Some Kind of Fairy Tale Read Online Free Page A

cottage, to the mess of kids and dogs, and a home permanently falling apart and finding new ways to demand maintenance. He liked to see Jack and the girls sprawled over the carpet, absorbed with whatever fad or kiddie toys were the interest or excitement of the moment. He never objected to untidiness in the way that Genevieve did. But Gen was his rescuer. She was the architect of his salvation.
    He opened the living room door and they all looked up from what they were doing. Gen with her large brown eyes and slightly freckled face framed by a tumble of unruly dark curls; the girls, who all really did look like her clones; the dogs. Then the dogs laid their heads back down.
    “Did you see her?” Gen asked.
    “Jack shot a rat,” said Josie.
    Peter flicked his head to indicate that Gen should come out to the kitchen. She got up.
    “Are you going to talk about your sister?” said Amber.
    “Yep,” Peter said.
    “Can we listen?”
    “Nope.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well. Now, then. Tell them why they can’t listen, Gen.”
    “It’s a touchy subject for Dad,” Genevieve announced. “He’ll tell you all about your aunt Tara after he’s had a chat with me.”
    “We’ll listen at the door,” Amber said brightly.
    “You’ll get an ear infection,” Peter said. “Listening to things you shouldn’t.”
    “Rubbish,” said Zoe. “Take no notice of Dad.”
    Genevieve closed the door behind her, and together they went into the kitchen. They sat down and she held his hand across the table. “You really do look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    “Mum and Dad. They’re sitting there like it’s fucking normal. We all thought she was dead and she walks back into their lives after twenty years and it’s like, oh, hello, have a cup of tea and a piece of ginger cake.”
    “They’re probably in shock, Peter. Did she say anything?”
    The back door swung open and, along with a blast of wintry air, Jack came in. “I shot a rat.”
    “Good man. Put it in the trash can.”
    “Do you want to look at it?”
    “No, I don’t need to look at it.”
    Jack looked disappointed. “It’s a big one.”
    “Are you in or out?” his mother said. “Either way, close the door. In or out.”
    “I’m in. I’m getting cold.”
    “Where’s the rat now?” said Genevieve.
    “On the grass.”
    “Put it in the trash.”
    “I was thinking o’ hangin’ it up outside. You know, like a rogues’ gallery.”
    “Absolutely bloody not! Get it in the trash.”
    “What, pick it up with my bare hands? Not likely.”
    “Just pick it up by the tail,” said Peter, “and chuck it in the can. You killed it, you dispose of it.”
    Jack waited for a few seconds of routine defiance before going outside to confront the dead rat. Peter closed the door after him.
    “Well?” Genevieve said.
    “She said she’d been traveling.”
    “Traveling where?”
    “It was cock-and-bull.”
    Jack came back in and went to the sink, where he made a great show of soaping his hands and washing them under the hot-water tap until they gleamed. They had to wait in silence until he was done. Peter slammed the door shut on the outside cold. “Were you born in a barn, Jack?”
    Jack made a noise like a sheep.
    Genevieve got tired of waiting. “How do you know?”
    “I caught her out on a couple of details.”
    “What’s that?” Jack said, drying his hands on a tea towel.
    “Use a proper towel for drying your hands,” said Genevieve.
    “Why?”
    “You’ve just been handling a rat. And look at this muck you’ve trailed in.”
    “Jack, give me and your mum a minute, would you?”
    “Is this about our so-called Aunty Tara?”
    “Yes, sod off, would you? And take your bloody shoes off before you go in the living room.”
    “Did you get to actually see her?”
    “Jack!”
    After they’d got rid of Jack, Genevieve asked what Tara had said about disappearing without a word.
    “Nothing. I wasn’t allowed to ask. They’re coming over tomorrow. The three