‘Don’t be looking at me,’ Ciaran said. ‘I went straight to bed when I got in.’
‘So did I,’ Aidan replied. ‘I never even came into the kitchen! I got a spice bag in the chipper on the way home.’
‘A likely story. Do you think I came down in the last shower?’ Emily said. ‘The butter left open. And the bread gone. Do you think I’m made of money or something? That’s the drink for you. You’re drowning all your brain cells in Guinness, you can’t even remember when you are up to devilment.’
‘We don’t remember ’cos we didn’t do anything. Who says it was us, anyhow? What about Dad or Big G?’ Aidan’s face flushed red with indignation.
‘Don’t be pulling your sister into this; sure she was up in bed fast asleep while you two were out carousing. As for your father, you know he doesn’t eat white bread – he’d as soon cut off his arm.’
On cue, they heard the key in the front door, and their father, Stephen, walked in, red and sweating. He looked at his Apple Watch and clicked a few buttons, nodding in satisfaction at the result. ‘That’s thirty-eight point three kilometres done so far this month. And it’s only a few days into February!’
‘Well done love,’ Emily said.
‘Dad, did you leave the grill on before you went out for your run?’ Aidan asked.
‘Indeed I did not. I haven’t had any bread in months, as well you know. Except for my porridge loaf that I make myself.’ He patted his flat stomach as he spoke, a habit he’d formed at the same time his keep fit passion had ignited.
‘Well if it wasn’t Dad and it wasn’t Ciaran or me, who does that leave?’ Aidan said, glaring at Greta.
‘Well, bring out the Bible then, Mam,’ Greta remarked, hoping to lighten the mood, making Ciaran snigger. When they were kids, one of them drew all over the kitchen door in crayon. Aidan, Ciaran and Greta denied the crime, despite Emily’s best efforts to uncover the culprit. So her interrogation progressed to threatening them all with the wooden spoon – which failed – and escalated to the family Bible. Each of them was made to swear on their innocence, the threat of eternal damnation laid out before them. The Bible won and Ciaran sang like a canary. Now ‘Bring out the Bible’ was a tried-and-tested Gale catchphrase that was part of their family’s folklore.
‘Maybe I should,’ Emily said, but the corners of her mouth began to twitch too and soon she was smiling herself.
Greta sloped out of the room, happy that she’d managed to diffuse the tension as always. She hated seeing her family at odds with each other. Always had. Which was why it was Big G’s role to make everyone laugh. The family joker, her Uncle Ray often said. But sometimes she wondered if they were laughing with her … or at her?
It was time she got ready for her trip to London anyhow. Her audition later today was for a part in a new drama series. It could be life changing for her. Ever since she had starred in a Christmas ad when she was little, she knew the bright lights of stardom beckoned for her. She showered and dressed, then packed her overnight bag, making sure she had everything. Actors’ portfolio, make-up bag, deodorant, her tablets. Check! Satisfied that all was in order, she made her way to the kitchen to say goodbye to her folks. Aidan passed her on the stairs, but as he did, he gave her shoulder a hard shove.
‘Hey! Watch it. What did I do?’ she asked to his retreating back. That had been deliberate and it hurt.
His response was to glower at her and mutter something under his breath, before slamming the door to his bedroom.
‘Charming!’ she shouted after him.
Both her parents were eating porridge and drinking more tea when she went back into the kitchen. ‘Want some, G?’ Emily asked, pointing to the pot behind her.
Greta shook her head. ‘I’ll grab something to eat in the airport.’
‘I’ve had a bowl of porridge every morning since I was a toddler,’ Stephen said. He patted his nonexistent stomach again and continued, ‘No cholesterol and my digestion is in prime condition. If you want my advice, G, you could do a lot worse than following the lead of your mother and me on this matter.’
‘Sure, Dad. I’ll get some later,’ Greta replied. ‘I need to get going, though. I don’t want to be late for Uncle Ray, especially when he’s kind enough to give me a lift.’
‘I offered to take you to the airport,’ Stephen said, a slight edge to his voice.
‘I know you did. I appreciate it.’
‘Sometimes I think you prefer him to me,’ Stephen griped. And although Greta made the appropriate denial noises, there was an element of truth in his words.
Greta had a special bond with her Uncle Ray, her dad’s brother, which she supposed was inevitable considering how he’d had to become a makeshift midwife to deliver her. Emily went into labour early at home. Stephen was on nights, so Ray was called to bring her to the hospital. They never made it there in the end. Ray had delivered Greta on the sitting-room floor, while they were waiting for the paramedics to arrive and he was trying not to pass out from the sight of blood. The story went that Greta had looked into Ray’s eyes when she slipped into his hands and an unbreakable connection was made.
Emily looked up at the clock. ‘You’re way too early to go to the airport. Your flight isn’t for hours. Tell you what, why don’t you come with me to my slimming class? The ladies are such a nice bunch. They’d all love to meet you. And then I’ll drop you to Ray’s on the way back home.’
This suggestion was met with great enthusiasm from Stephen, who began to congratulate Emily on her ingenuity to think it up. Greta knew a set-up when she saw one.
‘Maybe next time,’ Greta said, knowing that hell would freeze over before she’d ever go to a slimming class with her mother. ‘I need the extra time to practise my lines for the audition.’
Stephen exhaled a loud, disgruntled sigh of annoyance. Greta was used to this particular sound. In fact, if she had to equate one sound with her father when he was in her presence, it would be this one. ‘When I was your age …’ he began, which meant that another of his fun ‘lose weight and keep fit’ pep talks was about to start. Before another word flew out of his mouth, Greta ran out through the front door, shouting goodbyes over her shoulder.
As Greta pounded the footpath towards her Uncle Ray’s house, pulling her cabin bag behind her, she fantasized about having enough money to move out. Her mam she could take, but her dad was relentless in his quest to make her thinner. She was exhausted from dodging his lectures. Greta slowed down at the end of their road, already out of breath, and took a seat on the edge of a garden wall. She pulled a bag of Maltesers from her handbag and threw a handful into her mouth. As the chocolate melted and the malty inside fizzed on her tongue, she sighed with contentment.
‘Hey!’ Greta squealed in shock when she felt something brush against her leg. She looked down, praying it wasn’t a cat – she hated cats – and saw a dirty black scrappy dog staring up at her. The dog barked, then sat in front of her, eyes begging for a chocolate.
‘No can do, little doggie. These are bad for you.’ Then Greta began to giggle as she realized what she was saying. ‘I know, “pot kettle black” and all the rest. But I need these.’ She threw another handful in her mouth. He nuzzled her ankle with his nose.
‘I can’t,’ Greta said. ‘Chocolate is bad for dogs, honestly.’ She opened her bag and searched for something she could share with him. Bingo! She pulled out a half-eaten rice cake. ‘It tastes like cardboard, just warning you.’ The mutt didn’t care and wolfed it down in one bite before he moved closer and gave her another nuzzle. Poor thing was hungry. Greta hadn’t seen him