Pizza Cake Read online

  I look around the room again.

  I’m gobsmacked. I can’t even find the words to tell Mum and Dad how gobsmacked I am.

  ‘We’ve been planning this for a while,’ says Mum. ‘Since we found out who Charles Rennie Mackintosh was, and realised we’d put you right in it.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘That’s why I’ve been spending so much time in the shed,’ says Dad.

  I’ve been wondering. I hoped he was inventing underpants that filtered smells, but I thought he was probably just watching football on his very old iBook.

  ‘When we saw how beautiful Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s designs are,’ says Mum, ‘we wanted to show you. So you’ll feel better about your name.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say quietly.

  I mean it.

  I notice a big book on the dining table. On the cover is a photo of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s white living room, like the pictures Mr Pugh showed us.

  The book is called Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Architect, Artist, Icon. I don’t know what an icon is, but I can see he was quite a bit better at it than Mum and Dad.

  His living room paint was more of a soft glowing yellowy-white with no brush hairs stuck in it. His rugs and curtains had beautiful delicate patterns with no paint splotches. And his furniture didn’t have a single nail showing.

  But I don’t care, because what Mum and Dad have done is a very loving thing, plus it must have cost a packet.

  ‘Do you like it?’ says Mum.

  I nod and give them both a hug.

  I wonder if the first Charles Rennie Mackintosh had great parents too.

  ‘Read it?’ says Jane Austen, looking suspicious. ‘Why?’

  I glance around to make sure nobody can see us here behind the bike shelter. I push the library book into her hands.

  ‘So you’ll feel better about your name,’ I say.

  She stares at the book.

  ‘Pride And Prejudice,’ she says. ‘I don’t even know what that means, do I?’

  ‘Just give it a try,’ I say. ‘I’ve read the intro. It’s quite interesting.’

  Jane has a sudden thought.

  She stares at me, horrified.

  ‘Did you get this from the school library?’ she says.

  I nod.

  ‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘I’m knackered, innit.’

  I know what she’s worried about.

  ‘Relax,’ I say. ‘It’s the only Jane Austen book in the whole library. It hasn’t been borrowed for about eight years. Nobody else here has read it. Your secret’s safe.’

  She looks doubtful.

  ‘I’m not much of a reader,’ she mutters. ‘I’m well slow.’

  ‘Give it a try,’ I say. ‘I read a book last night about Charles Rennie Mackintosh, and I’m feeling a bit better already.’

  I don’t say anything about Mum and Dad redecorating the living room. Jane’s mum might not be able to do that. The local council probably won’t let you put eighteenth-century Tudor beams in a modern house.

  Jane is staring at the book.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says. ‘Ta, anyway.’

  In English I let out a big one.

  I don’t mean to. I never do. They just creep up and then, whoosh, too late.

  Everyone sniggers.

  We’re doing verbs. To teach. To learn. To snigger. Those sorts of words. That’s probably what caused it. The stress of knowing exactly what people will mutter if I do one.

  They’re starting now.

  ‘To woof.’

  ‘To blatt.’

  ‘To fluff.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ says Mr Bailey in a weary voice without turning round from the board.

  ‘To fumigate.’

  Bang.

  There’s a sound from the back of the room like a gunshot.

  We all turn round.

  Jane is sitting at her desk, her hands on the book I gave her. She must have just slammed it down.

  She glares at the other kids.

  ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged,’ she says, ‘that a bunch of idiots who spout the bleeding obvious must be in want of a brain.’

  We all stare at her.

  We look at Mr Bailey.

  Mr Bailey is staring at her too.

  Then he grins.

  ‘Well said, Jane,’ he chuckles. ‘Very well said.’

  After Jane looked out for me in class like that, the least I can do is invite her and her mum round to our place for tea.

  I explain to Mum and Dad it will have to be Saturday because Jane’s mum works late at the video store during the week.

  ‘Jane Austen?’ Mum says. ‘Like the writer?’

  I nod.

  ‘Better have cucumber sandwiches with our chips then,’ says Mum with a grin. ‘Like they did in the eighteenth century.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say.

