Around three in the morning I gave it up as a bad job, Tiptoeing in bare feet to the bathroom, I did the usual morning things, and then went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. I had just taken my first sip when I heard a noise and turned around to see Bob standing there, watching me.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said apologetically, as though it were a crime.
“Well, neither could I,” he replied, rubbing his eyes, which looked naked without his spectacles. “I could hear you tossing and turning.”
“Uh, sorry about that.” I found myself looking at Bob, not as a cousin, but as a young man. Standing there with his hair out in spikes and his T shirt hanging half out of his shorts, he looked appealingly vulnerable, and, suddenly, very desirable. I felt almost impelled to step forward, hug him, and kiss him on the lips. How would he ever react if I did that? I felt my cheeks warm with a blush, and quickly turned away, reaching for the electric kettle. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
It turned out that he did.
**********************************************************
Over breakfast my mother made an announcement. “Fiona and I are going to the old house,” she said. “We’re going to look it over and make…arrangements…for its disposal.” She shot a look of positive hatred over the table at Bob’s mum, who sipped at her cocoa demurely and didn’t even bother to look up. “We’ll have to talk to a solicitor and real estate agents. We’ll be away the rest of the week.”
“You two aren’t going along,” my aunt said, licking a smear of cocoa off her lip. “It’s just the two of us.”
My eyes were burning with sleep and I had a hard time taking in their words, but I realised that they didn’t want us listening in on their arguments. “So when are you leaving?” I asked.
“Right away,” my mother said. “There’s enough food to last you a couple of days, and after that you can go shopping. There’s money in my drawer. If you have any emergencies you can contact Fiona’s mobile. Emergencies only, mind.” This was back when few people had mobile phones and one had to pay to receive calls.
“Bob has the number,” my aunt informed me. “Don’t look so stricken, Juliana, you’ll be fine.” I wasn’t looking stricken, I was looking exhausted, and trying hard to suppress a yawn.
At last, at around eleven in the morning – my mother’s “right aways” never were – they left. “Your lunch is in the fridge,” my mother called over her shoulder. “All you need to do is heat it.” Well, that saved me from having to cook. To this day I hate cooking.
After they’d gone, I decided to have a shower and then try to sleep for a bit in my own room. Bob was already nose deep in a thick book, and as I walked to the bathroom I stopped long enough to tilt it up for a look at the cover. It was, I saw with surprise, Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf.
“What’s this?” I asked, grinning. “You’re thinking of becoming a Nazi? And here I was assuming that you were left wing. Next thing I know you’ll get a swastika tattoo.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “It’s important to know what something is before you can oppose it. It’s a fascinating primer on the philosophy of fascism. Though,” he added, “it’s incredibly badly written. I don’t know how anyone ever published it.”
“Probably because they’d have had their heads broken if they didn’t,” I said, ruffled his hair, and walked on to the bathroom, grinning. Any other boy his age would probably have been reading some trashy “action” novel (Alastair Maclean was still someone teenagers read then, for instance, as was James Hadley Chase). Only my cousin was bright and inquisitive enough to read something like the long-dead dictator of the Third Reich’s political memoirs. Again, I realised that he was no longer a child but a young man, and like the morning it brought a flutter somewhere inside my chest. But that flutter was overtaken by a huge yawn. Stripping, I showered quickly, wrapped myself in a towel, went to my room, threw the towel on a chair, fell into bed and within minutes was asleep.
(By the way, a decade later I finally read Mein Kampf, and it was an appallingly badly written but eye opening insight into the fascist mindset. Bob was right about that…again.)
I woke suddenly in the mid afternoon, from some dream of a shadowy figure standing over me, looking down silently. Rays of sunshine leaking through the blind were falling on the far wall, but were nowhere near the bed. Rubbing my eyes, I dressed – a T shirt and tracksuit bottoms, good enough for home – and went to the living room. Bob was still there, reading his book.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Let’s have lunch.”
“All right,” He glanced at me and away quickly. “If you want.”
I frowned. There was something different in his manner, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Maybe it was something in the Hitler book, something that he was trying to understand. Maybe we could talk about it later, I decided, going over to the kitchen and putting things in the microwave. By the time I’d finished, Bob had come to the kitchen and was standing watching me. “Juliana,” he said suddenly.
I looked up from putting plates on the little dining table. “Yeah?”
“Uh…nothing. Forget it.” He didn’t seem to be able to look me in the eye. “The food looks good.”
