‘Mum, listen,’ he kept saying. ‘Put the computer down. You don’t want to do this, Mum.’
Which didn’t work. Mostly because she did want to do it.
The computer didn’t actually smash into smithereens when she threw it. It kind of bounced twice and landed on its side. In fact, it barely looked broken at all, once it was sitting on the lawn. There was just a bit of shattered glass from the screen, which Dad immediately cleared up because of Felix playing outside in bare feet or whatever.
But I guess it’s messed up enough inside that Frank can’t use it any more. It looked a bit sad, sitting on the grass with his ancient Minecraft stickers all over it.
Everyone stared at it for a while, and a couple of people took photos, and then they all drifted home. I mean, hand on heart, it was a bit of an anticlimax. But not for Frank. He’s devastated. I tried to say ‘I’m sorry’ as we went inside, and he couldn’t even answer.
I think he’s in shock. He hasn’t really spoken all evening. Mum is grimly triumphant and I think Dad is just relieved that the car didn’t get trashed.
And although I really don’t want to get into it, I’m wondering one thing. Does this mean Linus won’t come round any more?
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
Mum is sitting in the kitchen with a coffee cup, looking straight to camera.
MUM
I did the right thing. OK, it was a bit extreme. But sometimes you have to take extreme measures, and everyone’s shocked, but afterwards they say, ‘Wow. That was really adventurous and far-sighted of you.’
Silence.
MUM
I mean, I KNOW I did the right thing. And yes, things are tense at the moment, but they’ll get better. Of course Frank didn’t react well, of course he’s angry – what did I expect?
Silence.
MUM
Well, I didn’t expect it would be as bad as this. To be honest. But we’ll get through it.
Mum lifts her coffee cup, then puts it down without drinking.
MUM
The thing about being a parent, Audrey, is that it’s no picnic. You have to make difficult choices and you have to see them through. So yes, I’m finding Frank a little challenging right at the moment. But you know what? He’ll thank me one day.
Silence.
MUM
Well, he might thank me.
Silence.
MUM
OK, so the thanking is unlikely. But the point is, I’m a mother. Mothers don’t run away when things get tough.
Camera pans to Mum’s BlackBerry and focuses in on a Google search:
Spa breaks for single women, no children allowed
Mum hastily covers it with her hand.
MUM
That’s nothing.
So Frank’s basically not speaking any more. To anyone.
Actually, I quite like a silent Frank. It’s peaceful around the place. But it’s stressing Mum out. She even spoke to his teacher at school, who was, according to her, ‘Useless! Worse than useless! He said Frank seemed “fine” to him and we should “let him alone”. “Let him alone” – can you believe it?’ (I know this because I was outside Mum’s room while she was sounding off to Dad.)
Tonight he’s sitting at supper, eating his enchiladas without looking at anyone, staring ahead like a zombie. When Mum or Dad ask him anything, like, ‘Have you got much homework?’ or ‘What happened today at school?’ he just answers with a ‘Phrrrmph’ noise, or rolls his eyes, or ignores them.
I’m not feeling Ms Chatty either tonight, so it’s not the liveliest dinner table. In fact, we all look up in relief when Felix comes in from the playroom in his tractor pyjamas.
‘I didn’t do my homework,’ he says, looking worried. ‘My homework, Mummy.’ He’s holding out some kind of transparent folder with a sheet in it.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ says Mum.
‘Homework?’ says Dad. ‘For a four-year-old?’
‘I know.’ Mum sighs. ‘It’s nuts.’ She pulls out the sheet, and it’s a big photocopied page entitled Why We Love Each Other. Under the heading, Felix has drawn what I assume is a picture of us. At least, there are five figures. Mum looks pregnant and Dad looks like a gnome. I have a head the size of a pin and twenty very large circular fingers. But, you know, apart from that it’s pretty accurate.
‘“Fill in the box with help from your family”,’ Mum reads. ‘For example, “We love each other because we give each other cuddles”.’ She reaches for a pen. ‘OK. What shall I put? Felix, what do you love about our family?’
‘Pizza,’ says Felix promptly.
‘We can’t put pizza.’
‘Pizza!’ wails Felix. ‘I love pizza!’
‘I can’t put, “We love each other because of pizza”.’
‘I think that’s a pretty good answer,’ says Dad, shrugging.
‘I’ll do it,’ says Frank, grabbing the page, and we all look up in shock. Frank spoke! He takes a black Sharpie from his pocket and reads aloud as he writes: ‘“We love each other because we respect each other’s choices and understand when a person has a hobby that they love, and would never deliberately damage their property—” Oh, wait.’
‘Frank, you can’t write that!’ says Mum sharply.
It’s a bit late to say that, since he’s already written it. In permanent ink.
‘Great!’ Mum glares at Frank. ‘So now you’ve ruined your brother’s homework sheet.’
‘I’ve spoken the truth.’ Frank glowers back at her. ‘You can’t handle the truth.’
‘A Few Good Men,’ says Dad promptly. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen that.’
‘YouTube.’ Frank gets to his feet and heads over to the dishwasher.
‘Well, marvellous,’ says Mum, looking totally pissed off. ‘Now we can’t send this in. I’ll have to write a note in his link book. “Dear Mrs Lacy, Unfortunately Felix’s homework was . . .” what?’
‘Chewed by rats,’ I suggest.
‘“Inapplicable to the Turner family as they do not understand the concept of love beyond their own self-serving version”,’ comes Frank’s sonorous voice from the sink.
As he slouches out of the kitchen, Mum and Dad exchange glances.
‘That boy needs a hobby,’ mutters Mum. ‘We should never have let him give up the cello.’
‘Please, not the cello again,’ says Dad, looking alarmed. ‘I think he’s beyond the cello.’
‘I’m not saying the cello!’ snaps Mum. ‘But something. What do teenagers do these days?’
‘All sorts of things.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Win Olympic medals, get into Harvard, create internet companies, star in blockbuster films . . .’ As he trails off, he looks a bit depressed.
‘He doesn’t need to win a medal,’ says Mum firmly. ‘He just needs an interest. What about the guitar?’ Her face brightens. ‘Can he still play that? Why don’t you two jam together in the garage?’
‘We tried that once,’ says Dad, pulling a face. ‘Remember? It wasn’t a success . . . but we can try again!’ he amends quickly, at Mum’s expression. ‘Good idea! We’ll have a bit of a jamming session. Father and son. We’ll play some tracks, get in the beers—I mean, not the beers,’ he adds hastily as Mum opens her mouth. ‘No beers.’
‘And he should volunteer,’ says Mum with sudden determination. ‘Yes! That’s what Frank can do. Volunteer.’
I’m sitting in the kitchen later that evening, fiddling with the playback on my camera, when Frank shuffles in.
‘Oh, hi.’ I raise my head, remembering something. ‘Listen, I haven’t interviewed you yet. Can we do it?’
‘I don’t want to be interviewed.’
Frank looks like he hates everyone and everything. His face is pale. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks less healthy than when he was gaming all the time.