“They’ll not be welcome here again,” says Dad as we watch
the convoy of cars speed away.
They approach the bend, their brake lights flashing red like
devil eyes. I wish I could believe Dad but I can’t. So I scrunch mine shut,
willing our departing guests to crash and die. When I open them again, the cars
have disappeared. Dad sighs heavily.
“Shall I start with the sitting room?” I ask.
“Most definitely not after last year’s fiasco,” says Dad.
‘You can start on the top floor. I’ve already had a quick look and it’s not too
bad, considering."
I drag my feet along
the corridor, slowing outside the sitting room door, my hand reaching for the
door knob.
“Ryan James!” says Dad, smacking my hand away. “We’ve got a
lot to do before your mother’s home.”
“What if I find another?”
“Pick it up with a
plastic bag and put it in the wheelbarrow at the bottom of the garden. I’ll
dispose of it as soon as I get a chance. Now, don’t forget to wear gloves. Work
your way around and we’ll meet on the first floor.”
“On my own? But that’s six bedrooms... five en-suites.”
“Less complaining and more cleaning, young man. Your
mother’s back at 6pm and you know how upset she got last time.”
I stomp up the stairs. How could I forget? The screaming.
The tears. Then the side effects from the anti-depressants.
“She shouldn’t go on her stupid anniversary trip then should
she?” I shout.
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