Moon Pie (9 page)

Marcus arrived first. He was wearing red-and-yellow striped jeans and a yellow string vest, and he apologized for being slightly late, saying that he had been held up by ‘technical difficulties in the studio’.

‘Why?’ Tug said. After his initial suspicions, Tug had taken a shine to Marcus.

‘A slight hitch with the equipment, little Tug. A small explosion. But we are dealing with it. Always look forward, never back.’

‘Was it the camcorder that blew up?’ Martha asked.

‘Fortunately not.’ Marcus held up the camcorder, which he had brought with him. ‘No, it was another part of the house. Father says it was something to do with the fuses, though I had purposely replaced them with thicker ones to allow me to use my high-wattage studio lights.’

They went into the front room, where Tug told Marcus about his JCB nearly blowing up once. Then Dad reappeared and stood chuckling in the doorway.
It was the first time Martha had seen him in an hour, and she was surprised to find him in such a relaxed mood. He seemed to have conquered his nerves. He also seemed to have spilled something on his jacket, but from his expression he didn’t mind.

‘Hello, Marcus, keeping out of jail?’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Luna. Yes, I stay one step ahead of the authorities.’ He indicated his camcorder. ‘As threatened, I’ve brought the rushes of our remake of
Doctor Zhivago
for you to see. I’d value your professional opinion.’

Dad, who clearly had no memory of this, or any idea of what Marcus was talking about, laughed aloud. ‘You’ll have to be quick,’ he said. ‘We’ve got important guests coming for lunch.’ He touched the side of his nose, and winked.

‘Marcus is one of them, Dad!’ Martha said. ‘Have you forgotten?’

Dad put his arm apologetically round Marcus. ‘Marcus knows what an imbecile I am. Only,’ he added in a stage whisper, ‘you mustn’t tell any of the others. That would be a strategic error.’

Martha looked at him. His eyes were shiny, and he was talking too fast and not very clearly.

She frowned. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’

‘Luckily I am.’

‘You seem a bit larky.’

‘Never been more serious. I’m a complete imbecile, but I’ve come to terms with it. Marcus here is strange. Well, OK. He deals with it. Imbecile, strange. Strange, imbecile. We don’t mind, do we, Marcus?’

Even Marcus, strange as he was, seemed to find this short outburst odd. But he recovered and said politely, ‘Certainly not, Mr Luna,’ and began to talk to Dad about the rushes.

Ten minutes later Olivia and Laura arrived. Olivia was wearing a blue summer frock and sandals with ankle straps, and Laura was dressed in dungarees.

Dad greeted them in the hallway with a comic bow.

‘Your mother’s staring,’ he said to Laura. ‘She doesn’t recognize me with my clothes on.’

Laughing loudly, he put his hand on Olivia’s waist and kissed her heavily on the cheek. ‘Good job I’m not wearing lipstick,’ he said. ‘I never wear make-up on a Sunday. Unlike Marcus, who’s in the front room.’

Olivia smiled briefly and wiped her cheek.

‘Dad?’ Martha said. ‘Can you come and help me for a minute?’

‘A treat!’ Dad exclaimed with mock rapture.
‘Usually,’ he added, ‘I’m banned from the kitchen.’

He gave a wave and disappeared with Martha.

‘Dad!’ she whispered, when they were out of sight. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Behaving like this.’

‘I’m just being friendly.’

‘It’s too much.’

‘What is?’

‘The shouting and kissing, and the jokes.’

‘People like that, Martha.’

‘Olivia doesn’t like it.’

‘I bet she does really.’

‘I don’t like it.
Please
, Dad.’

‘All right. I’ll be very polite. Very quiet. You won’t know I’m here.’

And he went back out to the front room, crying, ‘Drinks! Who’d like a drink?’

M
artha’s lasagne was a great success. Olivia praised it highly, Laura had four helpings (which beat even Tug), and Marcus, comparing it to a classic ballgown, called it ‘a stunning piece of artistry’.

But Martha wasn’t happy. From the beginning, the lunch had been spoiled by Dad’s behaviour. It was as if he were trying to be a comedian, making jokes and pulling strange faces and telling funny stories. When he talked he threw his hands around, as if juggling, and no one else could get a word in. Occasionally, he excused himself from the table and disappeared from the room, only to return a few minutes later, flushed and more talkative than ever.

