Dennis managed to save one.
One solitary photograph escaped the flames, dancing up into the air from the heat of the fire, before floating through the smoke and onto the hedge.
As dusk fell, Dennis snuck out and retrieved the photo. It was charred and blackened around the edges and at first his heart sank, but when he turned it to the light he saw that the image was as bright and clear as ever.
It showed a joyful scene: a younger John and Dennis with Mum at the beach, Mum wearing a lovely yellow dress with flowers on it. Dennis loved that dress; it was full of colour and life, and soft to the touch. When Mum put it on it meant that summer had arrived.
It had been warm outside after she had left, but it hadn’t really been summer in their house again.
In the picture Dennis and his brother were in swimming trunks holding ice-cream cones, vanilla ice-cream smeared around their smiling mouths. Dennis kept the photo in his pocket and looked at it secretly every day. His mum looked so achingly beautiful in it, even though her smile was uncertain. Dennis stared at it for hours on end, trying to imagine what she had been thinking when it was taken.
After Mum left, Dad didn’t say much, but when he did, he would often shout. So Dennis ended up watching a lot of television, and especially his favourite show, Trisha. Dennis had seen a Trisha episode about people with depression, and thought maybe his dad had that. Dennis loved Trisha. It was a daytime talk show where ordinary people were given the opportunity to talk about their problems, or yell abuse at their relatives, and it was all presided over by a kindly looking but judgemental woman conveniently called… Trisha.
For a while Dennis thought life without his mum would be some kind of adventure. He’d stay up late, eat take-aways and watch rude comedy shows. However, as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years, he realised that it wasn’t an adventure at all.
It was just sad.
Dennis and John sort of loved each other in that way that they had to because they were brothers. But John tested this love quite often by doing things he thought were funny, like sitting on Dennis’s face and farting. If farting had been an Olympic sport (at time of writing I am told it isn’t, which I feel is a shame), he would have won a number of gold medals and probably received a knighthood from the Queen.
Now, reader, you might be thinking that as their mum had left, the two brothers would be brought closer together.
Sadly, it only drove them apart.
Unlike Dennis, John was full of silent rage with his mum for leaving, and agreed with Dad that it was better never to mention her again. It was one of the rules of the house:
No talking about Mum.
No crying.
And worst of all–no hugging.
Dennis, on the other hand, was just full of sadness. Sometimes he missed his mum so much that he cried in bed at night. He tried to cry as quietly as possible, because he and his brother shared a room and he didn’t want John to hear.
But one night Dennis’s sobs woke John up.
“Dennis? Dennis? What are you crying for now?” demanded John from his bed.
“I don’t know. It’s just… well… I just wish that Mum was here, and everything,” came the reply from Dennis.
“Well, don’t cry. She’s gone and she’s not coming back.”
“You don’t know that…”
“She’s never coming back, Dennis. Now stop crying. Only girls cry.”
But Dennis couldn’t stop crying. The pain ebbed and flowed inside him like the sea, crashing down on him, almost drowning him in tears. He didn’t want to upset his brother, though, so he cried as quietly as he possibly could.
So why was Dennis so different, I hear you ask? After all, this boy lived in an ordinary house, in an ordinary street, in an ordinary town.
Well, I’m not going to tell you why yet, but the clue might be in the title of this book…
Dennis’s dad jumped up and down and shouted with joy. Then he pulled Dennis into a tight hug.
“Two nil!” he said. “We showed ’em, eh son?”
Yes, I know I said there was no hugging in Dennis’s house. But this was different.
It was football.
In Dennis’s house talking about football was easier than talking about feelings. He, John and Dad all loved football, and together shared the highs and (more often) lows of supporting their local third-division team.
But as soon as the match finished and the referee blew his whistle, it was as if that sound also signalled a return to their strict no-hugging policy.
Dennis did miss being hugged. His mum had hugged him all the time. She was so warm and soft, he loved being held by her. Most children can’t wait to grow up and get bigger, but Dennis missed being small and being picked up by his mother. It was in her arms that he had felt most safe.
It was a shame Dennis’s dad hardly ever hugged him. Fat people are good at hugs, they’re nice and soft, like a big comfy sofa.
Oh, yes, didn’t I mention? Dad was fat.
Really fat.
Dad worked as a long-distance lorry driver. And all that sitting down and driving had taken its toll, only stretching his legs to go to the service station café and eat various combinations of eggs, sausage, bacon, beans and chips.
Sometimes, after breakfast, Dad would eat two packets of crisps. He just got fatter and fatter after Mum left. Dennis had seen a Trisha episode about a man called Barry who was so fat he couldn’t wipe his own bum. The studio audience were told about his daily food intake and “oohed” and “aahed” with a strange mixture of delight and horror. Then Trisha asked him, “Barry, does the fact that you have to get your mum or dad to wipe your… underneath… not make you want to lose weight?”
“Trisha, I just love me food,” was Barry’s smirking reply.
Trisha put it to Barry that he was “comfort eating”. Trisha was good with phrases like that. She had after all been through a lot of difficult times herself. Barry cried a bit at the end, and as the credits rolled Trisha smiled sadly and gave him a hug, though it was hard for her to really get her arms around Barry as he was the size of a small bungalow.
Dennis wondered whether his dad was comfort eating too, having one more sausage
