Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

It feels too hot to be laying turf. It’s like saying that the best way to freeze an ice cream is by putting it into an oven. Too scared to tell this to Dad, though. He busts a gut with the clearing, cleaning and laying; huffing and puffing all the more because he isn’t sure about what he’s doing, and making me go on drink runs every ten minutes. By the time the day is out he’s gone through a five-litre water bottle, which takes me a long time to carry back and forth to the fridge because it’s so heavy, and ten tall bottles of Stella. That is some thirst.

‘I’m a working man, my Veerapen,’ he goes. ‘I need a drink.’

‘But I’m tired.’

He lets me have a sneaky sip of the Stella when Mum gets bored overseeing the makeover, and goes indoors.

Now the garden is fixed, Dad waters his plot religiously morning and evening. On the nights when he doesn’t come home, Mum takes over. But none of this can stop the afternoon sun from doing its worst. The scorched patches that soon appear are first shrieked over, and then, when calmer, watered with more attention, and then, when that fails, discreetly ignored. By next weekend we’ll have a fully functional lawn all right, only charred to a crisp, with blades sharp enough to cut our legs to shreds.

Once Mum is safely out of the way, Dad drives us to Sainsburys to stock up on junk. For me, that means Pringles, cheese string and all the Milky Bar buttons I can fit into the basket. Dad goes for all the spicy stuff Mum doesn’t let him have because it irritates his belly — jalapeno peppers, chorizo and a giant jar of Indian pickle, which he will feast on with one big spoon. The kind of mix that will keep him on the pot for the next three days, but neither of us care. Right now, the afternoon ahead is all about pleasure.

I might be eight and look ten, but I’m not grown-up enough to stop holding Dad’s hand as we wander around the aisles, or too old for Funny Feet ice creams, which he tosses onto the conveyer at the last minute. There’s something nice and safe about holding Dad’s hand and swinging our arms as we walk back to the car; swinging and laughing over the thick girl at the checkout because she gave Dad change for a twenty instead of a ten. And Dad being Dad, he wasn’t going to pull her up about it.

‘I thought you’re supposed to be a lawyer,’ I say, once we’ve reached the far end of the car park, safely out of sight. ‘Honesty is the best policy, and all that?’

‘Course it is,’ he goes, ‘but you saw how stupid that girl was. If they’re going to employ a thicko, they can’t complain when the till doesn’t add up at the end of the day.’

Dad has no time for shop people. It’s where him and Mum differ. She can happily talk to the woman behind the till all day, but then Mum’s a very chatty woman, when you catch her in the right mood. Dad, on the other hand, can barely hide his contempt and keeps all conversation to a minimum.

‘These shopworkers are too pushy these days, with their friendly-friendly “Call me by my first name” nonsense. All this pretending to be friends,’ he once complained to Mum after a particularly chatty session at Dickens and Jones when the pair of them went to look for a new hoover, and left an hour later. ‘Shop people should employ the same code as servants, as far as I’m concerned. Speak only when they’re spoken to.’

‘Says the man from Mauritius,’ laughs Mum, giving him a hug and ruffling his hair, which he hates. ‘Such snobbery! And where did you learn that? On your twenty-acre estate?’

Dad tuts and disappears into his study (the dining room). He hates any reference to his poor childhood. If anyone asks, we’re landowners.

I’m still worried about the checkout girl. Think about it for most of the ride home.

‘S’pose she gets into trouble?’

‘ Suppose who gets into trouble? Speak properly, Veerapen!’

‘I’m supposing about the girl at the supermarket. Maybe we should give her the money back.’

He gives this laugh, this loud hiccup thing that I hate. Goes on for ever. Means that I’m being a baby.

‘Forget it, my Veerapen! These big supermarkets can afford the odd loss here and there. In fact, they build a loss in. If we didn’t take this money, they might not reach their loss target, and then someone would really be out of a job.’

‘OK,’ I go. Taking his word for it, like I take his word for everything. He’s my dad. He’s the law.

‘But are we going to tell Mum?’

He laughs again, like I’m suffering from insania.

‘Absolutely not!’

We take out the ladder and climb onto the garage roof. It’s either hang out here or stay indoors, what with the garden, and I like the idea of having lunch on the roof. I bet Jason’s never done it. We can eat our naughty food and then lie on the black-gone-grey asphalt, prickly rather than scratchy when you first sit on it, and fry like eggs — Dad’s words, not mine. Getting the food up is tricky, as Dad insists on using a tray (Mum’s influence), meaning that I spill the drinks as he passes them to me at the top of the ladder and get shouted at. I want to cry, or sulk at least, but that only lasts for a minute. The weather’s too good, and it’s an afternoon of just me and my dad, and no irritating woman company.

We sit over the door with our food, dangling our feet over the edge. Dicing with death. This must be what it feels like for people who jump out of buildings, except they probably don’t have cheese string and Funny Feet. Only tears. They probably aren’t wearing Buzz Lightyear flip-flops either. The flips themselves are kinda gay, but the Buzz picture on the soles are boss, that’s why I’m wearing them. Jason takes the piss every time he sees me wear them, which is every day, but he’s only jealous because I got them first. His feet have been sweating it out in a pair of Reebok all summer. They must stink.

Dad is also sweating like a pig, but that may be because he’s eaten most of a microwaved chorizo and a jar of Indian pickle. He joins me on the Funny Feet. Him on his first, me on my second. I follow his moves, biting the big toe in one large chunk, and then nibbling the shorties; Dad making both of us laugh by pretending they’re Mum’s corny, bunioned feet.

Everything feels the greatest it’s ever felt. I’m with my dad up on the roof, tops off and getting tanned, and now each of us on our second Funny Feet. He doesn’t disappear off into the house for the rest of the afternoon with the woman who later turns out to be the optician for another hour. Leaving me on the roof, ladder tucked away so I can’t get down, until I fall asleep and get sunburnt, and for Mum to find me and go mental. That’s all to come later. Up until then, living at tree height, sun shining, eating our favourite food, making fun of the women in our lives, it doesn’t get better than this.

Me and Jason are being thrown out of the mall for being lairy. This is Surrey, so it’s done in a very polite way. There’s no one to say you’re out of order or anti-social, especially if you’ve got brown skin or look halfway poor. Those kind of confrontations make everyone uncomfortable. We’re booted out for causing a nuisance and upsetting the old people. The security guy who escorts us out is an all right bloke actually, and quite apologetic, like it’s going to break our hearts if we can’t poke our heads back into Dickins and Jones or Clintons.

‘Sorry, lads, but you can’t stay in the centre any longer. You’ve made it impossible, I’m afraid. The police are already on their way.’

‘You can’t ban me, mate. I work here,’ goes Jase, flashing his Tesco pass in the guy’s face, back and forth like he’s performing a magic memory trick.