Several times Martha made secret signals to him, to calm down. But he took no notice. She frowned at him and even, when she thought no one else was looking, shook her head at him. But he didn’t seem to see her. After all her work, he was ruining the meal,
and though she continued to smile and talk and ask people if they wanted more lasagne, she grew more and more upset.

As lunch went on, she noticed how the others stopped laughing with Dad, or even responding to him. It was as if they were doing their best to pretend he wasn’t there. Laura, who had an interest in technical gadgetry, began to talk to Marcus about recording and lighting systems. Tug, having finished his final helping of lasagne, left the table to go to sleep under the sideboard. Olivia talked to Martha about cookery. She seemed particularly anxious to avoid talking to Dad, Martha noticed.

‘I love the flavour of your lasagne,’ she said. ‘Is it beef or pork?’

‘Half of each. And some bacon.’

‘You’re a very good cook. And you’re, what, only eleven?’

Martha blushed.

‘I do my bit,’ Dad put in, ‘by keeping out of the kitchen. Generally, the further off I go the better the food is.’

Olivia smiled briefly and turned back to Martha. ‘I always find with lasagne that the real problem is the pasta. Do you soak it first?’

‘Blanch it. Just for a few minutes.’

‘I don’t know where she gets it from,’ Dad interrupted again. ‘I can’t cook. Never could.’ He laughed again, strangely loudly.

Martha made a secret signal to Dad, but he ignored her.

‘I remember attempting lasagne once,’ he said. ‘Years ago, before Martha was born.’

Although no one showed any interest in this, he went on anyway, with great enthusiasm. Apparently one of the guests had been late to arrive for dinner, and the lasagne was over-cooked.

‘Every few minutes we added water,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Three hours went by.’

He was being very humorous. Soon the lasagne became fantastical. He described how it had swelled up and ballooned into strange shapes, how it had hardened and thickened, and developed sedimentary layers, and how eventually it overflowed from the pan and pushed its way out of the oven on its own.

‘Like a slab of living pavement,’ he said.

‘Oh dear,’ Olivia murmured.

He talked on and on, interrupted only by his own laughter. Everyone else had stopped talking and sat looking at him, embarrassed.

‘And after we had served it, no one said a word for about three minutes,’ he said, sweating now with hilarity. ‘Everyone just hummed politely. And then the American lady who had been late and caused all the bother said, “Well, perhaps we can build something out of it, but we sure as hell can’t eat it.” So we had cheese and biscuits,’ he said. ‘But we didn’t mind. Martha’s mum couldn’t boil an egg. It didn’t bother me. I didn’t marry her for her cooking. I married her because …’

Suddenly he stopped talking and there was silence in the room.

Martha looked at him with horror. He had mentioned Mum.

‘Dad?’ she said.

He sat trembling, his mouth hanging open as if he couldn’t believe what he had just said.

‘I married her,’ he whispered to himself, ‘because I … because we …’

‘Dad?’ Martha whispered again, and reached out her hand to him, but he staggered to his feet and hastily went out.

No one else said anything. There was nothing to say. And when Martha looked round the table she found that everyone was staring at her, and she could
see in their faces that they all felt sorry for her. Olivia took hold of her hand and squeezed it, and though, if anything, it made her more upset, Martha managed to control herself.

Because someone always has to keep their head.

She sat up straight, took a deep breath and said, in a clear, slightly quavery voice, ‘More chocolate mousse anyone?’

After lunch, Olivia reluctantly agreed to stay for coffee – ‘Just a very quick one!’ – while Laura took a look at Marcus’s camcorder. Dad had returned to the table by now and was in a different mood, quiet and shame-faced, but there was no doubt that Olivia wanted to leave as soon as possible. The lunch had been spoiled.

Upstairs in Martha’s room, Marcus showed Laura his camcorder, and Laura described her even more impressive movie camera, and they swapped information about technical specifications while Martha sat quietly on her own in a corner of the room.

‘It has zoom and slo-mo?’ Marcus was saying. ‘That’s interesting. Tell me, are you using it for any particular project at the moment?’