  Mum sees I’m not joking.

  I look forward to it all week.

  It’s only now I’m realising how it could all turn into a disaster. If Mrs Austen thinks our living room is stupid, and laughs, and I feel embarrassed for Mum and Dad, and my digestive system becomes a victim of stress and … I don’t want to think about it.

  Jane and her mum both blink as they step into our living room.

  ‘Blimey,’ says Jane.

  ‘Very striking,’ says Mrs Austen.

  ‘It’s well white,’ says Jane. ‘Whitest room I’ve ever seen. Including most toilets.’

  ‘Jane,’ whispers her mum. ‘Manners.’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ says Jane. ‘A truth universally acknowledged, innit.’

  I concentrate on keeping my tummy calm.

  Dad takes Jane and Mrs Austen’s coats.

  ‘Please,’ says Mum. ‘Sit down.’

  We all sit on the white chairs.

  I can guess what Mrs Austen is thinking. White chairs aren’t very practical. We’ll go through gallons of stain remover. I wonder why the Charles Rennie Mackintosh book didn’t mention anything about stain remover.

  ‘Nice chairs,’ says Mrs Austen.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Mum. ‘White’s our favourite colour.’

  She stops and stares awkwardly at Jane and Mrs Austen.

  My tummy gives a lurch.

  Dad jumps in.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ he says.

  ‘Yes please,’ says Mrs Austen. ‘Oh, before I forget, I made this for you.’

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out something and half unwraps it. She hands it to Mum. It’s a big round sausage nestling in greaseproof paper.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mum, taking it doubtfully.

  ‘It’s a haggis,’ says Mrs Austen. ‘But you’d know that, being Scottish.’

  Mum and Dad glance at each other.

  They don’t say anything.

  ‘I tell you what’s funny,’ says Mrs Austen. ‘That haggis has almost exactly the same ingredients as an old Jamaican recipe my mother uses.’

  ‘How about that,’ says Dad.

  ‘Alas,’ says Jane. ‘How we humans strive to keep each other at a distance, only for coincidence to undo all our, like, labours.’

  While Mum and Dad get busy in the kitchen, I ask Jane how she’s going with Pride And Prejudice.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ says Mrs Austen.

  ‘She’s a well slow writer to read,’ says Jane. ‘But her movies are fit. I been watching them all. Pride And Prejudice and Sense And Sensibility and Persuasion and all them. That Jane Austen rocks.’

  I give Jane a grin and she gives me one back.

  We talk about the eighteenth century for a while, specially how elegantly they used to speak, and then we talk about the early twentieth century, specially how elegantly they used to make furniture, and then Mum and Dad bring in the chips and the cucumber sandwiches and the haggis.

  While Mum serves, I feel a high-pressure system building up in my insides. I’ve never eaten haggis before, and I’m always worried with new food
that my exhaust pipe’s going to get a serious work-out.

  ‘What’s in this?’ I say, getting a lump of haggis on my fork.

  ‘The usual,’ says Mrs Austen. ‘Oats, onions and spices.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ says Mum. ‘Sounds yummy.’

  ‘And minced sheep’s heart,’ says Mrs Austen. ‘And chopped up lungs and things.’

  ‘I think I’ll start with a cucumber sandwich,’ says Mum.

  Dad does too.

  I can’t. I’ve already got a lump of minced sheep’s innards on my fork.

  Jane and her mum are watching me.

  I put it in my mouth and chew.

  ‘How often we fear the strange,’ says Jane through a mouthful of chips, ‘and find fear itself the only fearful part of it, innit.’

  She’s right.

  Haggis tastes really nice. Nutty, meaty, spicy and sheepy all at once.

  I love it.

  And an amazing thing’s happening. My high-pressure system’s going away. I eat some more. My insides relax some more. I keep eating. Not a peep, not a whistle.

  ‘Thanks for bringing this,’ I say to Mrs Austen.

  She gives my hand a squeeze.

  ‘Thought you might like it,’ she says. ‘What with your name and all.’

