Parents loved it when their kids used important words.
“So,” said their dad. “He can’t really afford his house.”
“But it’s his,” said Gloria.
“Yes, but.”
Gloria could feel her dad sitting up.
“This house,” he said. “It’s ours. We own it. Me and Una.”
Una was their mam. Their dad’s name was Pat.
“What about us?” said Gloria. “We own it as well, don’t we?”
“Well, yes,” said their dad, and he kissed the top of her head. “But, no.”
They laughed—her mam, her dad, her deaf granny. But Gloria and Raymond didn’t.
“Strictly speaking,” said their dad, “legally speaking—the law, like—myself and your mam own it. It’s in our names, as they say.”
“Who’s they?”
“The banks and the lawyers and that,” said her dad. “But so, anyway. We got a loan from the bank—it’s called a mortgage—to buy the house. Because you could never save enough to do it. It’s not like buying something in J. C. Penney’s.”
Raymond groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not stupid,” said Raymond.
“Neither am I,” Gloria told Raymond.
“I’m just explaining,” said their dad.
“Okay.”
“Anyway,” said their dad. “We have to pay back the loan, the mortgage, like, a bit every month.”
“Is it much?”
“We can manage,” said their dad.
“We’re grand,” said their mam.
“I’ve my job and Una has hers, so we’re fine,” said their dad. “Even though Una isn’t working as much as she used to.”
“It’s grand,” said their mam.
She worked in a supermarket near where they lived. There’d been a meeting about a month before, and the manager had told the staff that business was down—although they’d known that already. They’d all decided to work fewer hours instead of some of them losing their jobs. Their mam had said they’d all been crying, even the manager. But the funny thing was, it had been the best meeting she’d ever been at, even though she’d be earning less money and the shop might still have to close down.
“It was just, we’re all friends,” she’d said. “And it was nice to know what that means.”
“So,” said their dad now. “We pay money to the bank every month.”
Gloria was getting worried. The adults talked about money like they talked about sickness.
“Anyway,” said their mam. “Ben.”
“Yeah,” said their dad. “Ben. Ben’s mortgage has become too steep—too expensive, like. And the bank isn’t being very nice about it. So.”
“He’s coming to live with us.”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
“But,” said Raymond. “Can he not live in his own house anymore?”
“No,” said their dad. “He can’t. That’s the thing.”
“It’s very unfair,” said their mam.
“It’s rough,” said their dad.
“The poor lad,” said their granny.
“But it’s his house,” said Gloria.
“Yes, it is,” said her dad. “But—”
He kind of slumped. He was resting his chin on Gloria’s head. It was nice.
He sighed.
“It’s happening to loads of people,” he said.
“But anyway,” said their mam. “He’s coming to stay here and that’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Yeah!”
“And,” said their mam.
It was one of her big announcement “And”s.
“He’ll have to have a room of his own,” she said. “Won’t he?”
Raymond and Gloria said nothing. They were working it out. There were three bedrooms in the house. Their parents had the biggest one. And their granny lived in her granny-flat. It had its own front door and it used to be the garage, before their granny came to live with them—before Gloria could remember. So that left one of their bedrooms. Raymond’s. Or Gloria’s.
“Gloria.”
“Why not Raymond?”
“I haven’t finished yet,” said her mam. “So don’t be rude, please.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay, love,” said her mam. “It’s going to be a bit of a squash. And your room is smaller than Raymond’s. So you’ll be moving in with him.”
Raymond and Gloria looked at each other. They didn’t like this, but they quickly remembered the better news: Uncle Ben was coming to stay.
“Okay,” said Raymond.
“Okay,” said Gloria.
“It’ll be nice,” said their mam.
“Yeah,” said Gloria, and she meant it.
Uncle Ben arrived the next Saturday with his stuff in his van. They all helped him bring it into the house and they brought some of it up to Gloria’s room. His suitcase and a cardboard box.
Gloria looked in the box when she was putting it on the bed. There were a couple of books and loads of CDs, and a bottle of stuff called Old Spice, and a lamp for beside the bed. The bedclothes had been changed. Her pink cover and pillowcase were over in Raymond’s room, and the covers were blue now. It made Gloria a bit sad, even a tiny bit annoyed. But then she heard Uncle Ben and her dad laughing downstairs, and she ran down to see what had happened.
Her dad was standing in the hall with another cardboard box. But the bottom of it had split open, so he was holding an empty box and the things that had been in it were all around him on the ground and on top of his feet.
“You’re an eejit,” said Uncle Ben.
“I know,” said her dad.
He bent down and started picking up Uncle Ben’s stuff. Gloria helped him. There were old football medals, loads of them. The ribbons were all tangled, so they looked like some sort of mad doll’s head, with braids with coins in them.
“I’ll untangle them for you, Uncle Ben,” she said.
“Thanks, Gloria,” said Uncle Ben. “It’ll take you all day.”
“Bet it won’t,” said Gloria.
