Jenny Valentine - 4 Book Award-winning Collection. Jenny Valentine

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Have you ever asked him?

      Jed: No. I could.

      Me: Worth a try, isn’t it.

      Jed: I don’t know.

      Me: What’s he told you about Dad?

      Jed: Loads.

      Me: Like what? Give me five things.

      Jed: His middle name was Anthony. Grandad met him when Dad was six, same as me nearly, and they went to a fair and Grandad won him a goldfish that died. His favourite food was hot chestnuts. He taught him how to fish and ride a bike and he’s going to teach me too. Is that five?

      Me: No, that’s four. One more.

      Jed: He had loads of friends who were girls but I’m not supposed to get why until I’m older.

      Me: Did he tell you any secrets about Dad that you aren’t supposed to tell anyone?

      Jed: What, like him telling Grandad he was leaving before he was leaving?

      Me: Did he? Jesus!

      Jed: No. I don’t know. Maybe.

      Me: Jesus Christ Jed!

      Jed: Is that swearing?

      Me: What?

      Jed: Is crap swearing?

      Me: Not really.

      Jed: Mum says it is. And wankster.

      Me: What’s a wankster?

      Jed: Mum calls people that when she’s driving.

      Me: OK. Jed, can we get back to Dad? This is really important.

      Jed: Grandad says Dad was a wankster.

      Me: Does he? Why?

      Jed: Sometimes he thinks I’m Dad. He calls me Peter. Sometimes he remembers that Dad isn’t here any more. Sometimes he thinks you’re Dad.

      Me: Yeah, I know.

      Jed: He thought you were Dad in the park the other day and he called you a wankster. Can you undo these? I need the loo.

      Me: Why did Grandad call me that?

      Jed: I told you, cos he thought you were Dad.

      Me: No I know, I mean why did he call Dad it?

      Jed: I asked him that. He said pick a reason. Is this what Dad did for work?

      Me: What?

      Jed: Follow people round all day and ask lots of questions?

      Me: I don’t know, maybe.

      Jed: It’s boring. Go and ask Mercy some.

      Me: Mercy’s out.

      Jed: Go and ask Grandad.

      Me: I’m going to.

      Jed: He likes tape recorders.

      (Interview suspended 18:12.)

       SIXTEEN

      It occurs to me that all most people do when they grow up is fix on something impossible and then hunger after it.

      I do it about Dad, and Violet.

      Mum does it about what she might amount to if she lived her life again.

      Bob does it about Mum, according to Mercy.

      Ed does it about winding his mum up and getting laid.

      Mercy does it about Kurt Cobain and breast implants and mind-altering narcotics.

      Pansy does it about her encyclopaedia salesman and her son and about some pre-senile version of Norman.

      Norman does it about his past, which he can’t quite hold on to.

      Violet’s doing it past her sell by date about something I haven’t worked out yet.

      The only person who doesn’t do it is Jed.

      He lives in the present tense only. I don’t think he’s any good at all at things like the past or the future. Even today and tomorrow and yesterday trip him up. Jed says yesterday when he means six months ago and tomorrow when he means not now. Also, when you’re going somewhere with Jed, he instantly forgets that you’re headed from A to B. He just spends ages looking at snails and collecting gravel and stopping to read signs along the way.

      Jed is clueless about time and that means Jed is never sad or angry about anything for more than about five minutes. He just can’t hold on to stuff for long enough. Five minutes might as well be a year to him.

      And the thing about everyone else in my family is we are so busy being miserable and down all the time about impossible stuff that being miserable and down has started to become normal and strangely comforting.

      I mean, how much would we actually really like it if Dad showed up tomorrow and became part of the family again?

      Wouldn’t it get everyone’s backs up a little bit?

      It would be like having a stranger in the house, like a new lodger.

      It would be really weird.

      At some point, the impossible object of desire must turn into the last thing on earth you want to happen, without anybody noticing.

      The day Pansy came home from the hospital I waited with Norman for Mum to drop her off. He sat at the kitchen table folding and refolding a piece of paper, and I did a bit of washing up and taking out the rubbish (mostly chocolate wrappers). I sensed that if I wanted to ask Norman anything and I wanted a straight answer, now was the time. I think he was looking forward to being off guard and probably just wanted to doze in his chair and potter about with the dog like before, safe in the knowledge that she at least knew who he was.

      I coughed first to break the silence.

      “Did you meet Violet Park, Grandad?”

      He looked at me for a second as if he hadn’t realised I was

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