When the bluebottle lands on the mantelpiece and settles on a note tucked behind Granddad’s carving of something, it finally shuts the hell up. It’s an ordinary Tuesday evening. Dad and I are eating and Mum’s at Zumba, her five-times-a-week fad. Zoom Baa: middle-aged sheep in lycra, bleating to the Latino beat. Mum’s not due back till late;; after class she hangs out with fanatical friends and drinks wheatgrass cocktails. When she comes home her breath will smell of haystacks;; Dad’s will smell earthy too, of red wine.
zzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Dad grabs a newspaper, lunges towards the mantelpiece and splats the fly. Granddad’s carving hits the floor and smashes;; the note, which is folded in two, has the remains of an abdomen on it. Dad picks up the carnage and dumps it on Mum’s place mat. ‘At least there’s some meat on the table now,’ he says. ‘Hey, what’s the last thing that goes through a fly’s mind before it hits the windscreen?’
Humour him.
‘Dunno’, I say. The note has unfolded.
‘Its backside.’ Dad chuckles and serves himself a portion of the beetroot and bulgur salad that Mum left out for us. His grin has faded by the time he slops marinated tofu onto his plate. ‘Bloody pigswill,’ he says. He takes his knife and fork and slices a boiled potato in two, right through an eye;; Mum says the skin is nutritional.
I reach for the note: Going away. Not coming back.
Dad eats the potato: a crunch of soil. He slurps his wine.
Going away. Not coming back. So she’d meant it: when Ben’s old enough . . . I didn’t think that would be fifteen. I drop my tumbler of water. Fragments of glass skid across the floor. As my lips part, my mouth twists and cramps, a face like poor Joe’s next door. All I need do now is drool and piss myself.
Dad jumps up. ‘Are you okay? It’s only a cheap tumbler.’
I grab the note and scrunch it into a ball. Dad tries to unclench my fist but my knuckles stay tight. He digs his nails into my skin. I wrench away my hand and ram the ball of paper into my mouth, bite so hard that the pain in my teeth shoots through my head. Dad clamps my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forces open my mouth like he used to when I was a kid blowing gum I’d found spat on the street. My jaw goes limp. The paper glistens, purple with beetroot saliva;; it looks like a chunk of mangled brain.
Dad’s chest heaves. ‘What the hell?’ He opens up the ball with trembling fingers and smudges the ink as he smoothes the paper flat on the table. My teeth have chomped holes in the words – way. No com g ba – but Dad understands: an animal noise launches from deep inside his belly.
I stumble out of the back door and race across the lawn, into the woods, scratching my legs in the undergrowth. When I stop for breath, the front door slams. As the car screeches down the drive, the underneath grates on the uneven track. Dad just paid to have the suspension fixed so he’ll be pissed off if he’s damaged it again.
I make my way back to the garden where I sit on a flat rock in the yellow- green evening light;; the sun filters through the trees, makes my skin look jaundiced. As the wind blows in the poplars it sounds like the sea;; I imagine Mum sailing away.
A row of frogs guards the pond. When a rabbit darts across the grass the frogs turn and stare through black, gold-lidded eyes;; only their heads, dappled like courgettes, are above the water. The pondweed looks like lentils floating in the scum on a pan of soup but a frog clears a watery black path as it swims to the edge. It climbs onto a rock and watches me;; still, except for the beat of its heart. It probably knew before we did. Mum loves the frogs;; she wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.
The phone in my pocket beeps. Mum? It’s another text from my girlfriend, Melissa: Why didn’t you call me last night? I punch a message into the keyboard – Because I’m dating your brother – and press send. I remember that she doesn’t have a brother, that was Melanie, or was it Melinda? I should have said dating your dad. I’m bored of Melissa. She’s cute but she has this nasal condition which makes her squeak. The thing is, I’ve bet my friend Scott that until Christmas I’ll only date girls whose names begin with Mel.
The frog makes a splash as it climbs into a shallow bowl next to the pond. Mum fills the bowl with clean water every morning, so the frogs can wash off the weed. She talks to them for twenty minutes before she does her T’ai Chi.
On Thursday, on the way to football practice, I bump into Lindsay, Mum’s dumb friend, the one who tried it on at the meat-free barbecue.
‘Your mum’s okay’, she sniffs. ‘She’s gone to South America to . . . find herself. It’s devastating for me, being the one left behind. And I’m going to have to switch to Pilates;; the new Zumba teacher can’t shake his hips like Roberto did.’
A week later, on Friday afternoon when I get home from school, Dad has finally emerged from his room. His face is gaunt and grim with determination. He takes food from the larder shelves and hurls it into a black plastic sack. Jars smash and packets explode: seaweed, semolina, sesame oil, soya beans, spelt flour, spirulina . . . at least we won’t have to alphabetise the groceries any more.
