Читать книгу Divorced and Deadly - Josephine Cox - Страница 11

I think my mother has finally flipped.

All day she couldn’t do enough for me. ‘Would you like another cup of tea, Ben darling?’

‘No, thanks all the same, Mother.’

‘Well, I made us a Madeira cake last night, how about a slice of that?’

‘I’m not hungry, Mother. That stew you made filled me up to the eyes. But thanks all the same.’

‘Right, well, I’m off to the shops now. I’ve seen a lovely blue shirt in Jackson’s window. I’ll buy it for you, shall I?’

‘I don’t need a shirt, Mother.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I bought two new ones last week, don’t you remember? It was you who told me where to find the best bargains.’

‘Did I?’ She’s got this irritating habit of frantically scratching her head until her hair stands on end. She did it then, ‘I think you must be mistaken, dear.’

‘No, I’m not. Why don’t you ask Dad? He’ll tell you.’

‘Dad?’ Isn’t it strange how parents call each other Mum and Dad when they’ve got children? It’s like the kids have stolen their identity.

That settles it! I am never going to have kids!

My name is Ben. Not husband, or father or Dad. It’s Ben, and that’s that!

Dad looked up from his beloved newspaper. ‘Yes, Mother, what is it?’ (Why does he call her his mother…she’s not his mother, she’s his wife. Has he forgotten her name, or what?)

‘Did I send our Ben to Jackson’s shop last week to buy two shirts?’ She demanded.

‘You did, yes.’ Dad sounded resigned.

‘Are you sure?’ Mum wasn’t about to let it go.

‘Positive.’ Came the reply.

‘I see!’ She gave me one of her looks. ‘All right! Well, if your father says it’s so, then I suppose it must be right. But I’ll buy you another shirt anyway. You can never have enough shirts.’ She punched father’s newspaper. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘For pity’s sake!’ Dad complained. ‘Can’t a man read a paper in peace?’

‘I said…a man can never have enough shirts.’ What is wrong with the woman?

‘If you say so, dear.’ Dad knew when to give in.

‘I do.’ Mother smiled triumphantly.

Dad settled himself in his chair. ‘Then that’s settled. Now, can I please read my paper?’

‘If you must!’

At times like this, sharing a flat with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants looks very tempting.