Martha wasn’t even listening to them. She was lost
in her own unhappy thoughts. Although Dad had been larky before, he had never been so out-of-control, one minute laughing like a madman, the next almost crying. Even allowing for his nervousness, he was impossible to understand. He was silly, and unhappy, and excitable, and mad, and angry, and lazy, and unfair and strange all at the same time – and she had absolutely no idea why.

After a while she realized that Marcus and Laura had stopped talking and were looking at her.

For a moment they were all silent, then Laura said, ‘So, how long’s your dad been drinking?’

Martha stared at her. ‘Drinking?’

‘Booze. Alcohol.’

Martha shook her head in confusion. ‘I didn’t see him drink anything.’

‘He kept going out to get it.’

‘But I don’t think he drinks at all.’

‘Probably he hides it round the house and drinks when you’re not looking.’

‘Even when we go shopping, he never buys drink.’

‘No, he’ll buy it separately, from other places, when you’re not there.’

A little tremor went through Martha. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because my dad was a drunk too. That’s why Mum divorced him. Your dad never stood a chance with her. She says she can do without another one.’

Martha looked at Marcus.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize until I saw him today.’

‘But what must I do?’ Martha asked.

No one said anything.

T
he next day, after school, Martha and Tug went to the library to exchange their books. It wasn’t their usual day for going to the library, but Martha insisted.

It was warm, and in the park sunshine fell in green and yellow spangles through the leaves of the trees around the boating pond. The flowerbeds were freshly filled with marigolds, and the lawns were just mown. Round the café people stood with ice creams and cups of tea, talking.

Everything seemed the same as always.

But it isn’t
, Martha thought.
It’s all different now
.

She was paler than usual, and as she went along she rubbed her eyes. Nearly all night she had been awake, trying to think what to do. By the time morning came she had half decided to go straight to Dad and ask him if what Laura had told her was true. But Dad was too strange to talk to. In the end she left him in bed and went to school, with all her questions still
unanswered. If she wanted answers she would have to find them out herself.

Tug pulled at her hand.
‘Martha?’

‘What?’

‘You’re not listening to me, Martha. I said, where are we going on our holidays?’

She sighed. ‘I don’t know, Tug.’

‘Shall we go to Russia?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why?’

‘Russia’s so far away.’

Tug thought about this for a while. ‘Martha?’ He pulled on her hand until she turned to him again.

‘What is it now?’

‘Have you ever eaten bear?’

‘No.’

‘Not in a pie?’

‘No, Tug.’

‘Not in sandwiches, Martha?’

‘No, I’ve never eaten bear at all.’

He examined her closely. ‘You’re tired,’ he said, as she yawned.

‘I didn’t have a very good sleep last night.’

‘I did,’ he said.

She looked down at him walking alongside her,
small and chunky, with his soft, untidy hair and his quiet, smudged face.
Whatever else I do now
, she thought,
I have to stay calm. More than ever. After all, there isn’t just Dad to think about. There’s Tug too
.

They reached the library and went up the steps and inside.

She did not allow Tug to renew
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
a second time. It would be good for him to choose something completely different, she said. He chose
Gobble, Gobble, Slip, Slop: A Tale of a Very Greedy Cat
.

While Tug was choosing, Martha went across to the adult section of the library to ask if she could borrow adult books on her children’s membership card.

The librarian said she could. ‘Up to five at a time. Is it your first time in the adult section?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll come and show you how it works. Is there anything in particular you’re interested in?’

‘Yes,’ Martha said. But she didn’t say what.

Even with the librarian’s help the adult section was a confusing place. It was half an hour before Martha found what she was looking for. Tug came in and played on the computers while she searched.

At last they went together to check out their books. The librarian gave Martha a long look as she stamped them.

The books were
Gobble, Gobble, Slip, Slop: A Tale of a Very Greedy Cat, Alcoholism: The Family Guide, The Truth about Alcoholism, Cure for Alcoholism, I’ll Quit Tomorrow
and
Dying for a Drink
. Martha had taken some free brochures too. They were called
Alcohol Misuse, Getting Help
and
Liver Disease
.

‘School project?’ the librarian asked.

Martha nodded.

They went back across the park towards home.