  She smiles and I notice that her eyes are as blue as the glass in the living-room door. I remember something I read once about the Caribbean, which is where Jamaica is. They have a type of ancient magic there called voodoo, which can kill but it can also heal.

  I know I shouldn’t be nosy, but I can’t stop myself.

  ‘What does your mother do in Jamaica?’ I say to Mrs Austen, trying to sound casual. ‘Does she have a job or, you know, hobby?’

  ‘Before she retired, she was a lecturer at Kingston University,’ says Mrs Austen.

  ‘Really?’ says Mum. ‘What did she teach?’

  ‘English literature,’ says Mrs Austen.

  I glance at Jane, who grins and rolls her eyes.

  ‘So I was never gunna get Kylie, was I?’ she says. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘I think Jane Austen’s a beautiful name,’ says Mum.

  ‘Ta,’ says Jane, putting some chips into a cucumber sandwich.

  Mrs Austen is still smiling, and looking at me.

  ‘Charles Rennie Mackintosh,’ she says. ‘That’s a nice name too.’

  I smile back and have another mouthful of haggis.

  I wonder if Jane Austen wrote a book about a person who was universally in need of a friend and got one and ended up much less of a farty-pants.

  I’ll have to ask her.

  Secret Diary of A Dad

  Sunday, 3 January

  Not a good day.

  This morning the kids said to me, ‘Dad, why are you kneeling on the floor with your head in the fridge? Have you got a headache?’

  I explained I hadn’t, I was just telling the plastic salad containers about my school days.

  Maddy and Dylan stared at me.

  Nine-year-olds and seven-year-olds can be a bit slow sometimes.

  ‘It’s one of my New Year resolutions,’ I explained, showing them the list I’d made. ‘See? Number four.’

  ‘Spend more time talking to the kids’, read Maddy.

  I took the list back.

  ‘Does it say kids?’ I said, peering at it. ‘I could have sworn it said lids.’

  The kids sighed. So did the lids of the plastic salad containers.

  ‘Pity you haven’t kept the first New Year resolution on your list,’ said Dylan.

  ‘I have,’ I said, showing them the brochure for the package tour I’ve just booked to the Antarctic. ‘See? Find new glaciers.’

  The kids sighed again. ‘Dad,’ they groaned, pointing to the list, ‘it says Find new glasses.’

  I squinted at the blurry writing. A chill crept up my spine and not just because I’d left the fridge door open.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Now I’m feeling a bit worried about New Year resolutions two and three.’

  The kids studied the list and found number two.

  ‘Polish the car,’ they read. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  I took them outside and pointed up to the roof of the house.

  ‘There’s no car up there,’ said the kids.

  Then they saw the shiny cat.

  The cat slid off the roof, leaving a trail of wax polish on the tiles. The kids caught it, glared at me and we went inside.

  ‘Number three can’t be worse than that,’ said Maddy.

  I could feel a headache coming on, so I put my head in the fridge again.

  The kids read out number three.

  ‘Get more sleep. What’s so bad about that?’

  I closed my eyes, laid my head down next to the lettuce and waited for them to hear the sounds of baaing coming from the living room.

  Wednesday, 6 January

  I’m feeling very proud today.

  Actually, the feeling started a couple of days ago, when I found my glasses and built my first ever piece of furniture. OK, it wasn’t perfect, but I did it without help and I was proud of myself. I could feel my chest swelling almost as much as the finger I’d hit with the hammer.

  ‘Well?’ I said to the kids when they came to look. ‘What do you think?’

  I held my breath as they ran their hands over the four sturdy legs, the finely stitched upholstery and the skilfully hung mirrored door.

  ‘Funny-looking bookshelves,’ they said.

  My chest deflated. They were right. Who was I kidding? I’ve always been a hopeless handyman.

  ‘Do-it-yourself furniture,’ I said bitterly. ‘If there’s anyone who can actually build this stuff I’d like to know their secret.’

  The kids looked at the empty boxes strewn around the room.

