Page 66 of When We Were Friends
‘Still recovering from that meal you made Friday night,’ he said and gave her a pointed look.
Sylvie poured him a cup of tea. ‘I’m off to the shops in a minute,’ she said, in a tone as artificially bright as the Blackpool illuminations that Hugo had always wanted to visit. Garth had never let him and Mum go, said slot machines were a waste of money, even though a couple of times a week, he went to the bookies. ‘So what do you fancy for your tea, love?’
‘None of that foreign muck we had on Friday. I wouldn’t feed a dog cold rice wrapped up in seaweed.’
‘I liked the sushi, Mum,’ said Hugo in a measured tone as she got up to make her husband’s bacon butty. Hugo reached for the ketchup but Garth gripped his wrist, keeping one eye on Sylvie, making sure she didn’t see. He squeezed so tightly but Hugo refused to flinch, despite knowing there would be a sore, red mark later. He’d have to hide it with his watch – or, if he met his mates, spout the elaborate lie created over several years, that he belonged to a boxing club and the bruises came from there. The elaborate lie he’d told his mum was that they did martial arts at school. Mum wasn’t well; she often got sad, and took tablets. Hugo worried about burdening her further. Sylvie turned around and just in time, Garth let go. She put his breakfast in front of him.
‘You disagreeing with me, lad, with your la di da ways?’ asked Garth. ‘Don’t you forget who’s helped you get this far –megrafting, day in, day out, putting those fancy shoes on your feet that you wore to the prom last night.’
Mum was the one who’d got up early this morning to do her first cleaning shift of the day, just before Hugo did his paper round. Garth was happy for her to work seven days a week whilst he worked when he felt like it, picking and choosing plumbing jobs.
‘Given you every opportunity, I have, to be a somebody, when I never had that chance. You’d better remember that when you’re older and living in some fancy pad in London. Your mum deserves the best, that’s what I’m thinking of.’
‘Leave him, Garth,’ said Sylvie quietly.
Garth turned to her very slowly. She stared at her mug of tea, sat very still.
‘Did you say something?’ he asked.
‘No. It was nothing,’ she mumbled.
‘I don’t like your hair tied back like that,’ he said. ‘It makes you look ten years older.’
Her eyes glistened.
‘I only say it, Sylvie, because I love you, want you to look your best.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and gave a small smile, pulled out the bobble. Hair with early greys tumbled across her shoulders.
‘There’s my girl.’
Stomach on fire, jaw stiffened, Hugo willed his dad to piss off, to leave Mum and him to chat and enjoy just an hour of the weekend alone. Instead, Sylvie got up from the table and five minutes later came back, grabbed the shopping bags and squeezed Hugo’s shoulder gently before she opened the back door and left.
‘Eat up lad,’ said Garth. ‘I work hard to put food on this table.’
Hugo hadn’t started his roll yet; he had no appetite. Not after the prom. Not after the way he’d hurt those girls. Garth squirted brown sauce over his bacon, lifted up the roll and took a large bite. Sauce dripped down his bristly chin and landed on his pyjama shirt. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘So you couldn’t even get voted prom king last night? That, after losing the football captaincy? You said it wasn’t your fault, what happened with Coach, but you were stupid to get caught seeing that other girl. Mind, it wasn’t the worst crime in the world. Coach needs his head testing if he’s going to lose players over girls, and he needs to stop sucking up to the headmaster. Nothing worse than a brown noser. I hope you got revenge on those girls who dropped you in it, like I told you to. No son of mine gets done over. Not if he’s a man.’
‘What, a man like you?’
‘Too right.’
Hugo gave a wry smile.
‘What’s so funny?’ Garth put his palms on the table and leant forwards.
‘You.’
Garth’s cheeks flushed but Hugo didn’t care. He wasn’t afraid of his father any more, not after yesterday’s prom. He’d had enough. Yes, Hugo had got his revenge, in the aftermath of Garth punching him in the chest for getting dropped from the football team. But neither of those things were the actions of a man.
‘You, a man who bullies his wife? Who hits his son?’
Garth blinked for several seconds and then roared, lunged forwards and grabbed Hugo’s shirt collar, knocking over his mug of tea. Hugo’s heart poundedba boom, ba boom, like it used to when he was little and Dad would clip his ear when Mum wasn’t around, or shout at him if he made too much noise playing, or if he cried when he fell over, telling him it was for his own good, that people expected boys to be strong. Hugo would take the crying to his room, sobbing into the pillow, telling himself he was a bad son, and that one day, he’d make his father proud. Sure enough, he excelled at sport. A muscular body and generous height helped, although still, his father never once said he was proud. Hugo learnt how to become popular, too, by actively behaving the opposite way to how his dad behaved towards him, flattering people, making them feel special – yet with an underlying hard edge. His fists would fly first if anyone disrespected him. It didn’t happen often.
Because Hugo’s biggest aim in his life was not to end up like his father.
He took in the flaring nostrils, the cold eyes and ugly expression, he smelt the bad breath: things that used to give him nightmares. Hugo pictured the hurt faces, the tears, of Morgan, Paige, Emily and Tiff – the only four pupils to have ever seen a glimpse of the true him. Their rock bottom became his.
He was angry at Garth but oh so angry at himself because last night confirmed what Hugo had feared for a while.
