Broken Birdie Chirpin Read Free Page A

cackling. Mum scolded brother but it wouldn't
deter him from doing it again.
    "I
know your back there, plonker." I listened for noise from the black
chokeberry. Nothing. "I'm getting some rocks from Winchcombe's garden. I'm
gonna toss them at you, you sodding fanny fart. You too, Cicero." Nothing
still. What if they weren't there? This quickly became demoralizing. I grabbed
the handle of my guitar case tightly and walked deliberately towards the front
door. My face crinkled up in anticipation of brother's sneak attack. I was
seconds away from the shrubbery. I braced myself. Nothing. I reached the front
door. Nothing. I was all alone in the garden.
    "Mum?"
Mum was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a Lancashire Hotpot.
Dad was likely at the Turf Tavern having a pint with his workmates. But where
was brother? He never missed a meal or an opportunity to welcome me home with
an insult or shove.
    "Hello,
darling. I hope you’re hungry cause it'll just be the two of us for
supper."
    "Where's
brother?" I required further confirmation before fully embracing the
notion of a quiet meal sans the peanut gallery.
    "He's
off at his football retreat, remember? He won't be back til Sunday
afternoon." Brilliant. "Take a load off."
    Mum
and I hadn’t been alone together in a millennium. We stuffed our faces with
Lancashire Hotpot, chased it with ice cold pop, and chit-chatted like old
mates. Only after I’d been plied with gooseberry tarts, however, did her modus
operandi reveal itself.
    "Is
school going alright?"
    "I
haven't seen Headmaster Moobs in a few."
    "Headmaster
Moobs, eh? I haven't heard that one before." Mum chuckled. "Have you
learned anything from Sister...oh, what do you call her...Sister Duff?"
    "Not
really." It didn’t help that I hadn’t read a lick all semester of course,
but mum needn’t trouble herself with the particulars of my academic prospects
anyway. We sat in silence for a moment before mum finally put her cards on the
table.
    "Well,
tell me what you’ve been daydreaming about at supper the last few nights. Have
you met a special girl?" Mum was a perceptive bird. It had to be the
painter in her. I felt mostly at ease and would’ve told her about Becky but for
the fact that she’d married Il Duce. The thought of her telling him made me
feel manky.
    "No.
Nothing like that." My deception clearly saddened her as the delight
written all over her gentle face suddenly disappeared. Perhaps mum deserved
better. Hopefully she understood that my cageyness had nothing to do with her
and everything to do with dad being a horrible wanker. Perhaps that only made
it harder for her to bear. Either way, I might’ve been less of a sack artist if
I’d opened up to her that evening.
    "I
suppose my womanly intuition isn’t what it once was.” Mum winked knowingly.
“Anyway, you've got a couple of hours until dad comes home. You should rock n'
roll to your heart's delight. Don't fuss about your chores. I'll get the dishes
cleaned up."
    "Thanks,
mum. You're mostly alright." I think she knew I meant it.
    I
chugged my last ounce of pop, slammed the glass onto the table, and shot off to
my room. Becky had gotten her foot in the door and things were getting heavy.
Difficult decisions would have to be made. Feelings would have to be hurt. But
it was just me and my guitar for the moment and I had mum to thank for the
simple gift.
    Two
songs were written that night. One of them turned out to be rubbish. The other,
"Trade her for a Fiver", sported a tight melody and a rather catchy
hook. I didn't intend it at the time, but it had everything to do Becky and the
aggro that followed.

CHAPTER FIVE
    It
was a fiery Saturday in hell when I slipped into brother's room to pinch a few
bills from his money jar to finance pops with Becky. I’d been nicking him for
years. It was the least he could do for turning me into a paranoid gonk. He
kept the jar behind two piles of jock magazines on the top shelf of his closet.
I clumsily