Brilliant Read Free

again—and again. They crept and they slid, and they were sure their parents never knew. The best bit, the biggest triumph, was sitting under the table. For minutes. For more and more minutes. They stayed absolutely still. But it was hard. Their noses got runny, their ears got itchy. Burps climbed slowly up their throats and knocked at their teeth to get out. Their legs and bums went numb, then dead, then back to jumpy life. They bit their arms to stop laughing.
    It went on for months.
    And it got even better when their Uncle Ben arrived. Now they had to slide through four sets of feet and legs. Being under the table was like being in a cage, and the grown-up legs were like the iron bars. But these iron bars wore slippers or had holes in their socks, and some of them even had hair in the gaps between the socks and trousers. So it was funny—especially once, when Raymond leaned out and pretended he was going to pull one of the black hairs on their dad’s shin. There were the legs of the table too, and the chairs. They made the secret space under the table even more like a cage.
    Sometimes Gloria didn’t like being small. But sometimes it was great, like when she was able to slide between the legs and sit with her hair just touching the underside of the table. Sometimes, when the grown-ups were drinking tea, she thought she could feel the heat from a cup coming through the table, on top of her head. It was nice, like a friendly hand. It made her feel relaxed, even when her legs were stiff and her mam’s knee was only a millimeter away from the tip of Gloria’s nose.
    There was another thing about their Uncle Ben coming to stay. The grown-ups spent much more time sitting in the kitchen. Chatting, talking—and mumbling.
    Chatting was when they were telling one another what they’d done that day, or what they were planning for the next day.
    â€œAdd Krispies to the list there. Is there anything worth watching on TV?”
    â€œYour man is on.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThat fella who used to be on the other thing. The fella with the hair. You know him.”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œAh, you do.”
    â€œI don’t. What about his hair?”
    â€œIt’s not his. It’s a rug.”
    â€œOh, him?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI’m not watching him.”
    â€œWho?”
    Who?
was their granny’s favorite word. Followed by
What?
    â€œAdd butter to the list too, love. We’re running out.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’ll tell you who has a rug, closer to home. You know your man who’s going with my cousin Rita?”
    â€œThat’s not a wig, is it?”
    â€œIt is, yeah.”
    â€œIt’s not.”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œHow do you know it’s a wig?”
    â€œGerry from work told me.”
    â€œHow does he know?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œHe grew up with him. The same road. He was bald for about five years before the wig arrived.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, that’s what Paddy says.”
    â€œWho?”
    That was chatting. It was boring, but sometimes funny, sometimes deliberately funny, but most times accidentally. Chatting and laughing usually went together.
    Talking was like chatting, but a bit more serious. It was often about work, or money, or things that were happening in Ireland and the world.
    â€œWe don’t need them.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBut they’re nice. You can’t have a cup of tea without a biscuit.”
    â€œYes, you can. It’s easy, look.”
    â€œAh, now, we’d be in a bad way if we couldn’t have a biscuit with tea.”
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be these ones. There are cheaper biscuits.”
    â€œI like these ones.”
    Sometimes, Gloria and Raymond couldn’t tell if they were listening to talking or chatting. It was often hard to tell. A chat about the price of biscuits became a