Buttering Me Up

Came down to breakfast this morning to find Colin perched at the table, looking ashen and discontented, rubbing his back and pulling extravagent faces of pain. I can't take much more of your sofa, he explained, stretching his back which snapped and crackled like a bag of popcorn rotating in the microwave. Last time I spent a night on the sofa dinosaurs still roamed the streets, but as someone who can only claim victory in uncovering a good night's sleep on a mattress with sheets and duvets and pillows and four bedroom walls surrounding him I could succinctly sympathise. Colin continued: I've got to sort something out, I can't live like this. I did say I was only staying one night, didn't I? Has it been a fortnight, yet? I replied Not yet, adding that he was not to worry about it. He said Yeah, well just kick me out when you've had enough of me. I've already turned one nephew against me, only a matter of time before I pi$$ the other two off, and I don't think your cat's my number one fan either.

So I told Colin I'd managed to have a wafer-thin breakthrough with Andrew last night (which, finally, I had) and that he might begin to cheer up a bit around the place. Really? said Colin, well does that mean he's going to stop trying to kill me via the power of the stare every time he sees me? I replied not necessarily. When Andrew scribbles your name into his bad book it takes a lot to get it scribbled out again. Colin snorted. Do you know what he bought yesterday? he said. Soya Milk. He poured it into a plastic bottle and he's written 'Andrew's Milk' on it. I told him he ought to see a doctor if he's lactating but he didn't get it. (Not necessarily - if Andrew ever writes a lonely hearts ad for himself, GSOH will not feature amongst the acronyms). Colin continued: I've got a cracker lined up when he gets a box and writes 'Andrew's Cheese' on it. Though I notice he still eats 'normal' cheese. Or at least the plastic crud you buy. Ha! Cracker. Cheese. I'm a natural.

I asked Colin not to ram home the link between milk and cheese to Andrew when he saw him, then showered and dressed for another day of dollar-gathering. As I left, Colin told me he was going to phone our father as it had been a while since he last spoke to him, and would it be okay to do it on the land-line as obviously it would be significantly cheaper than a mobile. I thought for a moment, and said yes, it would be okay. Colin moved on to ask if it was okay for him to tell dad he was temporarily living here, as long as he didn't actually say where here was - geographically at least. Again, I gave that a moment's consideration and nodded. I semi-expected Colin perhaps to start with a slight emotional blackmail along the lines of me and dad never talking and the poor old bloke having five grand-children and never having seen a single one of them, but he didn't, and I left.

Last night, whilst cooking a very healthy stir-fry (Chicken Satay with mange tout, sugar snap peas and babycorn) a tall, spindly, shirtless boy I initially didn't recognise brushed past me on the way to the fridge. If it wasn't for the recognisably complex constellation of moles on his back I might have swiped him with the wok and painted most of the kitchen with chicken and chunks of half-fried veg. It was Andrew, but an Andrew shorned of his tumbling brown locks, and instead sporting a very conservative and functional haircut.

Good grief, Andrew, I said, I didn't recognise you. What have you done to your hair?

Andrew gathered a few items from *his* shelf in the fridge and, without acknowledging my presence in the kitchen with his eyes at all, told me he'd had his hair cut. Well, duh. He moved over to the working surface and began to construct himself a sandwich. Only slightly daunted, I pressed on; I said A bit radical, isn't it?

I got ignored. Totally.

I wasn't in the mood for an argument. So I put the stir-fry off the hob-ring, took two steps over to my eldest son, wrapped my arms around him (ignoring the sudden rigor-mortis I felt in him) and kissed the back of his head.

I told him: I did the right thing, Andrew. I did the right thing and you're punishing me and your punishing your brothers and your uncle by not talking to any of us, and it's not fair. I know what you're like Andrew, I know you like to keep your emotions in check because you don't feel a need to have them, but when they do they come out they are centred on one person because that's the way you are and it's how you're comfortable in being; you don't like to spread yourself too thinly. And I know Kevin left a big hole in your life and you need someone to replace him but you went looking in the wrong place. Trust me, you went looking in the wrong place and I did the right thing in interfering and putting a stop to things before they had chance to develop because there's no telling where we all could have ended up. I did what I did for you and for David and it was right and I want you to stop punishing us all for it, because you're not being fair.

Andrew didn't say anything, but I felt his muscles slacken slightly and his chest was rising and falling with a greater velocity. So I let him go.

I went back to the stir-fry and Andrew went back to sandwich constructing. I hoped for some response but heard nothing, except my son's footsteps as he left the kitchen without speaking. My gloom became enhanced once I noticed he'd left the Clover out on the worktop, without even replacing the lid. But then as I picked it up with the intention of returning it to the fridge I noticed he'd carved SORRY into the butter.

I just hope he wasn't apologising to the butter for eating it.