holiday

his distressed cries
as if through a glass wall
of the TV screen
the background chatter
she no longer registers

the bags all packed
the taxi on its way
It's just her hair now
that needs to be
brushed back to calm

with long strokes
she studiously removes
traces of feelings
knots of memories
tangles of arguments

relishes the silence unaware
of two little bodies
and that of their father
lying motionless
fifteen stories down

the day before Dad told me he was moving out. and that one day, when I was older, I would understand

I am kneeling on a wobbly kitchen stool, my face propped on my hands, elbows resting on the cold stone of the windowsill. Knees touching the hot radiator. My forehead is pressed to the window pane. I turned the light off so I can see better and not be seen from the outside. I like sitting in a window like this, in the dark. Sometimes, when I'm home alone, waiting for everyone to come back, I will make this watching position more comfortable by bringing a cushion with me to my vantage point or, if it's my brother's bedroom window, rather than the kitchen, even my pillow and duvet. I am not home alone tonight. My brother is in his bedroom and Mum is catching an episode of her favourite tapeworm soap.

Water is boiling in a traditional kettle on the stove behind me, sending up thick coils of steam. The window is all fogged up and I have to wipe the pane from time to time with my sleeve. It’s a frosty, white winter evening. The big car park in front of the house is covered with snow.

I am quite uncomfortable, I feel stirring in my left foot and I know once I've moved, thousands of ants will be matching up and down my leg. From time to time I press my hands to the radiator for a few seconds, before it starts burning my skin, and then to my cold, numb forehead. The steam on the window is blurring things. My sleeves are now completely wet. I am waiting for a small red car to turn from the main road into the little street with a funny name – Aspect, disappear for a few seconds behind another block of flats, then appear again and pull up in front of my window.

A lot of the cars in the parking lot are entirely snowed under but there are some that are not, obviously their owners have come back home not long ago.

Another car appears, its right indicator on. I watch it turn and see it’s a small car and it’s definitely red. I watch it till it disappears behind the next building and then wait for a few seconds but it never turns up again. Must have stopped in front of the other block. I go back to watching the corner.

Mum comes in and turns the light on. I jump away from the window. Mum turns the stove off, lifts the kettle up and shakes it.

'Almost completely empty,' she says and clucks her tongue. 'I told you to turn it off when the water boils. Are you trying to burn another kettle?' She checks on the food in the oven, then goes back to her show.

I turn the light off again and get back to the window in time to see my father's balding head disappear in the entrance to the building. A couple of minutes later the lift stops on our floor. I run to the door to say hi to Dad. Mum comes too and my little brother. The greeting ceremony. No-one ever comes in or out of the flat without everyone else present gathering to kiss them hello or good bye.

Dad cleans his boots on the doormat for a long while, but they still leave wet patches on the carpet. Mum tells him to take his jacket off and wash his hands. Dinner is ready. Perfect timing as usual. Mum brings in three plates and calls my brother, who, at this very moment decides he needs to go to the bathroom. He does this, without fail, every single time Mum puts dinner on the table. Eventually, he turns up in front of his plate and will in all probability still be there two hours later, chewing laboriously, his plate almost full. While we are eating, Mum is doing the dishes in the kitchen. The food is very hot, I burn my pallet and start picking on single peas and bits of pasta.

'Piglet,' murmurs Dad under his breath. He hates the smacking sound I make when eating and I try hard to eat quietly but not always manage it. 'Piglet,' he goes again.

Mum brings in two cups of tea and puts them on the table, then goes back to the kitchen and comes back with two more. She sits at the table with us.

'Pig!' says Dad in full voice, looks at me without a smile and then shakes his head. We both finish at the same time. Mum takes our plates back to the kitchen to wash up. There are no dirty dishes in this house, ever, not when Mum's in. Everything gets washed up straight away.

Dad is in the bathroom now, I can hear him clearing his throat through the sound of running water.

'Child, for God's sake chew up,' Mum says, walking in and sitting on the sofa. 'You'll be here till breakfast.' She switches the TV on and picks up the TV guide. It will be at least another half an hour till she gets the last instalment of tonight's washing up.

Dad leaves the bathroom and goes to the built in wardrobe in the hallway. He struggles with the carpet. Dad has built the wardrobe himself but never finished it. The doors don't close properly and they are too close to the floor causing the carpet to roll unless you lift the door first and hold the carpet down with your foot. Dad has no time or patience for all this tonight. He ends up messing up the carpet completely and cursing in frustration.

'Dad has prettied himself up' I whisper. Mum gives me the look.

Finally Dad manages to retrieve his jacket from the wardrobe. Mum wants to know where he is going and when he'll be coming back. Dad is his usual monosyllabic. He goes into the living room, where my brother is still fighting his dinner and kisses him good bye. Then me and Mum get our smacks on the cheek and he's gone.

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