I hadn’t even taken the food out of the microwave, but let it go. The food was good, prawn and noodles with cheese. There are many things wrong with my mother, but she has always been a great cook. And there was enough not just for lunch, but for dinner as well.
We ate. Bob still wouldn’t quite meet me in the eye. “Help me wash up,” I said after we’d finished. He did, without a word. He was still silent when we went back to the living room. I finally nudged his shin with my bare toes.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong? Did you get some bad news or something?”
“No,” he muttered. “What bad news could I get?” I was trying to think of what to say next when the doorbell rang. Frowning, I went to the door.
There were a couple I didn’t know. Young, early twenties, the young man in a suit, the woman in a light cream-coloured dress. “Er,” he said, “I was wondering if we could use your phone. We’re, uh…” (Once again, remember, this was the 1990s and not everyone had a mobile phone.)
“What my husband wants to say,” the girl added, holding his arm possessively, “is that our car broke down, and we’ll need someone who can fix them to come and take a look.” She smiled widely. “It’s our honeymoon. We’ve just got married, and if we can’t fix the car, well, our first day as a married couple and all…”
“Yes, of course,” I said, standing aside hurriedly. “You can call whoever you need, but I’ve no idea of any garage’s phone number. Um, there’s a telephone book, so…”
“Car trouble?” It was Bob, speaking over my shoulder. “I could have a look if you want.”
I blinked, astonished. “You know about cars?” I whispered to him, pulling him down the passage a short distance.
“Yes, I’ve been working part time at a garage on weekends. If they have a tool kit in their car I could probably fix it.”
“Right.” I went back to the door, where the couple was waiting. “If you don’t mind, we have a suggestion. Bob here knows about cars and he could fix yours for you.”
They looked at each other, then at him, and seemed favourably impressed. “It’s down at the corner,” the girl said.
“Right, I’ll come with you.” Bob pushed past me and went down the path.
“I’ll come, too. Just let me put on shoes.” However, I couldn’t find any footwear in a hurry, and by the time I’d ferreted out a pair of slippers and got down to the street, Bob and the young man had got the bonnet up and my cousin was poking at the engine. The girl looked round as I walked up.
“We’re so lucky we found you,” she said. “Your boyfriend says he can fix it.”
“He’s…” I began, about to say ‘He’s not my boyfriend’, but then some impulse took over. “Yes, he’s good.” I glanced at her. “In everything,” I added. From the first moment I’d seen her clutching her husband’s arm, I hadn’t liked her at all. The way she’d kept talking about their honeymoon put my back up, and I had an impulse to show that I wasn’t exactly lacking in company between my legs either. To my satisfaction, I saw her blink.
“Ah, yes.” She glanced at the car and back at me. “I’m Valentina, and my husband is Errol.” (Actually, these could even be their real names. After all these years I have absolutely no memory of what they were called.) She began talking about where they were from, how they’d met, and repeated about nine times that they’d only got married this morning and that this was their honeymoon. I didn’t listen to most of it, and I don’t remember any of it now, except that they were headed for the coast and wanted to make their destination, some resort town or other, by tonight. “How’s it going, dear?” she called eventually.
Her husband, who was a lot nicer-looking than she was, glanced over his shoulder at us. “Almost done, Bob says.” As though in response, my cousin straightened up and nodded to him. “Try it now.”
Errol walked round to the driver’s side, leaned in and turned on the ignition. The engine turned over and caught with a rumble. “Hey, it works,” he exclaimed.
“I told you,” I said to Valentina. “My boyfriend can make anything work.”
Bob looked at me and for a moment I was afraid he was going to spill the beans, but he just snorted. “Not anything,” he told her, slamming down the car bonnet. “Not even nearly anything.”
“Well, she’s lucky to have you, anyway,” Valentina said. “What do we owe you?”
“Owe us? Nothing,” Bob and I said together.
“Oh, but we must give you something,” Errol said. He hunted around inside the car and fished out a couple of wine bottles. They were tall, bulbous and dark. “I’m sure you’ll like these.”
My mother would have had a fit if alcohol had entered the house, but my mother wasn’t here. “Thanks so much,” I said, taking them from him. “Happy honeymoon.”
“And we hope you have as good a time together tonight as we will,” Valentina said, winking.
As they drove away, we walked back to the house. “What was that about my being your boyfriend?”
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