But it did. She spent most of the rest of the day untangling the ribbons. She made sure she didn’t pull any, so the knots wouldn’t get tighter. It was dark when she loosened the last knot. The ribbon must have been really old because the medal with it—“Community Games Runner-Up”—had “1989” on it. So her Uncle Ben had won it twenty-four years ago.
“What does ‘runner-up’ mean?” she asked.
“Loser,” said her dad.
Uncle Ben laughed. “It means second,” he told Gloria. “Give us a look.”
She gave him the medal.
“I remember this one,” he said. “We got beaten, three–two.”
“Told you,” said her dad. “Loser.”
He didn’t usually say things—nearly cruel things—like that. But Gloria knew he was joking with Uncle Ben, teasing him. Uncle Ben teased her dad too. They were always doing it to each other.
“Come here, Gloria,” said her Uncle Ben.
He held the ribbon so that it became a big triangle, and he put it around Gloria’s neck. She felt the weight of the medal on her chest before she looked down and saw it there.
“It’s yours now,” he said.
“Ah, thanks,” said Gloria.
“And Ray,” said Uncle Ben. “You too.”
Gloria had put all the medals—there were seventeen of them—in a row, with all the ribbons in a straight line, side by side. Uncle Ben picked one of them. It was another of the runner-up medals. And he did the same thing—he put it around Raymond’s neck. He shook Raymond’s hand.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Raymond. “Cool.”
And Uncle Ben shook Gloria’s hand too.
“Congratulations, Gloria.”
They laughed.
“I bet it’s the only time you’ll ever be a runner-up,” said Uncle Ben.
CHAPTER 3
Th
ey sat under the kitchen table.
They were ready.
Raymond looked at Gloria.
She nodded.
Raymond pressed the little button on the side of his watch.
They’d started. They were going for a new world record. The old one was impressive: one hour and forty-six minutes, and seventeen seconds. It was hard to imagine that they’d ever done it. But they always felt that way at the start, just after they’d crept under the table, after that excitement had worn off and the new excitement had only started. The first part was all thrills, as they’d crawled and slid their way to success. Now success—the new world record—meant doing nothing. Doing absolutely nothing, for absolutely ever. It was agony—and brilliant.
Gloria was able to drift—that was what it felt like. She’d be sitting in exactly the same way, the grown-ups would be chatting and laughing and, after a while, their voices would feel like noise with no real meaning. She wouldn’t be listening anymore, she wouldn’t be curious. She wasn’t asleep or even daydreaming. She was drifting—no story, no pictures or things she had to recognize or understand. She was cloudy and light, lifted by the hum of the voices. Until something would pull her back to where she was, under the table. A louder voice, a sudden laugh, a sneeze, the teapot thumped down on the table above her head. A slippered foot shooting right past her nose. She’d be wide awake, and back. She’d tap Raymond’s knee and he’d show her his watch. She was often shocked at how long she’d been away.
But it took a good while for the drifting to start. She had to settle down and get used to being there, and to the way she was sitting. She had to get rid of the giddiness. She had to let it all become normal. To let her heartbeat slow down. To let this—sitting secretly under the table—become a thing that she always did.
But this time it was different. Because they—herself and Raymond—were up close to the mumbling for the first time. Usually the adults would see them, stop mumbling, and smile. But this time the adults didn’t know that Raymond and Gloria were near. And they kept mumbling.
There was nothing at first. No one was talking. It was an important part of mumbling—the gaps between the mumbles. Gloria and Raymond had learned that when they’d been listening upstairs in their beds. They’d hear the actual mumbles. They’d try to make out words.
“What are they saying?”
“Don’t know—Shhh.”
Then they’d stop—the mumbles, the voices, the muffled words. And they’d start again—and stop. And start. And stop again.
“Are they finished, Rayzer?”
“How would I know?”
They’d wait.
Then they’d hear another one. And another.
Now, Raymond and Gloria waited to hear the mumbles properly. This had been the usual adventure until they’d made it, safe and undetected, under the table. Then they knew, separately and together: They wanted to know what was wrong.
Gloria tapped Raymond’s knee. He showed her his watch.
Two minutes and seven . . . eight . . . nine seconds.
Gloria knew she wouldn’t be drifting tonight.
CHAPTER 4
Pat and Una sat at the kitchen table, with Ben and also Una’s mother. It had been one of those nights, when more bad news had been delivered.
Una was a bit sick of it. She didn’t blame Ben. He was great, and it was lovely having him in the house. He was Pat’s little brother, and she’d always called him her little brother-in law.
He was only a teenager when Una and Pat got married. An awkward, lanky, lovely fella—and the worst best man there’d ever been at a wedding. He’d been so nervous he’d forgotten where he’d left the ring the night before.
“Do you have the ring?” the priest had asked.
“What ring?” Ben had answered.
The laughter in the church had been gradual, a ripple that had started at the front and rolled to the back, maybe even out to the street.
“Here,” said a woman at the back. “Have mine. I’m getting divorced anyway.”
“Did you hear her?”
