My Pear-Shaped Life. Carmel Harrington

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Dad. I’ll get some later,’ Greta replied. ‘I need to get going, though. I don’t want to be late for Uncle Ray, especially when he’s kind enough to give me a lift.’

      ‘I offered to take you to the airport,’ Stephen said, a slight edge to his voice.

      ‘I know you did. I appreciate it.’

      ‘Sometimes I think you prefer him to me,’ Stephen griped. And although Greta made the appropriate denial noises, there was an element of truth in his words.

      Greta had a special bond with her Uncle Ray, her dad’s brother, which she supposed was inevitable considering how he’d had to become a makeshift midwife to deliver her. Emily went into labour early at home. Stephen was on nights, so Ray was called to bring her to the hospital. They never made it there in the end. Ray had delivered Greta on the sitting-room floor, while they were waiting for the paramedics to arrive and he was trying not to pass out from the sight of blood. The story went that Greta had looked into Ray’s eyes when she slipped into his hands and an unbreakable connection was made.

      Emily looked up at the clock. ‘You’re way too early to go to the airport. Your flight isn’t for hours. Tell you what, why don’t you come with me to my slimming class? The ladies are such a nice bunch. They’d all love to meet you. And then I’ll drop you to Ray’s on the way back home.’

      This suggestion was met with great enthusiasm from Stephen, who began to congratulate Emily on her ingenuity to think it up. Greta knew a set-up when she saw one.

      ‘Maybe next time,’ Greta said, knowing that hell would freeze over before she’d ever go to a slimming class with her mother. ‘I need the extra time to practise my lines for the audition.’

      Stephen exhaled a loud, disgruntled sigh of annoyance. Greta was used to this particular sound. In fact, if she had to equate one sound with her father when he was in her presence, it would be this one. ‘When I was your age …’ he began, which meant that another of his fun ‘lose weight and keep fit’ pep talks was about to start. Before another word flew out of his mouth, Greta ran out through the front door, shouting goodbyes over her shoulder.

      As Greta pounded the footpath towards her Uncle Ray’s house, pulling her cabin bag behind her, she fantasized about having enough money to move out. Her mam she could take, but her dad was relentless in his quest to make her thinner. She was exhausted from dodging his lectures. Greta slowed down at the end of their road, already out of breath, and took a seat on the edge of a garden wall. She pulled a bag of Maltesers from her handbag and threw a handful into her mouth. As the chocolate melted and the malty inside fizzed on her tongue, she sighed with contentment.

      ‘Hey!’ Greta squealed in shock when she felt something brush against her leg. She looked down, praying it wasn’t a cat – she hated cats – and saw a dirty black scrappy dog staring up at her. The dog barked, then sat in front of her, eyes begging for a chocolate.

      ‘No can do, little doggie. These are bad for you.’ Then Greta began to giggle as she realized what she was saying. ‘I know, “pot kettle black” and all the rest. But I need these.’ She threw another handful in her mouth. He nuzzled her ankle with his nose.

      ‘I can’t,’ Greta said. ‘Chocolate is bad for dogs, honestly.’ She opened her bag and searched for something she could share with him. Bingo! She pulled out a half-eaten rice cake. ‘It tastes like cardboard, just warning you.’ The mutt didn’t care and wolfed it down in one bite before he moved closer and gave her another nuzzle. Poor thing was hungry. Greta hadn’t seen him before. Maybe the family who had moved into number 9 the previous month owned him.

      ‘Go on home, boy,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go now.’ He ignored her and followed her as she turned the corner into Ray’s road. Greta stopped once more and said firmly, ‘You can’t come with me, little man. You have to stay here. Go back to your owners.’ He cocked his head to one side and she could have sworn she saw tears in his black eyes. She recognized something in that look. He was lost. Alone. Shrugging it off, she turned and walked away.

      As Greta got close to her uncle’s house, she spotted Ray wheeling in bins down neighbours’ drives.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Greta shouted out.

      ‘The bin man has been. And I’m not working today. So I thought I’d save some of the neighbours a job when they get home tonight. Nice to be nice. Speaking of which, you look lovely.’

      She did a little curtsey, delighted with the compliment. She felt good in her new dress.

      Greta told Ray about the dog she’d made friends with, worried that the little thing couldn’t find his way home again, wherever that was.

      ‘He could be a stray. Don’t fret, I’ll keep my eye open for him when I get back from the airport,’ Ray said, kind as always.

      And Greta felt herself relax, as she always did in his company.

      ‘Why were you eating Maltesers for breakfast anyhow?’ Ray asked when they had moved inside and gone into the kitchen. He was putting two slices of thick white bread into the toaster. He flicked the switch on the kettle, to make a pot of tea.

      ‘Because dad wanted me to eat porridge.’

      ‘Pushing that red button again,’ Ray said, knowing his niece better than anyone. Greta had always been the same, ever since she had been a little girl. Tell her not to do something and you could be guaranteed she’d feel compelled to do that very thing.

      ‘Guilty. But they make me so stressed sometimes. Mam was going on about her slimming class. You know what she’s like when she starts talking about that.’

      ‘I know. But Emily is looking great, though. Didn’t she get her one-stone badge or something last week?’

      ‘Yes she is and yes she did. But it’s not in me to go to a slimming class with my mother. I couldn’t bear it, Uncle Ray.’

      ‘Kerrygold butter or the low-fat stuff?’ Ray asked, when the toaster popped.

      Greta had spent the previous two weeks eating next to nothing, in an effort to slim down for her audition.

      ‘Hit me with the real stuff,’ Greta decided. She’d not managed to lose anything despite her best efforts. So, she figured, what was the actual point?

      Ray made no comment. He was used to her on/off dieting whims, so tended to have all options covered when Greta called in to see him.

      ‘Your mam and dad only have your best interests at heart,’ Ray said, as he smeared toast with butter and jam.

      ‘I know. But there’s something in my genetic make-up that makes me not listen to authority. Teachers, work, Mam, Dad … I’m a lost cause.’ She looked at her slice of hot toast, which had melted the Kerrygold into a golden syrup that seeped into the crunchy bread. ‘I swore to myself that me and butter were breaking up. But as soon as I did that, I started to have dreams about it. On spuds. On baguettes. On brown soda bread. On crackers with cheese. On toast.’ She groaned as she took a bite.

      ‘It’s the “forbidden fruit tasting so much sweeter” scenario,’ Uncle Ray said. ‘So maybe, rather than denying yourself something altogether, you should eat the butter. But cut down the amount you have.’

      ‘Maybe,’ СКАЧАТЬ