Lisa Owens - Not Working

Dad twists his wedding band, mouth in a line.

I say, “You know what? You don’t have to answer. You’re in a difficult position. You’ve probably only heard her version anyway.” I scoop up another round of batter.

“If I’d—” He stops, starts again. “Claire, if I had known at the time what was going on, I would have found it very difficult—”

“Which is why I never said anything! I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

He clears his throat, still twisting the ring. “I hadn’t finished. I would have found it very difficult not to give the old bastard a war wound he’d have been in no hurry to show off.”

I laugh, looking up at the ceiling so that the pooling tears won’t spill. Dad slaps his hands on the table.

“Now! If you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and check that our hairy colleague hasn’t defecated in the hall.”

Before Mum comes home, we clean up the kitchen: I wash; Dad dries, in accordance with age-old tradition. Afterward, we have some bread and soup to soak up some of the alcohol. Hearing pounding at the door, we look at each other, and get up to open it together. Sue Thompson is standing with an empty lead in her hand, craning her neck to look down the street.

“Sue! We were just about to call,” Dad improvises. I look at him admiringly: who knew he had it in him? “We’ve had a visit from your little furry fellow. Claire, why don’t you go and—” but Sue’s already marched in past us.

—

“Where did you find her?” she demands in the kitchen, crouched by the dog but fixing us each in turn with a blunt, unrelenting gaze from behind her glasses.

“Out the back,” says Dad. “We were going to call, but then you showed up.”

I nod, obediently, corroboratively, sidestepping to block the beer cans from Sue’s view.

“I’ve been out in the car, searching all over, and was about to give up but thought I’d knock on doors just in case…” She draws her eyebrows together. “Did you say you only found her just now?”

“Is Hazelnut a Labrador ?” I ask, before Sue can get too intimate with the timeline.

She allows a smile. “Labrador retriever.”

Hazelnut wanders over to Dad, sitting alert but very still at his feet.

“She’s lovely,” I say. “I’m not really a dog person”—Sue’s smile falters a tiny bit—“but she’s…really great.”

“You might have heard she’s getting an award next Monday,” says Sue, pronouncing it “Mundy.”

“Really? A dog-show sort of thing?”

She looks affronted. “A Community Spirit Award. From the mayor?”

“Wow,” I say, not daring to look at Dad. “That’s wonderful. I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Ceremony at the town hall. Everyone welcome. Mundy at four.” Her head periscopes from me to Dad and back again. “Evan’s giving a reading of a poem he’s written specially.”

“What a talented family,” I say.

“That…sounds like a very…unique…occasion,” Dad manages.

“Well, she is very unique.” Sue explains that in her dotage, Hazelnut has become a locally renowned and much-loved assistance dog, who divides her time (and Sue’s) between old people’s homes, primary schools and libraries, spreading cheer among the immobile, shy and lonely folk in the local community.

“I hope I’m never up against Hazelnut for a job. Her resume blows mine out of the water,” I say.

“Well,” Sue says, not contradicting me, “it’s a gift she has, really, an extraordinary way of seeking out the people most in need. You either have it or you don’t.” She gives a helpless shrug. I glance across at Dad, who is frowning down at his feet, absently stroking Hazelnut’s glossy head. In the heel of one of his socks, a tiny perfect circle of flesh glows white through the worn gray fabric.

At the sound of Mum’s key in the door, Dad and I lift our drinks in solidarity.

“Did you have any luck with the missing bin lid — Oh.” She stops, seeing me, the drinks, the cake. “A party.”

“Surprise!” I hug her.

“What are you doing here?” She pulls away, taking in my leggings, Luke’s jumper and (eyes lingering at head level) the Christmas-cracker crown I’d forgotten all about. Sue Thompson must have thought we were the crazy ones. “Interesting outfit. Did you have an accident?” she says.

“We’ve been baking!”

“And drinking, I see,” she says, stepping toward the cake.

“Well, Dad baked. I did the icing.”

“Okay. Is it supposed to be a…snowman?”

“It’s supposed to be a fruitcake. But it got burnt.”

“ Excuse me,” says Dad. “All that happened was, the top browned at an exponential rate vis-à-vis the remainder.”

“You’re home early,” Mum says to Dad, in an uncharacteristically non-accusatory way that makes me suspect she’s already assumed the worst.

“Yes,” he says.

She sits down still wearing her coat: I always hated this when I was a child, fearful she might take off again at any moment and never come back.

“What happened?” She closes her eyes. “Don’t tell me: McKinnon. You let him have it.”

“In a nutshell.”

“How bad?” she says, opening her eyes. “Wait, I think I need a drink first. ‘It looks like rain, dear.’ What’s this?” She’s picked up the small strip of paper from the kitchen table. Somehow it’s survived the clear-up.

“Christmas-cracker joke,” says Dad, mixing her a very potent-looking gin and tonic. “Not a good one, but there you are.”

“I have one,” I say, “I think. Hang on.” I straighten my crown while I settle on the wording. “Okay. ‘What…’ No, ‘ How does an Inuit fix his broken roof?’ ”

“Don’t know,” says Dad.

“What’s an Inuit?” says Mum.

“Eskimo,” I say impatiently.

“Oh, an Eskimo, ” echoes Mum, nodding. The ice cubes in her drink ring against the glass.

“But you know that’s not really PC? The right term is Eskimo .” I simply can’t resist the gift-wrapped opportunity for a little lesson in cultural sensitivity.

“You just said Eskimo was offensive.”

“It is. What? You’re confusing me. Inuit’s the correct term.” I’m drunk. “Do you want to hear the punch line?”

“I can’t remember the beginning now,” says Mum. “Remind me?” She closes her eyes and leans forward, cupping her ear.

“ ‘How does an Inuit fix his broken roof?’ ”

“Don’t know,” says Dad.

“Well, no, hang on,” says Mum, “we can work this out. It’ll be an igloo, won’t it, so it’s got to be something to do with ice…or snow…” Her eyes pop. “I bet I know!” She points at me. “He covers it snow-ver.”

“Nope,” I say, “that’s not it.”

Mum looks at Dad in disbelief. “Well, I can’t imagine what it is, then.”

I grin at one then the other in anticipation. “Shall I tell you?”

“Yes,” says Dad.

“No!” says Mum. She ponders for a few more seconds, moving her lips, though I think she’s just reciting ‘covers it snow-ver.’ “Okay, go on, then.”

“ ‘ Igloos it back together!’ ”

“Huh,” says Dad, after a few seconds.

“Igloos. It back. Together.” Mum turns the words over stiltedly, completely destroying the cadence. “No”—she shakes her head—“I’m sorry, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Dad gets it.”

“ Do you?” she says, turning to him, astonished.

Dad nods. “It’s fine. No worse than that other one. Oh, there’s a job for you, Claire: cracker-pack jokes. Someone must have to write them.”