A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [62]
“It’s all right. I’ve got a flask up here.”
She said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” in a wholly inappropriate comedy Scots accent, out of relief mostly. Then she closed the door behind her.
When she reached the kitchen, Jacob was sitting on Mum’s knee, being fed chocolate ice cream from the tub. As an anesthetic, no doubt. On top of the chocolate biscuit, presumably.
Mum looked up and said, in a jaunty voice, “So, how did your father seem to you?”
The ability of old people to utterly fail to communicate with one another never failed to astonish her. “He needs to see someone.”
“Try telling that to him.”
“I did,” said Katie.
“I got a bump,” said Jacob.
She bent down and cuddled him. There was ice cream in his eyebrows.
“Well, as you doubtless found out,” said Mum, “trying to get your father to do anything is pointless.”
Jacob wriggled free and began trawling through his Batman rucksack.
“Don’t talk about it,” said Katie, “just do it. Talk to Dr. Barghoutian. Drive Dad to the surgery. Get Dr. Barghoutian to come here. Whatever.”
She could see Mum bridling. She could also see Jacob marching toward the hallway with A Christmas to Remember in his sticky paws. “Where are you going, monkey nuts?”
“I’m going to watch Bob the Builder with Grandpa.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Jacob looked crestfallen.
Perhaps she should let him go. Dad was depressed. He wasn’t eating lightbulbs. The distraction might even be welcome. “Go on then. But be nice to him. He’s feeling very tired.”
“OK,” said Jacob.
“And Jacob?”
“What?”
“Don’t ask him if he’s dying.”
“Why not?” asked Jacob.
“It’s rude.”
“OK.” Jacob toddled off.
She waited, then turned to Mum. “I’m serious. About Dad.” She waited for her to say Look here, young lady… but she didn’t. “He’s suffering from depression.”
“I realized that,” said Mum, tartly.
“I’m just saying…” Katie paused and lowered her voice. She needed to win this argument. “Please. Take him to the doctor. Or get the doctor to come here. Or go to the surgery yourself. This is not going to go away on its own. We’ve got the wedding coming up and…”
Mum sighed and shook her head. “You’re right. We don’t want him making a fool of himself in front of everyone, do we.”
51
Mel Gibson was hanging from a chain in a rudimentary shower and an Oriental man was torturing him with a pair of jump leads.
George was so engrossed that when he heard a knock on the door his first thought was that Katie had arranged an immediate visit from Dr. Barghoutian.
When the door opened, however, it was Jacob.
“I want to watch my video,” said Jacob.
George fumbled for the remote. “And what’s your video?”
Mel Gibson screamed, then vanished.
“Bob the Builder,” said Jacob.
“Right.” George suddenly remembered the last time Jacob had joined him in this room. “Is your daddy with you?”
“Which daddy?” asked Jacob.
George felt a little dizzy. “Is Graham here?” It seemed to be a day on which anything was possible.
“No. And Daddy Ray isn’t here. He went…He went away and he didn’t come back.”
“Right,” said George. He wondered what Jacob meant. It was probably best not to ask. “This video…”
“Can I watch it?”
“Yes. You can watch it,” said George.
Jacob ejected Lethal Weapon, inserted Bob the Builder and rewound it with the casual skill of a technician at mission control.
Which was how young people took over the world. All that fiddling with new technology. You woke up one day and realized your own skills were laughable. Woodwork. Mental arithmetic.
Jacob fast-forwarded through the adverts, stopped the tape and climbed onto the bed next to George. He smelt better this time, biscuity and sweet.
It occurred to George that Jacob wasn’t going to talk about panic attacks, or suggest counseling. And this was a reassuring thought.
Did they ever go insane, children? Properly insane, not just handicapped like the Henderson girl? He was unsure. Perhaps there was not enough brain to malfunction till they reached university.
Jacob was looking at him. “You have to press PLAY.