“Ah, that’s priceless.”
By the time the wedding was over, everybody loved Ben. Including Una. And she still loved him. He’d grown out of his awkwardness and lankiness and he’d become a very sound man and a good friend.
But it was becoming too much.
No one said anything for a while. The kettle had boiled, and Una’s mother was up at the counter, putting the teabags in the pot.
Una didn’t know for how much longer this could keep happening. Ben was struggling—so the whole house was struggling. She felt a bit heartless, even thinking like this. But she couldn’t help it.
Una’s mother put the teapot on the table and sat back down with one of her famous grunts.
Una had to be careful. She didn’t want to hurt Ben, or Pat. Or the kids—especially not the kids. Gloria and Raymond adored Ben. And they were right to. He was the best uncle they could possibly have. She’d never have done anything to upset them, or to make them think less of Ben—or her.
And then there was her mother. The children’s granny. She’d been living with them for six years now, and it had worked out very well. She had her own little flat. Her own front door, her own little kitchenette, fridge, stove, everything she needed. But she could be a bit tricky, even difficult. Una didn’t mind it too much, but her mother got on Pat’s nerves. She was very good at it.
Sometimes, at night, he’d lie on the bed, stiff with annoyance.
“She could see I was watching football. She’s bloody deaf, not blind.”
“She was only making conversation.”
“Is that what you call it? ‘What are you watching?’ ‘The football.’ ‘The what?’ ‘The football.’ ‘The what?’ She was trying to bully me out of the room, so she could have the telly to herself. She has her own telly.”
“She just wants the company.”
“It’s not company she wants,” said Pat. “It’s the remote control she wants. That’s her evil plan.”
“Ah, stop.”
“She knew full well it was football.”
“She knows nothing about sports,” said Una.
It wasn’t really an argument. They were having a great time.
“Nothing?” said Pat. “There was a goal, right—while she’s asking me what I’m watching. Messi scores this brilliant goal. And do you know what she says? ‘He was offside.’”
They were laughing, but it wasn’t as easy as that. Una’s mother did kind of occupy the place when she felt like it. She had her own key.
“Big mistake, big mistake.”
So she came and she went. Or, she came . . . and sometimes she went. So there was a balance—kind of. Pat got Ben, and Una got her mother. Fair and square—sometimes.
Una hated thinking like this. She hated looking at Ben and seeing a problem. She wanted to help. She wished she could do something to make him happier. She could have hugged him, but she already seemed to be hugging him three or four times a day.
Her mother broke the silence.
“That’s terrible news,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Una. “It is.”
Below her, the children were listening. “So,” thought Gloria, “this is mumbling.”
Una looked across at Ben again. Poor lad.
A few minutes before, he’d told them that he was closing down his painting and decorating business.
“Are you sure about this, Ben?”
Ben shrugged. “A few years ago I stopped answering the phone because I was too busy,” he said. “I couldn’t keep up. But now . . . the phone never rings.”
Raymond saw his Uncle Ben’s feet moving. He saw the white paint spots on the boots.
Ben stood up.
“So,” he said. “That’s that.”
Gloria watched her Uncle Ben’s feet walk slowly to the kitchen door. She knew by the way he moved that something sad and bad was going on. She wanted to roll out fr
om under the table and run after him. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t. Maybe because her legs had gone numb. Maybe because she wasn’t even sure she was thinking properly. Maybe she’d been doing her drifting.
Then something else happened—it definitely happened. Uncle Ben shut the kitchen door.
Raymond saw it too. He looked at Gloria. She was already looking at him. The kitchen door had never been closed before, not as far as Raymond or Gloria could remember. It was always left open—always. Except when the last adult went up to bed.
They looked at each other. There was no escape. But it was more important than that. The click of the closing door was like a warning sign, or a sound in a film that told you something bad or scary might be coming.
But nothing sudden happened.
The children under the table didn’t move.
“Poor Ben,” said their mam.
“You’d want to mind that poor lad,” said their granny.
Gloria saw her granny’s feet move. She was standing up.
“What d’you mean?” said their dad.
“Depression,” said Gloria’s granny.
Gloria saw her granny’s feet turn. Her slippers were two dogs’ heads, and the ears bounced on the floor. They were like a pair of mad twins.
Una’s mother looked at Pat.
“The black dog of depression has climbed onto that poor fella’s back,” she said.
Pat and Una both nodded. They knew what she meant. Ben might be suffering from depression. They accepted it, even though it was horrible to hear and they both wanted to cry.
“I’ll tell you,” said Una’s mother. “The whole city seems depressed. So many people you see out there look so unhappy.”
They nodded again. She was saying exactly what Pat and Una thought.
“But anyway,” said Una’s mother. “That’s the way of it. I’ve lived through hard times before, but I’ve never known anything like this. I’ve seen the black dog’s bad work before, but I’ve never seen him take over the whole city. I’d be worried about that lad, so I would.”
Raymond heard his granny put something on the table—the teapot.
“There’s more tea for you,” she said.