the other end of the long table, India and Jerry were squabbling over the box of chocolates I had brought for my parents as a gift, ripping off the cellophane with glee, India’s dark curls slipping out of the messy chignon she had recently adopted and falling over her face. She had some idea that it might be nice for me to do the same thing when she got married, but my hair – while the same colour as hers – was straight as a poker and unlikely to co-operate.
They looked up as Mum came back in from the garden, her face bright with shock.
She took her cherry brandy and downed it in one.
‘You’ll never guess,’ she said. ‘That was someone called Stephen McKenzie about the raffle.’
We all looked at her blankly, waiting for more details. On these occasions Mum was inclined to spin things out as long as possible.
I cracked first. ‘What raffle?’
‘He had some news; I mean some really unbelievable news that I think is going to make life a bit difficult. I’ll have to check my dates.’
‘God, Manda, you’re not pregnant, are you?’ Dad said, a hazelnut whirl halfway to his mouth.
India pulled a face at me across the table.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Simon. I mean our holiday dates,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll get my diary.’
Dad grabbed her arm. ‘Later. Tell me what’s going on first.’
‘Well, do you remember the golf club dinner we went to in January? The Founders Day Dinner Dance and Fundraising Extravaganza? Bel Goodwin was doing the tombola and you won a bottle of Liebfraumilch?’
‘It was corked,’ Dad said.
‘Yes, but do you remember Jeff Bosbury-Wallace was selling raffle tickets in aid of Cancer Research? It was a nationwide thing, not just for the golf club. Ten quid each or a book of ten for a hundred?’
‘No,’ Dad said, pulling the chocolates towards him as his attention waned. ‘I don’t remember and I hate to break it to you but that’s still ten quid each, by the way.’
‘Well, I bought a book.’
‘What? A hundred quid! You spent a hundred quid on raffle tickets? It’s not as though that club fundraiser doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg already! Jeff Bosbury-Wallace is a bloody bandit! They should have given them to us for nothing.’
‘Have you won something?’ Jerry said, being the perfect potential son-in-law and breaking the tension.
‘I have!’ Mum said triumphantly, sitting back in her chair and sending him a fond look.
Behind her I saw India wander up to the wine cabinet and pick out a couple of bottles. Things like this had started to annoy me over the last few months. I mean, why did she still have to behave like a pigging student? Jerry earned a packet and Dad paid India almost as much as I got. Which was so grossly unfair it was almost litigious.
‘So? Well? Are you going to tell us? For God’s sake, please tell me it’s not more disgusting wine?’ Dad said.
‘It’s not!’ Mum said.
We sat in confused silence for a moment until Dad gave her a wide-eyed look.
‘So? For the love of God, what?’
‘A holiday!’ Mum said. ‘We’ve won a holiday.’
‘Have we? How marvellous!’
‘The first prize was a trip to see Santa in Finland with up to four children. Thank God we didn’t win that. Second prize was probably a trip to see Santa in Finland with eight children. Now I’ll go and find my diary.’
I think India and I drifted off at this point; our parents went on holiday so frequently that it was no longer of any interest to us. We had even been named for holidays they had particularly enjoyed in their youth: Alexandria and India. They were due to take a month-long trip to Australia soon to visit relatives who lived on the east coast in a place that sounded like Boomerang. Mum had shown us pictures of her cousin and his family, red-faced and cheerful, having a barbeque on the beach and probably in imminent danger of skin cancer.
India came out of the kitchen with a supermarket carrier bag filled with swag. Bloody hell, the place would be stripped bare by the time they left! She did this every time.
‘Hey you, that’s a 10p Bag for Life, I’ll have you know,’ Dad said, outraged, not apparently noticing the bacon, tins of baked beans and the dozen eggs.
Mum came back, riffling through the pages of her diary and frowning.
‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘Houston, we have a problem.’
‘What?’
‘Well, we can’t go. We’ll be in Australia.’
‘When we’re married, Jerry and I are going to go to Australia,’ India said, never one to miss an opportunity. ‘We might go for our first anniversary.’
Dad ignored her. ‘Well, can’t we swap the dates of the prize holiday?’
‘No, it’s September 23rd or not at all. Non-transferable, that’s what it says.’
‘Well, how unreasonable – that’s no time at all. Surely we could go a week or so later?’
Mum looked at him over the top of her glasses. ‘I know you’re a persuasive character, Simon, but I don’t think you could persuade the ship to wait for us.’
His face fell. ‘Ship? Oh, don’t tell me I’m going to miss out on a cruise!’
Dad loved cruising even more than Mum did. They’d been on over thirty.
By now India had collected up an unopened pack of paper napkins, some dishwasher tablets and a new bottle of loo cleaner. If this carried on they’d have to borrow Dad’s trailer so they could get all the stuff back to their flat. And it wasn’t as though they didn’t already have their own Toilet Duck. It was just an ingrained habit with her.
Mum and Dad huffed and argued over the prize holiday dates, and Dad was seriously trying to work out if it would be possible to catch up with the ship halfway through their Australia trip until Mum described the sort of jet lag and expense he would be incurring and he thought again.
I went upstairs to see if there was any shampoo I could take down the garden to my place before India nabbed it. I justified this by telling myself I’d been too busy with showings and keeping the family business in the black to make it to the shops. I could hear my parents still rabbiting on, trying to work out a way for them to take two holidays at the same time, a logistical challenge unheard of even for them. I came back down with some of my mother’s overpriced conditioner and a couple of loo rolls. Through the open front door I could see India loading up the boot of Jerry’s car with some barbeque charcoal and a box of firelighters. They have a barbeque on their cool roof terrace. Of course they do.
In the dining room Mum was pushing down the cafetière plunger and looking pensive.
‘I