  ‘Perhaps, Dad,’ said Maddy gently, ‘it involves assembling the bookcase, the couch, the coffee table and the bathroom cabinet as four separate items.’

  Kids can be know-it-alls sometimes, specially when they’re right.

  ‘It was the stupid instructions,’ I said. ‘They were impossible to understand. Look at that diagram. I broke a screwdriver trying to follow that.’

  The kids sighed.

  ‘That’s the furniture shop logo,’ said Dylan.

  I realised what my problem was. I didn’t speak the language of do-it-yourself.

  I went to my local language school and enrolled.

  ‘Which language would you like to learn?’ said the receptionist. ‘French? Spanish? Japanese?’

  ‘Furniture Assembly,’ I said.

  The language teacher tried hard, but by the end of the day I still couldn’t translate the phrase ‘Slot base-support bracket A into side-panel rib B.’ I couldn’t even say it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the teacher. ‘I can’t do any more for you.’

  I looked at him pleadingly. ‘Not even put my bookshelves together?’

  He shook his head.

  At home, I stared gloomily at the assembly instruction booklet for the stupid bookshelves. Why could I make other complicated things like sandwiches and hot chocolate with marshmallows, but not a piece of furniture?

  Well, no point brooding. Give up and move on.

  I stuffed the instruction booklet into the row of books on the bookshelf and turned away.

  Hang on.

  I turned back.

  The bookshelves were built. With base-support brackets slotted into side-panel ribs and everything.

  ‘We did it while you were at the language school,’ said Maddy.

  ‘It was actually quite easy,’ said Dylan.

  I stared at them, amazed. I gave them both a big hug.

  Incredible. My own kids can build furniture.

  I am so proud.

  Tuesday, 12 January

  Today on holiday I finally got a chance to take the kids somewhere I’ve wanted to take them for a long time.

  ‘If you think the green mould down the back of the fridge is amazing
,’ I said to them, ‘wait till you see a rainforest.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Maddy, ‘are you sure you don’t want to come with us?’

  ‘No thanks, my loves,’ said Anne, settling down on the motel verandah with a book. ‘Have a good time.’

  In the car I could see the kids were puzzled how anyone could prefer reading a first-aid book to visiting nature.

  I didn’t blame them. I didn’t get it either. If I had, I would have turned the car round. Instead, I parked it in the rainforest carpark.

  ‘OK,’ I whispered to the kids as we crept into the awesome green cathedral of trees and ferns. ‘I want you to remember this is a very fragile place. Be gentle and respectful and don’t touch anything. Let’s just stand absolutely still for a moment and listen to the sound of nature in harmony. Let’s appreciate the delicate balance of a beautiful forest unspoiled by the destructive ways of man.’

  ‘I wouldn’t stand absolutely still if I was you, Dad,’ said Maddy. ‘A millipede the size of a comb has just run up your leg.’

  I took her advice. I didn’t stand still. I ran around in circles beating at my trousers with bracken and rubbing my bottom against several species of tree fern.

  ‘You said we weren’t allowed to touch anything,’ said Dylan. ‘You told us the rainforest is a fragile and delicate ecosystem and touching one leaf could muck it all up.’

  ‘It is,’ I said as I whacked at my upper thighs with a cedar log. ‘And it could. Which is why I’m trying very hard not to touch any leaves.’

  It wasn’t easy.

  I rolled around on the ground for a while, then reached inside my shirt, rummaged a bit, and pulled out a stag beetle the size of a telephone.

  ‘Don’t hurt it,’ said the kids. ‘And don’t wave it around your head like that. You’ll give it an upset tummy.’

  The beetle finally released my arm from between its mandibles and scuttled away. Weak with relief, I tried to stand up. Something gave way underneath me.

  ‘Dad,’ said Dylan, ‘do you think you should be sitting in that scorpions’ nest?’

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to disturb the big scorpion on my tongue.

  ‘Also, Dad,’ said Maddy, ‘that’s a rare stinkhorn fungus you’re squashing. That foul-smelling slime is meant to be for the insects, not you.’

  I spat the scorpion out and staggered to my feet.