The House We Called Home. Jenny Oliver
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in the hallway. She blew out a breath, wanting to rip the damn phone out of his hands. Hug your sister, she wanted to shout. Sonny caught her eye and Stella raised a brow at him, he made a face. It was like they lived on repeat. Always the same. He looked away from her, put his phone in his pocket, and made a show of giving Rosie a little, not particularly enthusiastic, hug.
She thought about her last Potty-Mouth column, when she’d written,
The problem is with motherhood that sometimes you don’t want to be selfless. Sometimes you want to tell your son that you actually just don’t like him very much. Then immediately after the thought appears it’s countered by an annoying inner voice that says, this is your fault. It is you that created this behaviour. You who has failed him by not giving him the right tools, you should have nipped it in the bud. At this point sanity must prevail to remind you that he’s a teenager and that, yes, it really is his fault! Sanity can be found in many forms. And that’s why God invented white wine as well as ovulation.
Stella watched little Rosie, undeterred by Sonny’s unwillingness to show affection, drag him by the floppy cuff as she spotted a black and white Border collie’s head poking up over the side of the great grey sofa. ‘Frank Sinatra!’ she cried.
Stella couldn’t help but smile. She wondered if Rosie even knew there was a namesake. The pictures her mum had sent of this new dog Stella had opened and looked at, more out of disbelief, because Stella couldn’t imagine ever being allowed a pet growing up – she remembered having to watch TV sitting on an old throw as a kid so as not to ruin the sofa, the bare cushions saved for guests only. Everything was always for show, even behind closed doors her mother would never just flop on the couch after dinner, seemingly always on guard in case someone popped by. Never off duty for a second.
It always felt to Stella like her mother had invented this all-consuming lady of the manor persona, spinning off from her dad’s sporting notoriety – nine-time Olympic gold medal winner and nominated for Sports Personality of the Year – to make up for his never being home. As if by raising him up on a plinth it was OK to excuse him anything. Her mother was always on edge waiting for when he eventually did come home, constantly polishing and tidying like a manic bee buzzing about the place, forever straightening corners, always so very uptight. And it was all wasted on him anyway because he only had eyes for the day’s swim times – reams and reams of paper that caused even more mess.
Now Stella watched as the dog licked Sonny’s face and Rosie giggled, feeling a tiny twinge of jealousy at such relaxed freedom existing in this living room.
She went over and sat on the arm of the sofa, giving the dog a little pat on the back, all the time watching Sonny, almost reabsorbing him after their time apart, remembering his stubby little nose and how his eyes could twinkle on the rare occasions that he laughed. She didn’t dislike him. She loved him. She would, as one of the annoying NCT dads had once said, ‘take a bullet for him’. She just found herself constantly exhausted by him. Angry when he did something that she knew he knew better than to do. Frustrated by him for wasting his potential on the cliché of his phone and PlayStation. Disappointed when he did exactly the annoying thing she expected him to do. And he always seemed to know how to infuriate her further, like an angry mosquito bite. For half a minute there would be calm and then there it was again: itch, itch, itch.
Like right now. He wasn’t letting the dog lick Rosie’s face – not that Stella could think of anything more disgusting than having a dog lick one’s face – but Rosie was desperate for a share of the licking and Sonny was having it all to himself.
‘Sonny, let Frank Sinatra lick Rosie!’ There it was. One of the first proper sentences she’d said to her son since she’d got there. Not only was it the stupidest sentence she’d ever said, it stuck fast to their usual rules of communication – her having to constantly tell him to do something differently.
Jack came down the stairs, eyebrows raised at Stella as if questioning whether there was seriously going to be conflict already, and took a seat on the other side of the dog. Then he reached forward and squeezing Sonny on the shoulder said softly, ‘All right son?’
Sonny looked up at him and nodded. ‘Yep.’
Jack smiled.
Stella almost rolled her eyes. That was part of the problem; it was so easy for Jack and Sonny because Jack was allowed to take the path of least resistance. He was good cop. He’d effortlessly bagsied that role early on. Which meant Stella was bad cop, and she had been OK with that – when the kids were still young enough to always relent to a hug. But now, with Sonny, it was a whole new role, like graduating from police academy into the real world – the hits were painful and never let up.
Jack joined Sonny and Rosie in the showering of attention on the dog. ‘Aren’t you lovely? Who gives a dog a name like Frank Sinatra?’ he said, giving him a generous rub behind the ears.
‘Mitch’s dad called him it,’ Sonny said, showing them a trick with the dog’s front paws that Rosie thought was hilarious. They looked the picture of a perfect family.
‘Who’s Mitch?’ Jack asked.
‘Granny’s friend,’ said Sonny. ‘He’s a hippy.’
Moira shut the fridge with a clatter.
Jack looked up and caught Stella’s eye. He raised an intrigued brow. Stella made a similar face back.
‘Does everyone want tea?’ Moira called, all matter-of-fact, lining up her dotty mugs as she deflected attention from this Mitch character.
There was a chorus of Yeses punctuated by a breathless request for hot chocolate from Rosie who was squealing delightedly as the dog licked all over her face. ‘Can we have a dog?’ she laughed.
‘Mum won’t let us,’ Sonny said without looking up from where he and Jack were rubbing Frank Sinatra’s tummy.
Stella sighed. Jack stayed silent. He’d always wanted a dog, Stella always said no. She thought they smelt and she couldn’t think of anything worse than picking up its giant poos. The question of why they didn’t have a dog had become, ‘Mum won’t let us.’ As if having the dog was the given and she was the one taking it away. Which she was. But then it had never been a given in the first place. See, bad cop.
Hating herself for feeling like the outsider, Stella pushed herself up to go and help Moira make the tea. ‘So, are you sure you’re OK, Mum?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, I’m OK,’ Moira said, pressing buttons on the microwave to warm the milk for Rosie’s hot chocolate. Then she paused and sighed. ‘Just pissed off really – what does he think he’s doing, gallivanting off without telling anyone? His note’s on the table,’ she added, nodding towards the dining area as she shovelled some custard creams out on a plate. Stella wondered how great the tragedy would have to be before they could eat them straight from the packet.
Moira led the way to the dining room table carrying a tray of cups and matching milk jug, the plate of biscuits balanced precariously on the top. She gestured for Stella to follow with the teapot, adding, ‘So you like the new layout?’
‘Yeah, it’s very nice, very airy,’ Stella replied, still expecting her mother to be quite a lot more upset about her dad’s disappearance. She hoped she was just putting on a brave face, otherwise it felt too tragic – that he could slip away and the finding of him be secondary to thoughts on the new decor. How the mighty had fallen.
The dining room table was one of the only things that hadn’t changed. But instead the dark varnished wood had been sanded down to give it a scrubbed driftwood look. Stella wondered who’d done it, whether they’d found all the things she’d scrawled when she was meant to be doing her homework. Defiant teenage graffiti where she’d jab at the underside of the table with her biro after a dressing-down from her dad about her split times for her swim that day. Or when he’d wordlessly leave a graph of her heart-rate calculations on the table, dips in effort marked with just a dot from the tip of a sharpened pencil.
Stella put the teapot down and picked