‘D’you wanna hand, Dad?’
‘That’d be great. You can make a start on the Ts.’
‘No problem,’ I say, dropping a jar of tahini into the rubbish. ‘Hey, isn’t this a waste? What about the starving people?’
‘This stuff would finish them off.’ ‘How’s your day been?’ I ask.
‘Fine. That imbecile friend of your mum’s dropped by, got me out of bed. I told him she’d pissed off to the States.’
‘Which imbecile?’
‘The one who wipes his hands on his hair after he’s eaten.’ ‘Claudius? AKA John.’
‘He’s the one. Well guess what?’
‘What?’ I start on the Vs: veggie chicken substitute, vermicelli, Viagra?
‘He cheered me up. D’you know why? I never have to see any of your mum’s loopy friends again.’
Dad drops a box of yeast sachets into the bin. ‘All done?’ I say, clearing the last of the vitamins.
‘Yeah. Now, I’m starving. I weighed myself this afternoon: twelve bleeding stone. Come on, son, we’re going to Waitrose.’
Dad’s gonna seek solace in cheese. Mum would never allow cheese in the house: one hundred percent fat, she said, one hundred percent fat. To deny Dad cheese was like denying Mum colonic irrigation and Dad would never have dreamed of doing that.
We visit the cheese counter first and stand, transfixed, overwhelmed by the choice. I choose a cheddar before I head round the supermarket with the shopping list. When I come back Dad is still at the deli;; he’s filled our trolley with artisanal cheese.
‘I’m no connoisseur,’ he says. ‘So I chose the names I liked.’
I peer at the labels: Pantysgawn, Sussex Slipcote, Black-eyed Susan, Farleigh Wallop and Red Devil . . . who needs Viagra?
*****
Mum’s been gone for four months now. She sounds weird in her letters and I think she may have joined a cult: she always was a fan of Tom Cruise. She’s been finding herself all over the place. Isn’t that what schizophrenics do? She signed her last letter Mum and Roberto. I took it outside, propped it up against a tree and pissed on it.
Dad and I dine at the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet every week;; it’s not a treat like it used to be. Mum only let us go twice a year, on our birthdays, and she wore dark glasses and a low-brimmed hat. We used to joke that there would be a twenty-stone woman feeding from the buffet and there always was: polystyrene plate bending under a mountain of food, plastic cutlery snapping as it cut through deep-fried lumps of something that didn’t taste of anything much.
As one late summer heatwave merges into another, the vegetables in the garden shrivel and die. Dad walks round the plot and smiles as he checks out the withered cabbages, wilted squash and chewed lettuce leaves. ‘I hated doing this bloody patch,’ he says. ‘But not as much as I hated eating what came out of it.’
Wasps feast on the fruit that rots under the apple trees in the orchard. The woozy insects crawl into clothes on the washing line to sleep off their hangovers. I found a wasp (Latin name Vespa Vulgaris, sounds like a Bond girl, shame it wasn’t!) in my boxers this morning, before I put them on I hasten to add. A sting there could have put me out of action for days, even though I’m not exactly in action right now;; it’s hard being restricted to Mels. Scott says there are plenty more girls’ names beginning with Mel but he can only think of three: Melisande, Melvyn and Melanoma, none of whom go to our school.
‘Melvyn’s a boy’s name’, I say.
‘Well, Melvynia then.’
‘That isn’t a name.’
‘Anything can be a name’, says Scott. ‘Melanoma’s a cancer.’
‘So?’
‘Who’d call their kid after a cancer?’ I ask.
‘Scarlet’s a name.’
‘Scarlet’s not a cancer.’
‘Scarlet fever’ll kill you a whole lot quicker than a cancer will.’ ‘People don’t get scarlet fever any more.’
‘Bro, they do,’ says Scott. ‘All these things are coming back. Didn’t you hear about that man in the States who got the plague? A cat bit him and the next thing he knew his fingers turned black and were falling off all over the place.’
One evening, when Dad and I are munching bread and chunks of Black- eyed Susan, Dad clears his throat: his cheeks have pink spots on them.
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Ben,’ he blurts out. ‘I’ve been getting to know a woman I met on a dating site. Don’t worry, she isn’t anything like your mother;; I didn’t pick women who described themselves as slim.’
Dad dating is gross, worse than Mum and Roberto. I remember the Viagra I put in the bin. Black-eyed Susan sticks in my throat. Nothing like the thought of erectile dysfunction to make you lose your appetite.
‘We’ve been on a few dates,’ says Dad. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you. She’s a very stylish lady and she’s crazy about cheese. She’s called Véronique. I’d like to invite her here. I can show you her photo if . . . ’
‘I’m meeting Scott,’ I say.
‘It won’t take long.’
