‘Yes?’ I say, trying to sound casual.
‘Is he . . .?’ She trails off. ‘Are you . . .? Is he a special friend?’
I can feel myself squirming inside. I don’t want to talk about Linus to Mum.
‘Kind of.’ I look away. ‘You always say I need to make friends. So. I did.’
‘And that’s great.’ Mum hesitates. ‘But, Audrey, you need to be careful. You’re vulnerable.’
‘Dr Sarah says I need to push myself,’ I counter. ‘I need to begin building relationships outside the family again.’
‘I know.’ Mum looks troubled. ‘But I suppose I’d rather you began with . . . Well. A girl friend.’
‘Because girls are so nice and sweet and lovely,’ I retort, before I can stop myself, and Mum sighs.
‘Touché.’ She takes a sip of Lemsip, wincing. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose if this Linus is a nice boy . . .’
‘He’s very nice,’ I say firmly. ‘And his name isn’t This Linus. It’s Linus.’
‘What about Natalie?’
Natalie. A tiny part of me shrivels automatically at the name. But for the first time in ages, I can also feel a kind of longing. A longing for the friendship we had. For friendship, full stop.
There’s quiet in the room as I try to pick through my muddled thoughts. Mum doesn’t push me. She knows it sometimes takes me a long time to work out what I think. She’s pretty patient.
I feel like I’ve been on this massive long, lonely journey, and none of my friends could ever understand it, even Natalie. I think I kind of hated them for that. But now everything’s feeling easier. Maybe I could see Natalie some time? Maybe we could hang out? Maybe it wouldn’t matter that she can’t understand what I’ve been through?
There’s a photo on Mum’s dressing table of Natalie and me dressed up for last year’s Year Nine prom, and I find my eyes swivelling towards it. Nat’s in a pink lacy dress and I’m in blue. We’re laughing and pulling party poppers. We did that picture about six times to get the party poppers just right. They were Nat’s idea. She has funny ideas like that. I mean, she does make you laugh, Nat.
‘Maybe I will call Natalie,’ I say at last. ‘Some time.’ I look at Mum for a reaction, but she’s fallen asleep. The half-full Lemsip is tilting dangerously on the tray, and I grab it before it can spill. I leave it on her bedside table in case she wakes up, then tiptoe out of the room and head downstairs, full of a kind of new energy.
‘Frank,’ I demand as I enter the kitchen. ‘Has Mum given up work?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘For good?’
‘Dunno.’
‘But she’s really good at her job.’
‘Yes, but she can’t go out, can she?’
He doesn’t say it, but I know what he means. Because of you.
Because of me, Mum is hanging around at home, worrying and reading the Daily Mail. Because of me, Mum looks all tense and tired instead of shiny and happy.
‘She should work. She likes work.’
Frank shrugs. ‘Well. I expect she will. You know . . .’
And again, the unspoken hangs in the air: When you get better.
‘I’ll go and get the grapes,’ he says, and ambles out of the kitchen. And I sit, staring at my blurry reflection in the stainless steel fridge. When I get better. Well then. It’s up to me to get better.
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
Dad is making a call at his desk in the study.
DAD
(into phone)
Yes. Yup. I’ll check that. (He taps at the computer.) OK, I’ve got it up now.
Frank barges into the room without knocking.
FRANK
Dad, I need to look something up for my geography homework.
DAD
You’ll have to do it later. Sorry, Mark—
FRANK
But I can’t do my homework till I look this up.
DAD
Frank, do it later.
Frank looks at him, wide-eyed.
FRANK
You always tell me to prioritize my homework. You always say, ‘Don’t put off your homework, Frank.’ But now you’re telling me to put off my homework. I mean, isn’t that mixed messages? Aren’t parents supposed to be consistent?
DAD
(sighs)
Fine. Look it up. Mark, I’ll call you back.
He gives way to Frank at the computer. Frank taps a few times, looks at a website and scribbles something down.
FRANK
Thanks.
As Frank leaves, Dad redials and summons up his document on the computer.
DAD
Sorry, Mark. So, as I was saying, these figures really don’t make sense—
He stops as Frank comes in again.
FRANK
I need to look up the population of Uruguay.
Dad puts his hand over the phone.
DAD
What?
FRANK
Uruguay. Population.
Dad stares at him, exasperated.
DAD
Is this really essential right now?
Frank looks hurt.
FRANK
It’s for my homework, Dad. You always say, what I do at school will affect my whole life. I mean, I would do it on my own computer, but . . . well.
(He looks sombrely at the floor.) That was Mum’s decision. We’ll never know why she did what she did.
DAD
Frank—
FRANK
No, it’s OK. If you want to put your phone call above my education, then that’s your decision.
DAD
(snaps)
Fine. Look it up. (He gets up.) Mark, we’ll have to do this much later. Sorry.
FRANK
(at the computer)
It should be on histories . . .
He summons up a page entitled ‘Financing Your Alfa Romeo’.
FRANK
Wow, Dad. Are you buying an Alfa Romeo? Does Mum know?
DAD
(snaps)
That is private. That is nothing—
He breaks off as he sees Frank tapping at the keyboard.
DAD
Frank, what are you doing? What’s happened to my screen?
Dad’s bland, seaside wallpaper has been replaced by a leering graphic character from LOC.
FRANK
You needed a new wallpaper. Your one was rank. Now we need some new sound settings . . .
He clicks the mouse and ‘Boomshakalaka’ blasts from the computer.
Dad completely loses it.
DAD
Stop that! That is my computer . . . (He gets up and stalks to the door.) Anne? Anne?
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
From the door of the kitchen we can see Dad and Mum, having a low-pitched fight.
DAD
He needs his own computer. We can’t share any more. I’ll end up murdering him.
MUM
He does not need a computer!
DAD
He needs it for his homework. All the kids do.
MUM
Rubbish.
DAD
It’s not! You know they take notes on laptops these days? They don’t even know what pens are for. They think they’re styluses which are somehow leaking a weird substance. I mean, they can’t write any more. Forget writing.
MUM
What are you saying? That children need computers? That it’s physically impossible to learn anything without a computer? What about books? What about libraries?
DAD
When did you last go to a library? They’re full of computers. That’s how people learn these days.
MUM
(outraged)
Are you telling me that in the African scrubland, children can’t learn to read unless they have a computer? Are you telling me that?
DAD
(baffled)
African scrubland? When did the African scrubland come into it?
MUM
Do you need a computer to read great literature?
DAD
Actually, I’m really getting into my Kindle—
He sees Mum’s face.
DAD
I mean, no. Definitely not.