Brilliant (5 page)

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Raymond. “Cool.”

And Uncle Ben shook Gloria's hand too.

“Congratulations, Gloria.”

They laughed.

“I bet it's the only time you'll ever be a runner-up,” said Uncle Ben.

CHAPTER 3

T
hey sat under the kitchen table.

They were ready.

Raymond looked at Gloria.

She nodded.

Raymond pressed the little button on the side of his watch.

They'd started. They were going for a new world record. The old one was impressive: one hour and forty-six minutes, and seventeen seconds. It was hard to imagine that they'd ever done it. But they always felt that way at the start, just after they'd crept under the table, after that excitement had worn off and the new excitement had only started. The first part was all thrills, as they'd crawled and slid their way to success. Now success—the new world record—meant doing nothing. Doing absolutely nothing, for absolutely ever. It was agony—and brilliant.

Gloria was able to drift—that was what it felt like. She'd be
sitting in exactly the same way, the grown-ups would be chatting and laughing and, after a while, their voices would feel like noise with no real meaning. She wouldn't be listening anymore, she wouldn't be curious. She wasn't asleep or even daydreaming. She was drifting—no story, no pictures or things she had to recognize or understand. She was cloudy and light, lifted by the hum of the voices. Until something would pull her back to where she was, under the table. A louder voice, a sudden laugh, a sneeze, the teapot thumped down on the table above her head. A slippered foot shooting right past her nose. She'd be wide awake, and back. She'd tap Raymond's knee and he'd show her his watch. She was often shocked at how long she'd been away.

But it took a good while for the drifting to start. She had to settle down and get used to being there, and to the way she was sitting. She had to get rid of the giddiness. She had to let it all become normal. To let her heartbeat slow down. To let this—sitting secretly under the table—become a thing that she always did.

But this time it was different. Because they—herself and Raymond—were up close to the mumbling for the first time. Usually the adults would see them, stop mumbling, and smile. But this time the adults didn't know that Raymond and Gloria were near. And they kept mumbling.

There was nothing at first. No one was talking. It was an important part of mumbling—the gaps between the mumbles. Gloria and Raymond had learned that when they'd been listening upstairs in their beds. They'd hear the actual mumbles. They'd try to make out words.

“What are they saying?”

“Don't know—Shhh.”

Then they'd stop—the mumbles, the voices, the muffled words. And they'd start again—and stop. And start. And stop again.

“Are they finished, Rayzer?”

“How would I know?”

They'd wait.

Then they'd hear another one. And another.

Now, Raymond and Gloria waited to hear the mumbles properly. This had been the usual adventure until they'd made it, safe and undetected, under the table. Then they knew, separately and together: They wanted to know what was wrong.

Gloria tapped Raymond's knee. He showed her his watch.

Two minutes and seven . . . eight . . . nine seconds.

Gloria knew she wouldn't be drifting tonight.

CHAPTER 4

P
at and Una sat at the kitchen table,
with Ben and also Una's mother. It had been one of those nights, when more bad news had been delivered.

Una was a bit sick of it. She didn't blame Ben. He was great, and it was lovely having him in the house. He was Pat's little brother, and she'd always called him her little brother-in law.

He was only a teenager when Una and Pat got married. An awkward, lanky, lovely fella—and the worst best man there'd ever been at a wedding. He'd been so nervous he'd forgotten where he'd left the ring the night before.

“Do you have the ring?” the priest had asked.

“What ring?” Ben had answered.

The laughter in the church had been gradual, a ripple that had started at the front and rolled to the back, maybe even out to the street.

“Here,” said a woman at the back. “Have mine. I'm getting divorced anyway.”

“Did you hear her?”

“Ah, that's priceless.”

By the time the wedding was over, everybody loved Ben. Including Una. And she still loved him. He'd grown out of his awkwardness and lankiness and he'd become a very sound man and a good friend.

But it was becoming too much.

No one said anything for a while. The kettle had boiled, and Una's mother was up at the counter, putting the teabags in the pot.

Una didn't know for how much longer this could keep happening. Ben was struggling—so the whole house was struggling. She felt a bit heartless, even thinking like this. But she couldn't help it.

Una's mother put the teapot on the table and sat back down with one of her famous grunts.

Una had to be careful. She didn't want to hurt Ben, or Pat. Or the kids—especially not the kids. Gloria and Raymond adored Ben. And they were right to. He was the best uncle they could possibly have. She'd never have done anything to upset them, or to make them think less of Ben—or her.

And then there was her mother. The children's granny. She'd been living with them for six years now, and it had worked out very well. She had her own little flat. Her own front door, her own little kitchenette, fridge, stove, everything she needed. But she could be a bit tricky, even difficult. Una didn't mind it too much, but her mother got on Pat's nerves. She was very good at it.

Sometimes, at night, he'd lie on the bed, stiff with annoyance.

“She could see I was watching football. She's bloody deaf, not blind.”

“She was only making conversation.”

“Is that what you call it? ‘What are you watching?' ‘The football.' ‘The what?' ‘The football.' ‘The what?' She was trying to bully me out of the room, so she could have the telly to herself. She has her own telly.”

“She just wants the company.”

“It's not company she wants,” said Pat. “It's the remote control she wants. That's her evil plan.”

“Ah, stop.”

“She knew full well it was football.”

“She knows nothing about sports,” said Una.

It wasn't really an argument. They were having a great time.

“Nothing?” said Pat. “There was a goal, right—while she's asking me what I'm watching. Messi scores this brilliant goal. And do you know what she says? ‘He was offside.'”

They were laughing, but it wasn't as easy as that. Una's mother did kind of occupy the place when she felt like it. She had her own key.

“Big mistake, big mistake.”

So she came and she went. Or, she came . . . and sometimes she went. So there was a balance—kind of. Pat got Ben, and Una got her mother. Fair and square—sometimes.

Una hated thinking like this. She hated looking at Ben and seeing a problem. She wanted to help. She wished she could do something to make him happier. She could have hugged him, but she already seemed to be hugging him three or four times a day.

Her mother broke the silence.

“That's terrible news,” she said. “Isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Una. “It is.”

Below her, the children were listening. “So,” thought Gloria, “this is mumbling.”

Una looked across at Ben again. Poor lad.

A few minutes before, he'd told them that he was closing down his painting and decorating business.

“Are you sure about this, Ben?”

Ben shrugged. “A few years ago I stopped answering the phone because I was too busy,” he said. “I couldn't keep up. But now . . . the phone never rings.”

Raymond saw his Uncle Ben's feet moving. He saw the white paint spots on the boots.

Ben stood up.

“So,” he said. “That's that.”

Gloria watched her Uncle Ben's feet walk slowly to the kitchen door. She knew by the way he moved that something sad and bad was going on. She wanted to roll out from under the table and run after him. She wasn't sure why she didn't. Maybe because her legs had gone numb. Maybe because she wasn't even sure she was thinking properly. Maybe she'd been doing her drifting.

Then something else happened—it definitely happened. Uncle Ben shut the kitchen door.

Raymond saw it too. He looked at Gloria. She was already looking at him. The kitchen door had never been closed before, not as far as Raymond or Gloria could remember. It was always left open—always. Except when the last adult went up to bed.

They looked at each other. There was no escape. But it was more important than that. The click of the closing door was like a warning sign, or a sound in a film that told you something bad or scary might be coming.

But nothing sudden happened.

The children under the table didn't move.

“Poor Ben,” said their mam.