Dad flips open his laptop and his profile page pops up. His photo was taken two years ago, when Mum made us to go camping in the Lake District and our tent got humped by a bull – it’s never smelt the same since. Dad was in good shape then and had a tan. The picture gives me a jolt. Dad’s bigger now, much bigger: he has a tyre round his middle and his belly hangs over his belt. He’s jowly too.
Véronique is dark and . . . voluptuous and . . . well, her boobs kind of take over her face, and the rest of her body.
‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ says Dad. ‘Makes your mother look like a shrivelled prune.’
My chest goes tight when he says that. Puts a pain behind my eyeballs.
Dad’s nervous about Véronique coming for dinner;; he’s been cooking for three days. He thinks he’s persuaded me to stay for apéritifs but Scott’s gonna phone at six-thirty to say his grandma’s died and he needs emotional support. Except now it’s five past seven and the bastard hasn’t called.
‘How do I look, son?’
Dad’s wearing oatmeal-coloured trousers, tight on the groin, and blue and white striped espadrilles. His shirt gapes over his moobs.
‘You look great.’
A trickle of sweat runs down Dad’s temple and as he lifts his hand to wipe it away a button pops off his shirt.
The doorbell chimes the Star Wars theme. Véronique isn’t gonna think that’s cool.
‘Shit, get that for me,’ says Dad. ‘Tell her I’m on the phone to my publisher.’ He takes the stairs two at a time, panting like a dog.
‘What publisher?’ I open the door. ‘Good evening. I’m Véronique.’
‘Hi,’ I say to Véronique’s boobs. I can’t help it. ‘Pleased to meet you. Dad will be down in a moment. He’s on the phone to his publisher.’
Véronique follows her boobs in through the door. She smells of Mum’s perfume.
‘Would you like a drink?’ I ask.
‘A gin and tonic, please.’
As I struggle to pop the ice cubes out of the tray, I glance at the page open in the recipe book: Allow three pairs per serving. Season with salt and pepper then fry the frogs’ legs in butter and white wine over a high flame. I take a large swig from the bottle of gin. Does Waitrose sell frogs’ legs?
Dad tramps down the stairs. I half expect him to wear a beret and a string of onions. No shit, he is wearing a beret! What a tool.
‘Bonsoir, Véronique. You look ravissante,’ says Dad and kisses her on the lips. Squelch. I take another swig of gin. Dad and Véronique sit on one sofa and I sit on the other. Dad has his hand on her thigh. It must be sweaty if the rest of him is anything to go by.
‘Do you know that cheese is good for the prevention of tooth decay?’ says Dad as he passes Véronique a plate of cheddar and pineapple chunks on cocktail sticks. Cool, huh?
‘I didn’t know that,’ she says. ‘Ben?’ says Dad.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I thought that was toothpaste. It’s to do with the fluoride.’ I grab my jacket and leave the house. When I walk past the pond, there isn’t a frog in sight.
*****
Dad goes to evening classes and learns how to cook. He serves up American- sized portions of French cuisine: boeuf bourguignon, filet d’agneau and pavé de veau. He prepares sauces from butter and cream. He glugs French wine and listens to French opera and, the noises would suggest, makes passionate French love.
I’ve got a photo of Mum on my desk but I keep it face down;; I can’t concentrate on my homework if I catch her looking at me. Véronique and Dad hang out a lot. I’m just glad Dad’s got a smile on his face, even though it sits on top of a lot of chins and a belly that looks like a beach ball.
To celebrate their first anniversary, Dad orders Véronique a shipment of the finest Camembert, all the way from Normandy. Holy shit that cheese reeks.
‘Les pieds de Dieu’, says Dad.
‘What?’
‘The feet of God. That’s what a ripe Camembert smells like.’
I think Dad’s heart breaks when Véronique dumps him that evening but at least she tells him face to face. ‘I have no choice,’ she sobs, as I listen outside the bedroom door. ‘My husband is joining me from Paris.’
It’s two weeks before Dad can bear to throw the Camembert away. The rind ruptures and the melted cheese oozes out and spreads across the table. The stench reminds me of when Scott had a fungal infection between his toes and woke me by rubbing his feet in my face.
*****
Dad was distraught after he split up with Véronique and he took loads of time off work;; six months later he lost his job. All he does now is eat and sleep in front of the TV. His belly is so huge that he needs massive meals to feel full. Money’s tight so we drive to Aldi once a week and pile the trolleys high. The cheese we buy tastes like rubber and comes on top of pizzas. In the Chinese restaurant, we no longer joke about the twenty-stone woman. When I try to talk to Dad about his weight, he refuses to even look at me.
Dad can bolt a dozen doughnuts in one sitting. It’s as though he swallows them whole, must dislocate his jaw or something, like snakes devouring their prey on the Discovery Channel. Jam spurts from his lips, dribbles down his chins. I watch his throat, expect a doughnut to stick out like a giant Adam’s apple.
