Dad complained that there was a new man sharing his office at Clevely and Son and he wanted them to switch to a new type of spreadsheet package. Dad was quite happy with the one they used, he didn’t want to have to start fathoming out something else, but Mr Clevely was ‘thinking about it’.
‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’ Mum said and doled out the rest of the pie.
Emma told them she’d had to go to the police.
‘Causing an obstruction, eh?’ Dad quipped, his eyes hard and bright.
‘I saw the student who was stabbed and the other boy, the one in the coma.’ She told them what had happened, quickly, so he wouldn’t make any nasty comments.
Her mum was shocked; she’d seen all about it on the news. She wanted to know if they’d caught anyone. Emma told her no.
‘It’s awful, that,’ her mum said. ‘He was from a good family and everything. It was right outside his house. Oh, Emma, I never liked you being in Manchester, and now this.’
Her dad snorted. ‘It’s everywhere these days, woman. And if you do have a go, half the time it’s you’ll get arrested. Charged with assault. People screaming human rights, never mind who the bad guy is. What rights did that student have?’
‘Disgraceful,’ her mother agreed. ‘Ted, next door but one, saw some kids knocking over wheelie bins, making a right mess. He rang the police, and do you know what they said? They didn’t have the resources to send anyone round, but if Ted wanted to, he could go down to the station and make a complaint. We’re thinking of setting up a Home Watch.’
‘Improve your house and contents premiums,’ Emma, on safer ground, told them.
They watched a documentary about rogue builders; it was shocking, it really was. Emma couldn’t stay awake any longer. Mum told her to take some paracetamol and drink some orange juice.
She slept fitfully. Her throat felt like she was gargling ground glass; she was sweating and throwing the duvet off, then she’d get really cold and shivery. She couldn’t stop coughing and spluttering, and she felt like someone had stuffed her head with sand.
Christmas Day was just like every year: drinks before lunch, presents after. All done in time for the Queen’s speech.
Emma talked to them about her work and told them that her last appraisal had been the best yet but there was a freeze on pay rises at the moment because of the financial situation. That set Dad off on his soapbox about government spending and benefit cheats, until Mum asked him to change the record. But she said it in a nice way, laughing, and he didn’t jump down her throat.
On Boxing Day they always went to her aunt and uncle’s. They had a bigger house and her nan lived with them now. They’d made the dining room into a bedroom for her and put in a downstairs shower. Nan was much worse. She kept calling Emma Claire. Emma hadn’t a clue who Claire was until Mum explained she had been Nan’s sister and died in her twenties of complications after an operation. Nan’s teeth had mostly gone and she had new hearing aids that made a swooping, whistling noise that set Emma’s teeth on edge.
Her auntie wasn’t any great shakes as a cook: the beef was leathery and the Christmas pud, which she did in the microwave – ‘Do you remember they used to take forever on the stove?’ – was so tiny they got like a teaspoon each with lumpy brandy sauce.
Emma’s uncle got a bit drunk and wanted to show them a DVD of a cruise they’d taken in the spring. Emma was glad when Nan became agitated and insisted they put the proper telly back on. Thank God they could leave early with Emma being poorly.
Her mum never said a word about Emma’s weight. Not once in all the time she was home. Usually she’d tell her she looked well or she was looking trimmer or even ask if she was still dieting. Emma took the silence as confirmation that what she’d suspected all year was true. She was still gaining. She just kept getting bigger, and nothing worked.
The two Kims were like straws, could eat anything and never put on weight. Laura was bigger but still only size 14. She would exercise more, Emma promised herself. She couldn’t afford a gym, but she would get into the habit of taking the train both ways to work and walking through town. She wasn’t going to just give up. And she’d have to be a lot bigger to qualify for gastric-band surgery. Meanwhile it was impossible not to eat over the holiday; the fridge was stuffed with food, so she just got on with it. Tucked in with the rest of them.
