Mark Haddon - A Spot Of Bother

Jamie realized that something rather serious was going on here, and sat up a little straighter. “The cancer’s come back?”

“I’m frightened, Jamie. Very frightened. Of dying. Of cancer. Pretty much constantly. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat.”

“Have you talked to Mum?”

“I’ve been getting on her nerves a tad,” said his father. “Not able to help out much. Really do need to sit down in a quiet room. On my own.”

Jamie wanted to lean across and stroke his father, the way you might stroke a worried dog. It was a peculiar urge, and probably not a wise move. He said, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well, yes there is,” said his father, brightening noticeably. “You see, the thing is, I really can’t go to the wedding.”

“What?”

“I can’t go to the wedding.”

“But you have to go to the wedding,” said Jamie.

“Do I?” said his father, weakly.

“Of course you do,” said Jamie. “You’re the father of the bride.”

His father thought about this. “You’re absolutely right, of course.”

There was a brief pause, then his father began to cry.

Jamie had never seen his father cry before. He’d never seen an old man of any kind cry. Except on television, during wars. It made him feel seasick and scared and sad and he had to fight back the temptation to tell his father that he didn’t need to come to the wedding. Though if he did that Katie wouldn’t talk to either of them for the rest of their natural lives.

Jamie got off his chair and squatted in front of his father. “Dad. Look.” He rubbed his father’s forearm. “We’re all on your side. And we’ll all be there to hold your hand. When you get inside the marquee you can knock back a few glasses of wine…It’ll be all right. I promise.”

His father nodded.

“Oh, and I’ll have a word with Mum,” said Jamie. “Tell her you need some peace and quiet.”

He stood up. His father was in a world of his own. Jamie touched his shoulder. “You OK?”

His father looked up. “Thank you.”

“Give me a shout if you need anything,” said Jamie.

He walked out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind him, then went to look for his mother.

He was walking down the stairs, however, when he glanced into his old room and noticed suitcases on the bed. Because he was thinking about his father’s mental well-being he didn’t really consider the implications of the suitcases until he met his mother in the hallway holding a stack of clean flannels.

“Mum, listen, I’ve just been talking to Dad and…”

“Yes…?”

Jamie paused, working out what he wanted to say and how to phrase it. And while he was doing this another part of his brain considered the implications of the suitcases and he heard himself saying, “Those suitcases in my room…”

“What about them?”

“Who’s staying in there?”

“Eileen and Ronnie,” said his mother.

“And I’m staying…?”

“We’ve found you a nice bed-and-breakfast in Yarwell.”

It was at this point that Jamie threw an uncharacteristic wobbly. And he knew it was the wrong moment to throw a wobbly, but there was not a lot he could do about it.

Jean was lookingfor Jamie. To make up for all that hoo-ha in the kitchen. To say how sad she was that Tony wasn’t coming to the wedding.

She bumped into him coming down the stairs. And clearly no one had told him about Eileen and Ronnie staying in his room.

Jean was going to explain that she’d spent a long and rather embarrassing morning in the library in town finding a special bed-and-breakfast where he and Tony would not feel out of place. She was rather proud of having done this and she’d expected Jamie to feel grateful. But he was not in the mood for feeling grateful.

“You just didn’t want Tony and me sleeping in this house, did you?”

“It’s not like that, Jamie.”

“I’m your son, for God’s sake.”

“Please, Jamie, not so loud. And in any case now that Tony’s not here-”

“Yeh, that’s solved all your problems, hasn’t it.”

A door opened somewhere nearby and the two of them went quiet.

Ray, Katie and Jacob appeared at the head of the stairs. Luckily they seemed not to have heard the argument.

“Ah, Jamie,” said Ray, “just the bloke we were looking for.”

“I colored in a Power Ranger,” said Jacob, holding up a magazine.

“We need a favor,” said Katie.

“What sort of favor?” asked Jamie, who was clearly annoyed at being interrupted in the middle of an argument.

Ray said, “Katie and I are going out for a meal, and Jean’s meeting up with her brother. We wondered if you’d mind babysitting Jacob.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m not staying here tonight,” said Jamie, turning to Jean with a sarcastic smile.

“Maybe your father can look after Jacob,” said Jean, trying to deflect attention away from Jamie. “I think it’s about time he rolled up his sleeves and did something useful round here.”

“Jesus, no,” said Jamie.

“Jamie,” said Jean. “Your language.”

“That’s naughty-naughty,” said Jacob.

“I’ll look after Jacob,” said Jamie. “Sorry. Forget what I said about not being here. Wasn’t thinking straight. Sorry. No problem. Come on, little man, let’s have a look at your Power Ranger.”

“It’s Yellow Ranger,” said Jacob.

And the two of them headed upstairs together.

“What was that all about?” asked Katie.

“Oh nothing,” said Jean. “So, where are you going for supper? Or is it a big surprise?”

Halfway through their mealRay started glancing at his watch.

Katie pointed out that a gentleman shouldn’t really do this during a candlelit dinner with his fiancée. Ray was apologetic, but not quite apologetic enough. He clearly thought it was funny, which it wasn’t, and Katie was torn between getting genuinely angry and not wanting to have a public row the night before their wedding.

A few minutes before nine o’clock, however, Ray leaned across the table and took hold of both her hands and said, “I bought you a present.”

And Katie said, “Uh-huh,” being a bit noncommittal because of the time-checking, but also because Ray was not brilliant at presents.

Ray didn’t say anything.

“So…?” asked Katie.

Ray held up his finger, meaning Wait, or Be quiet . And this was odd, too.

“OK,” said Katie.

Ray looked toward the window, so Katie looked toward the window, and Ray said, “Five, four, three, two, one,” and absolutely nothing happened for a few seconds, and Ray said, “Shit,” quietly and then fireworks erupted from the field next to the restaurant, fizzy white snakes, purple sea urchins, yellow starbursts, weeping willows of incandescent green light. And those whumps like someone hitting cardboard boxes with a golf club that took her straight back to bonfires and baked potatoes in silver foil and the smell of sparkler smoke.

Everyone in the restaurant was watching, and each explosion was followed by a little ooh or aah from somewhere in the room, and Katie said, “So this is…”

“Yup.”

“Jesus, Ray, this is amazing.”

“You’re welcome,” said Ray, who wasn’t watching the fireworks at all, but watching her face watching the fireworks. “It was either this or Chanel No. 5. I thought you’d prefer this.”

Jean seldom sawDouglas and Maureen. Partly because they lived in Dundee. And partly because…well, to be frank, because Douglas was a bit like Ray. Only more so. He ran a haulage company for starters. One of those large men who are excessively proud of having no airs and graces.