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I was just drifting off to sleep when Uncle John’s voice boomed out, post-hearing-aid loud.
‘There’s something wrong with that girl. I don’t trust her.’
.....
We walked sedately, my family and I, Dad a few steps ahead, separated from us as though he didn’t belong to us, a bottle of whisky in one hand and wine in the other. The boys, with neatly parted blond hair and button-up shirts, were ‘starving’, eager to tuck into the plates of food that no doubt awaited. Mom, balancing a plate of mushroom vol-au-vents, tripped along in her high-heeled sandals, glowing, all blond haired and brown skinned in a yellow sundress that filtered the last rays of sun to show off her long skinny legs. I ignored Steven mocking me that I looked like a shrimp, my skin sunburned red under the pink fluffiness of the dress. ‘Or a pig! Ha-ha! Oink, oink, snort, snort!’ It was New Year’s Eve, party-time, disappear-into-the-night time. I twirled under Uncle Tom’s large hand as he patted me on the head, pointing us in the direction of a table groaning with food.
Uncle Tom’s holiday home was unlike ours in every way, a mess of driftwood, shells, fishing rods, beer cans and bottles of brandy. He’d made no effort to tidy up, just arranged chairs around a fire-pit in the front garden, thrown open windows and doors so that folk music bubbled over every corner, and enveloped us in his world of careless abandon. Almost.
.....