One doctor suggests a psychiatrist. ‘No chance,’ Dad tells me. ‘I don’t want to end up crazy like your mum.’ Another recommends a mobility scooter – as though Dad’s gonna go round Aldi in that: license plate FAT 1. I’m relieved when Dad writes notes to excuse himself from parents’ evenings and sports days. Kids can be cruel, like those assholes in the States who made the fat bus monitor cry. That woman made a hell of a lot of money from donations though. Dad and I should set up a scam, get Scott involved and split the profit. It could pay for a gastric band.
*****
A year later, when Dad hasn’t left the house for nine months, I buy our food at the rip-off corner shop on my way home from college. While I prepare dinner, Dad sits in his chair in a patch of sunlight, sweats and rots like the fruit on the ground. I stay up late to revise for my exams, so late that a pale blue light shines though the curtains and I hear the blackbirds sing.
Eight thousand. That’s how many calories Dad ate today. A doctor came to our house, told him he was morbidly obese, that he’s at risk from heart disease, stroke, diabetes, breathing problems, incontinence . . . I stopped listening. When the doctor left, Dad sent me to buy fish and chips.
I don’t like leaving Dad in the evenings but when I do it’s to hang out with Lucy, a cute girl I met in the corner shop. We make out in the park and in the shopping arcade but we soon reach the legal limit of what you can do on a public bench.
‘Why can’t I come to your house?’ Lucy says. ‘You know my father will kill you if you come to ours. He hates boys. And he’s got a gun.’
Psycho!
‘No reason,’ I say. ‘Maybe next week?’ 108
‘You always say next week.’ Lucy sulks, sticks out her bottom lip, looks so sexy that I want to jump her right there.
‘Why don’t you come round tomorrow night?’ I say.
The following evening I get Dad comfortable in bed, switch on the television and adjust the headphones on his ears. He finds it hard to get to the en-suite bathroom on his own so I leave out his pan.
I mute the TV with the remote. ‘I’m gonna meet Scott, Dad. I won’t be late. Have a good evening.’
Dad’s eyes are dark holes buried in inflated flesh. He nods. I turn the sound back on, loud, and walk towards the door.
‘Ben?’
‘Yeah?’ I turn to face him.
‘ . . . Nothing.’ The holes fill up: dark pools. I lock Dad in his room.
I look out for Lucy from the window and meet her at the door so that she doesn’t ring the bell, not that Dad would hear. She’s wearing an ass- skimming dress with a zip all the way down the back. Awesome.
‘Is your father in?’ she says.
‘He’s working late. You’ll meet him next time. Anyway, you’re here to see me.’
I pull her into the house and onto the sofa. Her zip slides down like a dream. She undoes her bra herself! Her tongue’s so far down my throat that I can hardly breathe.
SHIT!
Footsteps upstairs. Plodding like a brachiosaurus. ‘You okay?’ asks Lucy.
‘Yeah.’
The bedroom door rattles.
‘What’s that noise?’ she says.
‘It’s just the wind. Come here.’
She lies back down. She unbuckles my belt. She . . .
KERRRRANG!
A crash shakes the room. Lucy and I leap apart. Plates fall from the dresser and smash on the tiles.
‘It’s a fucking earthquake,’ gasps Lucy.
Flakes of paint drift from the ceiling onto her hair. It looks like she’s got dandruff.
‘What the hell was that?’ she says.
‘I dunno. I’ll check. Don’t follow me. They could be armed.’
‘But . . . ’
‘Actually, you’d better go.’
‘What?’
‘Quickly. Get out!’
I push her towards the door. She struggles to zip up her dress, grabs her shoes and runs out of the house.
I tear upstairs, heart beating fast, and fumble with the key. Dad’s legs, like giant bloated sausages, protrude from the bathroom door. I cross the bedroom and step over him to get into the en suite. He’s on his back and his dressing gown has fallen open. His belly has flopped to one side, flab splayed across the lino. His shrivelled penis looks pitiful;; no son wants to see where he came from looking like that. The medicine cabinet has fallen off the wall: paracetamol bottles on the ground.
‘Dad! Are you okay?’
‘I tripped and fell against the cabinet. I can’t get myself off the bloody floor.’
I rearrange his dressing gown, tie the belt, help him sit up.
‘I’m sorry, Ben. I’m so fat that I can’t even . . . ’
‘It’s alright, Dad.’ I take his hand. It’s the first time I’ve held his hand since I was a kid. It’s plump and soft but his grip’s tight;; his grip’s just like it used to be.
This story is the winner of our Short Story Competition, which was judged by Edna O’Brien, Cathy Galvin and Alison MacLeod.