SUNK Read Free Page B

about nipping back to Eric’s but I remember the smoothie volcano and head on round to our house.
    Grandma’s got the TV on full volume and after we’ve sat through an item on knitted road signs and another one about novel sandwich fillings, the announcer gets on to Bywater-by-Sea.
    ‘ And finally, just at the beginning of the holiday season, in the sleepy town of Bywater-by-Sea a young girl had a narrow escape. It’s unclear about the events leading up to the accident, but it seems that six-year-old Beverley Woodruff of Bywater Regis was enjoying a wet afternoon on the beach when she managed to jam a bucket on her head. At first her parents tried to pull it off, but then an anxious passer-by called the fire brigade. Sergeant Bradley Thomas of the local fire station said, and I quote, “In all the years I’ve been a fire officer I’ve never come across a more peculiar case. It was as if that bucket was alive” …’
    ‘Well I never,’ says Grandma, dropping her knitting. ‘Know anything about this, Tom?’
    ‘No, Grandma.’
    She stares at me very hard over her glasses. ‘Sure?’
    ‘No – I really don’t, honestly.’
    * * *
    ‘I’m not eating that,’ says Tilly, pushing her plate away.
    ‘But Dad spent hours cooking it,’ says Mum.
    ‘Don’t care,’ says Tilly, scratching her head furiously. ‘It’s disgusting.’
    ‘Well, I’m not cooking you anything else,’ says Dad, doling out the pumpkin pie.
    ‘All right then,’ says Tilly, standing up. ‘I’ll make my own supper.’
    ‘That girl,’ mutters Grandma after Tilly has left for the kitchen.
    ‘She’s her own worst enemy,’ says Mum.
    ‘Bless her,’ says Dad.
    ‘Yes,’ says Mum. ‘It’s just a phase. Such a difficult age. Although I wish she could see things from another person’s point of view – just sometimes.’
    ‘Complicated girls,’ says Dad. ‘Not like us, eh, Tom?’
    I nod. Tilly is certainly complicated. Whether it’s because she’s a girl I couldn’t say.
    There are terrible sounds of pans hitting other pans and things boiling over while Dad, Mum and Grandma scrape their forks on their plates and clear their throats.
    ‘Very nice this pumpkin pie, dear,’ says Grandma eventually, chewing hard.
    ‘Lovely,’ says Mum, glugging several glasses of water.
    I look at the desiccated pumpkin pie lying orangely on my plate. ‘Aren’t pumpkins things you get in autumn?’
    Grandma smiles and pushes a cindery piece of pastry around her plate.
    ‘Just using up the contents of the freezer,’ says Dad.
    There’s a long silence, broken by the sound of Tilly shouting at the fridge.
    ‘Haven’t found a job yet,’ says Mum.
    ‘How about the ice-cream factory?’ says Dad.
    ‘Or the Royal Hotel?’ says Grandma. ‘I gather they’re likely to be under new ownership soon. The dear old Finch sisters have finally given up.’
    ‘I thought I could go into politics,’ says Mum.
    ‘Goodness,’ says Grandma.
    Tilly drops something hard and large into the sink.
    ‘Did you know that Eric’s dad is running for mayor?’ I ask.
    Grandma stops attacking her pastry. ‘Colin Threepwood! I don’t believe it.’
    ‘Really? How extraordinary,’ says Dad, getting up from the table and walking over to shut the door to the kitchen.
    Mum sweeps her pie off her plate and into her napkin. ‘How interesting,’ she says, wandering past the piano and dropping the pie inside. ‘I wonder what brought that on.’
    I shrug. That’s it from me in terms of conversation.
    Psshshshshshsh.
    A long, rising bubbling sound drifts out from the kitchen and everyone pauses to listen.
    ‘Ah ha!’ shouts Tilly. ‘Die, pasta, die – you have met your match – I am the queen of all things spaghetti. Melt in my cauldron and quiver …’
    Briefly I wonder whether the food that Tilly’s making might be nicer than Dad’s.
    Then there’s a crackle and a bang and what sounds like a saucepan hitting the kitchen floor.
    ‘Stop it! Stop it!