Araminta Hall - Dot

‘OK, don’t come then, I’ll go on my own.’

‘Come on, don’t guilt trip me.’

‘Whatever. Have you asked your dad yet?’

‘Shit, I hoped you weren’t serious.’

‘Well I am.’

‘OK, I’ll do it tonight.’

‘Great.’

‘Great.’

Mavis and her parents’ supper always took place in the kitchen, even though they had a dining room, and her mother always kept the main light shining down, as if daring either of them to spill a drop. Her father was smoking at the back door when Mavis went in and her mother was worrying herself into a frenzy.

‘I think the ash is blowing in, Gerald,’ she was saying as she tried to drain the beans without splashing any unnecessary water over the pristine sink.

‘Well, if it is then I’ll sweep it up,’ he replied, raising his eyes at Mavis who pretended she hadn’t seen, sitting heavily instead in her place. Her father stubbed his cigarette against the door and threw the butt in the bin.

‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ said her mother.

‘Wouldn’t what?’ he answered.

‘It leaves marks, when you stub it on the paintwork.’

‘You’re joking, right? For Christ’s sake, Sandra, I stubbed it on the outside of the door. No one’s going to notice, except maybe a passing squirrel.’

Mavis was never going to hate anyone as much as her parents hated each other. She had to live here, but they actually chose this life. Her father pulled a bottle of wine from the rack and sat down. He was still wearing his tweed jacket, which he now shucked off, revealing another choice shirt/cardigan combo. He sniffed his wine before he drank it and Mavis hated him all the more for pretending that it wasn’t really £3.99 from Tesco.

‘Can I have a glass, Dad?’ she asked instead of the bile she wished she could vent.

He looked surprised, but checked himself, not wanting to betray the role he played of the hip music teacher. I should have been in a band, he liked to say, nearly was before family life came calling. He poured out some of the dark red fluid into Mavis’s glass but didn’t bother to offer any to his wife, who had never drunk, to Mavis’s knowledge.

The wine warmed her and so she said, ‘Oh, before I forget, Dot wants to learn piano.’

Her father looked stupidly pleased, as if he knew that the desire to appreciate music would come to everyone in the end. ‘Does she? That’s fantastic news.’

‘So, like, you’ll give her lessons?’

‘Of course. Hang on.’ He fetched his diary from the sideboard and flicked through it. ‘Mondays at five are good for me.’

‘I’ll text her.’ Mavis jabbed the message into her phone before the wine wore off, spooning her food in with the other hand.

‘You’ll spill it,’ said her mother.

‘For goodness’ sake, Sandra,’ said her father.

The phone bleeped back.

‘Looks like you’re on,’ said Mavis.

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