Lessons for a Sunday Father Read Online Free

delivered.”
    “No, it’s not that. It’s just …”
    “What?”
    “Keep your knickers on—” Mistake. Big mistake. Not a good time to be mentioning knickers.
    She laughed but it wasn’t a ha-ha-aren’t-we-having-fun kind of thing.
    “What, like you, you mean?”
    “OK, I deserved that. I’m just saying, keep it cool in front of the lads, eh? There’s no need for us to have a scene here, is there? Put it in my old sports bag or something, yeah?”
    Another sigh.
    “Scott?”
    “Mmn?”
    “You’re pathetic.”
Nat
    Are parents like totally clueless or what? Jeez. Mum and Dad have had some kind of mega serious shit row—a no holds barred, six rounds fight with a capital “F,” but we’re not supposed to know. No-one ever tells you anything round here. I only know ‘cause I heard them arguing last night. I mean, how stupid is that? They could’ve woken up Rosie. I got up and crept out to the landing. I couldn’t hear properly, but then my mum went “—lying
bastard!”
really loud. And I mean, my mum never swears, like not ever, so I knew it wasn’t just a normal row. He must have done something really bad this time. I think it was to do with another woman. That’s what it always is on TV. Then she said, “Ssh! The kids’ll hear,” so I ducked back into my room and they went down to the kitchen and shut the door. Mum was just in her dressing-gown and didn’t have any slippers on, but she kind of thumped downstairs as if she was wearing DMs. I snuck down the stairs to listen, missing out the fifth step ‘cause it creaks. Mum says it’s bad manners to eavesdrop, but how else are you supposed to find out what’s going on? I was trying not to breathe so they wouldn’t hear me. I reckon I’d make an ace spy. I thought if they suddenly came out I could say I had a really bad stomach ache and had come down for some milk. I mean, I can’t help it if I’m sick, can I? But then I heard Mum say about putting the rubbish out, so I sprinted back up the stairs and into my room before the door opened.
    When I came down this morning, Rosie’s at the kitchen table, spooning Rice Krispies into her gob and drivelling on about Henry the Eighth. Right. Is she sad or what? Get a life, Rosie. So I come in, whap a couple of slices in the toaster. No sign of Dad but he’s usually out the door before eight anyhow. I look at Mum and she looks at me and I’m wondering if she knows I know and if she’s going to say anything. I do my Man of Mystery look—you tilt your head forward then look up from under your eyebrows and you mustn’t smile, not even for one second. It’s pretty cool if you know how to do it right. Steve always starts laughing. Clueless. So I’m giving her the look, leaning casual like against the counter, then my toast springs up and makes me jump—which is not good for a Man of Mystery. Nothing should make you jump—not a police siren, not a gunshot, nothing.
    I spread Marmite on one half of one bit of my toast and strawberry jam on the other. I could see Mum out the corner of my eye, watching me, biting her lip to stop herself saying anything. It was pretty revolting actually, the bit in the middle where the jam and Marmite met. It’s not going to be up there on my top ten list of favourite foods. Then she came closer and said “Nat” in a special creepy way and I thought here we go, she’s going to tell me about what happened last night in one of those I’m-going-to-treat-you-like-a-grown-up talks. No thank you. And I’m up and on my toes like a spring and heading for the door.
    I went back for an apple, then I shouted up to Rosie as I left: “Oi, Rozza!”
    “What?”
    “You know Henry the Eighth?”
    “Not personally.”
    Rosie actually thinks she invented that joke. Still, she’s only nine.
    “Did you know he had VD? Put it in your project.”
    “He never! Did he really?”
    “Yeah—Ask Miss Thing if you don’t believe me.”
    Then Mum chimed in.
    “Nathan! Please