watching.
    When the water had boiled she dipped a metal mixing bowl in and filled it to half, and into that she poured the metho, two splashes of it. She stirred the metho around with a rag, the water burning her fingers. She carried this to Shane and began dabbing and wiping his face in between his mouthfuls. He sucked air through his teeth when the metho stung, but did so grinning at Rory as if performing pain rather than feeling it. When Rory asked what the fight was about Shane said it was over nothing. ‘Just piss-talk.’
    Saying ‘piss-talk’ made him wince as if truly suffering the metho. He said, ‘Sorry, Moira,’ and winked at Rory. She hated swearing. If someone swore around her they’d given up caring about her, that was her view. She wasn’t worth respectful language to them. She was too low a person to be bothered with. ‘Piss-talk’ was down the rung on the scale of swearing but she said thanks for the apology as if it were higher.
    Shane held up his hand for her to stop dabbing. He watched Zara walk from the tent and stand in the blaring sun. She rubbed her waking face and yawned. She had on her T-shirt and knickers. Her thin white legs still had sleep in them and were slow and shaky in making steps. Rory said to her, ‘A fight,’ to explain Shane’s face. Midge was at the barbeque stirring a teabag in a cup of water. He wished he’d put his helmet on this morning. He’d been so dreamy he’d forgotten about his greyness. He used his fingers for a comb and said, ‘Morning, Zara. I seen Mathew. I went in and held him. He’s a fine fellow, that one. How you doing?’
    Moira told him not to rush at her with so much chatter. She put down her rag and bowl. ‘Put on your dressing gown, Zara.’
    The girl yawned, rubbed her eyes and didn’t move. Moira went into the tent and got the dressing gown from the broken suitcase at the end of the bed that did for a set of drawers.
    She put the gown over Zara’s shoulders. It was Moira’s old one, pale blue and fraying flannel, too big for Zara and more like a blanket hanging from her. Moira told her to put her arms in the sleeves but didn’t help her do it. She was fussing around Zara but not looking in her eyes. She made herself smile but only so Shane could see it and not start asking if something was wrong. She told Zara to pull a deckchair into the piece of shade near Shane and she would