Chapter Ten
I stumble downstairs, my head pounding with a hangover from last night. Perhaps this is why I stopped drinking Kapops, because I swear the hangover is so much worse from them.
I had a dream last night, about the mysterious Mr L. I don’t know why, because he vanished into thin air, and when I went to bed it was Si who was on my mind but, I don’t know, I just can’t seem to shake him off.
The scent of something sugary fills the air, and as I step into the kitchen, I’m greeted by – oh my God, is that blood? I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them again. Oh thank goodness, it’s just jam.
Mum and Dad are in the middle of batch-making jam, I guess? Who knew they did that? Not me, or I would have stayed hidden in my bedroom.
‘You're supposed to stir it gently, Paul!’ Mum ticks him off, her voice high-pitched with frustration.
Dad rolls his eyes.
‘I am stirring it gently, Liz,’ he replies, in a similar tone. ‘You’re the one who said to keep it moving.’
They are too busy to notice me at first, so I slump into a chair at the table, where a big pile of toast is waiting. I grab a piece, hoping it will help settle my stomach.
‘Morning, sweetheart,’ Mum says, finally noticing me. ‘If you're here, you can make yourself useful. Try some of the jams we've been making. Here’s a few we made earlier.’
‘I feel sick,’ I tell her, barely able to muster the energy to speak.
Dad glances over, raising an eyebrow.
‘You’re hungover,’ he points out. ‘Again. Toast will help. Trust me.’
Toast, maybe. Homemade jam, I don’t think so.
Reluctantly, I take a bite of toast that has been more than generously covered in jam by my mum. The sweetness hits me like a house brick, but I force a smile. ‘It’s lovely.’
Mum narrows her eyes at me.
‘You’re lying,’ she says simply, reading me like a book. ‘We should use less sugar. I told you, Paul, we need to use less sugar.’
Dad shakes his head as he stirs whatever is in the pan.
‘Liz, if we use less sugar, it won’t set properly,’ he tells her. ‘Do you really want runny jam?’
‘I want jam that doesn’t give people diabetes,’ she snaps back, brandishing a wooden spoon at him, in an alarmingly threatening manner considering this is my mum.
I take another cautious bite, trying to focus on the toast instead of the chaos.
‘It's really good, honestly,’ I insist.
Please, God, just make it stop.
Mum huffs, turning back to her jam.
‘I don’t know why I bother sometimes,’ she says under her breath.
‘Because you love me, that’s why,’ Dad tells her and, honestly, I think this makes her even more mad.
I stare down at my toast, wondering how long I can last in this madhouse. The chaos, the constant bickering, and the endless fucking jams are enough to drive anyone crazy.
‘Could we try using honey instead of sugar?’ Mum wonders out loud.
Dad sighs dramatically.
‘Liz, if we start changing everything, we’ll never get it done,’ he tells her. ‘Let’s just stick to the recipe.’
‘But it’s too sweet,’ Mum insists.
‘You’re too sensitive,’ Dad replies.
I look between them as they bicker, my head pounding even more.
I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with this.