Page 17 - WTP Vol.IX #3

I heard Kirsty’s gran calling her in the background; she wanted her to pop to the shop and get her some fags. Of course Kirsty wasn’t old enough, but you could always find somebody on the estate who’d get them for you if you gave them one out of the packet. Kirsty hung up.
‘Your Mum asked me to get her list,’ said Dennis.
He looked at the pad. No list, just Leo’s notes.
‘That’s odd.’ He said.
I couldn’t look at him: I knew that night he and my mum were going to be at it like rabbits.
‘Simile’ I said.
‘What is?’ he said.
‘At it like rabbits.’
I went pink, realizing that the simile was in my head, not any words said between us.
‘SATS tomorrow, eh? Good job I’m here.’
Uncle Dennis taught English at the big school I was going up to in September.
‘A metaphor, Suzie, describes a person or object by referring to something else that has qualities or char- acteristics connected to the person or object.’
He wasn’t saying this for my benefit, but because an insecure, balding man will grab every chance he can to prove that he knows something.
Mum called from outside, ‘Dennis, I’m waiting!’
But he was more interested in being the cleverest person in the room than the person with the hairiest back in our back yard.
‘Here’s an example: my Dad is the rock of the family. You see, the qualities of the rock—hard, difficult to
wear down, always there—are transferred by the metaphor onto the other word, Dad. So Dad equals rock, rock equals Dad. Ok?’
‘Dennis!’ yelled Mum. He left.
I kicked the fridge. Not cos he was sleeping with my Mum, but cos his metaphor was crap. Dad doesn’t equal rock of the family. Because Dad’s away, building hotels in Dubai, Mum said.
I shouted at the wall: ‘Dad, you can’t be a rock when you’re never here!’
Mum didn’t really love Uncle Dennis, but she loved him more than Dad. I worked that out from the love bites on her neck and the lipstick on his lips as I watched him tell me about the metaphor thing. I tell you something: as a kid you do not want to see love bites on your mum’s neck or see her lipstick on an- other man’s mouth.
Mum rushed back in and said, ‘Suzie, I’ve got some- thing special for you.’ I thought, ‘Is she gonna stay in?’ She wouldn’t have to do numeracy or literacy; all she had to do was put on a film, share a duvet, and tell me something nice before I went to bed. Then I thought: ‘Please, Mum, don’t let it be news of you having Uncle Dennis’s love-child.’
It was none of the above. ‘I bought you this, Suzie.’
I knew she was lying cos, as she said it, her eyes darted to the left.
Lying to your daughter is bad. And it wasn’t even a white lie like ‘Your hamster has gone to heaven’ or ‘Your dad has to go work in Dubai for a couple of years’—even though everyone knows he is in Wrex- ham Prison for dealing skunk off his moped. White lies are said to make someone else feel better. Mum’s lie didn’t do that.
She handed over a box. On the lid was written ‘Marble Run’. In fact it said, ‘Have Crazy Fun with Marble Run.’ The Marble Run manufacturers must’ve thought put- ting the rhyme in would make it sell more.
‘Open it,’ she said, looking at her watch at the same time.
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