16
16
T HE PROBLEM IS THAT the town centre and its library are full of people who can kidnap or kill you. They can hold you up at knifepoint, fill you up with nefarious ideas, or instil in you a distaste for authority. So, no, your mum doesn’t want you to go into town by yourself. You’re still too young.
‘I just don’t want you hanging around town,’ your mum says, scrubbing the saucepan so hard it’s like she wants to erode it. ‘There are all sorts in town. I don’t want you hanging with all sorts.’
You think of the phrase ‘all sorts’. Then you think she could have just said no. She didn’t have to dismiss your suggestion so thoroughly. As far as you’re concerned, her refusal has been excessive and so unrelentingly negative that you half resolve to never ask her anything again.
Your dad comes downstairs, carrying the newspaper he was reading on the toilet.
‘Hey, Dad,’ you say forlornly, as you move the beans around your plate of breakfast.
He eyes the pair of you suspiciously. ‘What’s the matter? What’s going on?’
‘Apparently,’ you say, ‘I’m not old enough to go to the library in town by myself.’
‘That’s right,’ your mum says, pouring more washing-up liquid.
Your dad frowns. ‘I can take her,’ he says. ‘I’m going to work today anyway.’
‘But it’s Saturday,’ your mum says.
‘It’s no problem,’ your dad says, going about his leisurely I’m-leaving-the-house routine, patting his pocket to check his wallet is there, patting his other pocket to check his keys are there, then repeating these steps one more time.
‘But it’s Saturday,’ your mum repeats, louder this time.
Your dad blinks at her.
‘Why are you going to the office today?’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Got to work. It’s so busy. Hectic.’
‘But why?’
‘Work is mad these days.’
‘Mad?’
‘Yeah. Mad.’
‘You’ve never been in on a Saturday before.’
‘It’s never been this mad before.’
‘You’ve never used the word “mad” before either.’
‘Sure I have.’
‘Not like that, you haven’t.’
There is a pause. During this pause, I imagine your mum is assessing what your dad is saying. She probably wonders if it’s true that his work is busy these days, if that’s actually the reason he’s going to the office on a Saturday. She also wonders whether going to the library isn’t a big deal after all. Compared to the possibility of an extramarital affair, your solo trip to town certainly seems less of a big deal. i
‘But isn’t she too young to go into town alone? Isn’t the library full of troubled people who might—’
‘She’ll be fine.’
‘I think she’s too young.’
Your dad shrugs again. He doesn’t want to rise (or stoop) to the role of reassurance provider. He just wants to focus on his work for the day. His work is currently mad. As it happens, he’s an actuary. This means he assesses risk for a living. With regard to you and the library, he sees very little risk of harm.
‘She’ll be fine, she’ll be fine. When I was a kid, my mum and dad kicked me out of the house at nine a.m. and didn’t want me back till teatime.’
‘What did you have for lunch?’ you ask, startling your parents. Though they were literally just talking about you, you were being so quiet they had forgotten you were there.
‘I ate jam sandwiches.’
‘Where did you get them from? Did you have money?’
‘My mum gave them to me.’
‘She dropped them off?’
‘She gave them to me before I left.’
‘Ah, so she gave you, like, a packed lunch?’
‘Yes.’
You nod seriously. To you, it seems as though your dad has just divulged a crucial piece of information and, as such, you are satisfied. You file it away in your long-term memory. There it will stay, collecting metaphorical dust. Months or years or decades later, you can dust it off, air it out, and remember it fondly.
Further reading:
How to Leverage Your Library Card
100 Recipes for Jam
The Risky Route: Is the Actuarial Life for You?
Footnote
i Your dad is not having an affair or lying about where he is going. He really is going to the office to get some work done. His job is indeed currently hectic. The fact that the office is peaceful and quiet is simply an unintended perk.