I text Mum
as I’m leaving work to let her know I’ll be swinging by and she responds with
the address of the house.
14
Summerhead Vale
Richmond
I’m not sure
what to think of this. Normally, when Mum says or texts strange things, I try and
view the world through the eyes of Mum and can eventually come up with an idea
of what strange logic is behind her strange words. I have to admit, though,
this one has me stumped. It would make some sort of sense if it were an address
other than that of the house I spent 85% of my life living in. And I wouldn’t
even have been shocked if they had randomly moved into some country villa in
Bath and then forgotten to breathe a word of it to me until I was standing
outside of our old house in Richmond, confused as to why a strange Spanish guy,
with rolled up jeans and a cigar hanging from his mouth, was opening the door. But
it’s not. It’s the same house. I text back a question mark because…well,
because Mum makes me feel question mark.
See you soon love Mum Dad in house
pick up tonic thx x
Okay,
whatever.
When I
arrive at the house, I walk in (tonic in hand) and apprehensively glance
around. Everything is as it was when I left, minus new pieces of art here and
there. The scary African masks are still hanging on the walls, laughing at me,
with their giant grins and beady little eye holes. I’ve never been on good terms
with them. They’re just so impertinent and taunting and weird. And I know that whatever
voodoo spirits are lurking in there don’t like me—because I know their secret.
I know that behind all that cultural artsy façade, behind their tribal paint
and dangly beaded dreadlocks, they are nothing more than psychopathic,
animalistic versions of It—and no, I don’t mean the cute furry Cousin It from The Addam’s Family; I mean the Stephen
King It. Yeah. That It. Except, instead of just one It, my parents’ house serves
as the international building of Killer Clown University—all in the name of
art. And I always knew those scary masks were just waiting for the day an innocent little
child (like me) would break Mummy and Daddy’s rules and take them off the wall
and wear them. Then they would suck the soul out of that child, using their
voodoo magic. Or they would take over the kid’s mind and turn them into little
clown-mask-wearing Chucky dolls, waving around knives and murdering their
families.
Whatever the
case, when I was little, I was convinced they were evil. Tom, John, Mark, and
Rick. I had named them so I could whisper personalized threats whenever I
walked by, so they would know that just because they had my family fooled, they
didn’t fool me. Nope. Those bastards would never fool me.
I’m still
standing around glaring at the masks when I hear footsteps coming out from the
kitchen, followed by, ‘Is that you, darling?’
Dad appears
in the doorway. He’s holding an orange cocktail in his hand that has a slice of
watermelon on the rim and a purple umbrella in it. A fucking umbrella. It’s
probably a recipe from his 1,001 Greatest
Cocktails book called “Kilner Me Softly” or something. He's so predictable.
Dad likes to dress as though he’s fresh from the set of Out
of Africa. His white hair and beard are always neatly trimmed, and he has a
pair of rebellious eyebrows that decided to remain dark brown forever, without
any regard to what colour the rest of the head hair was wearing. Sometimes when
he speaks, he sounds a bit like Sean Connery with a French accent, so unless
you know him pretty well, he’s basically just grunting words with a
fancy-sounding twang. And if the sun is out, you can be damn sure he’ll have on
his Indiana Jones hat and some sort of multi-coloured necktie scarf thing,
usually tucked into a cream jacket. This is what’s happening now. Plus an
over-decorated glass of Malibu rum with a splash of orange juice. And a purple
fucking umbrella.
Mum is close
behind, wearing one of the obnoxiously coloured dresses from the little
boutique she owns for no reason, called Sybil’s (named after herself, naturally).
This one is bright purple, (probably to match Dad’s cocktail umbrella) and has
a giant peacock feather sticking up from the left shoulder.
‘My God, what have you been eating, darling?
You’re as thin as a rail,’ Mum says, shimmying over to me, a glass of champagne
in one hand and her free hand flapping about. I’m about to tell her nothing,
since I tended to spend most of my university meal plan money on things other
than food (clothes, booze, a hair straightener), when she adds, ‘It’s
wonderful! Now you can fit into some of the dresses from the shop.’
‘Well being
broke is the best diet,’ I reply, handing Dad the Sainsbury’s bag with the
tonic in it as we go into the kitchen.
‘Broke,’ Mum
titters, rolling her eyes toward my dad and giving an airy chuckle, ‘You poor
hard-done-by child. Whatever next?’
I am about
to correct her, and say that I am
broke, as an independent party from them, but my father cuts in with, ‘Not to
sound pretentious darling…’
AND there it
is. The “not to sound, darling” phrase my dad is so very fond of, always
followed by the big “BUT” that inevitably
makes him sound exactly the way he pretends he doesn’t want to, and often has
the power to make the person he’s speaking to feel like they have a brain the
size of an embryo.
A hamster embryo.
Examples
include: “Not to sound ungrateful darling, BUT…I
don’t think reading an article in National
Geographic really qualifies you to contribute to this particular discussion.” “Not to sound forward darling, BUT…one
too many of the wrong sexual partners and a woman could be considered damaged
goods.” “Not to sound repetitive darling, BUT…please,
don’t drink from the bottle…that’s what glasses are for.”
Eye roll.
‘BUT…I don’t think you should go around
describing yourself as “broke.” It’s such a churlish word, and I don't like to think of you as a churl.’
I smile and
look down at the fake Louis Vuitton bag on my shoulder. This is the moment I’ve
been waiting for.
‘This bag is
fake,’ I say abruptly, plopping it on the counter top for all to see.
Dad flashes
it a condescending look but doesn’t seem that bothered. Mum, however, lets out
a loud gasp as though I’ve just slapped a rotting animal corpse on her counter.
‘Get it
off,’ she says sharply, ‘Get it off this instance.’
‘It’s just a
bag, Mum,’ I reply, unable to contain my amusement.
‘This is not
a bag,’ she shouts, snatching it from me, ‘this is an imposter. And I will not
have it in my house!’ Then she dumps the entire contents of my bag onto the
counter which is something I had not anticipated.
‘Mum!’ I
groan, trying to reach for the bag, but before I can get anywhere near it, she
disappears into the other room and out the back door. I look to Dad for
reinforcement but he just shrugs and says,
‘Well you brought this upon yourself. Now you’ll have to carry your contents home in a Sainsbury’s bag.’
‘Like a
churl,’ I respond.
Dad nods and takes a sip of his overdressed Maui cocktail.
‘Like a churl.’
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