Tommy knew he was in for it. Not from the local troublemaker Jake, but from his own mum.
He walked home whistling, but his chest tightenedhe was going to get it good this time.
Auntie Marge, his mums friend, had seen him with a fag. He couldve lied, said someone handed it to him, but noAuntie Marge had spotted him puffing away. What was he supposed to tell his mum? That someone *forced* it into his mouth?
Tommy pretended not to notice her, and thankfully, she didnt shout or slap himjust gave him a long look and walked off.
But Tommy wasnt fooled. He knew Auntie Marge had already ratted him out, and his mum was waiting with the slipper. Hed circled the block twice when he spotted Gran.
Here we gothe big guns. Gran would *not* hold back. Shed go on about how she, a retired headteacher, had raised hundreds of kids but failed her own grandson. How ashamed she was. How his grandad and great-grandad must be turning in their graves.
As a kid, that bit used to terrify himimagining the earth shifting as his ancestors rolled over. Then one day, hed had enough.
«Maybe its good theyre turning,» hed said. «Stops them getting bedsores, like old Mrs. Thompson next door.»
Gran clutched her chest. Mum burst out laughing, forgetting to wallop himand got a tea towel thrown at her head for it.
Now, Gran hurried toward him, eyes darting like *she* was the one caught smoking.
«What are you doing out here? Why arent you home?»
«Wasnt wasnt home yet.»
«Wasnt home? Whereve you been then?»
«School, then football, then walking.»
Gran narrowed her eyes. «Lets see your hands. Why are they red? Where are your gloves? *Where?*»
«Forgot them, Gran.»
«Forgot? And your mum didnt check? Whats *wrong* with her? Show me your ankles.»
She yanked up his trouser leg, gasping.
«Whats this, then?»
«What, Gran?» Tommy panicked.
«Why are your ankles red? Where are your thermals? And your *scarf*?»
Tommys face burned. Then he spotted Jake watching from the alley, that stupid red beanie of his poking out. *Brilliant.* Gran, why now? Was she losing it? Shed always been sharpwhat was this?
«Gran five times five?»
«Twenty-five,» she said, baffled.
«Whats the square of the hypotenuse?»
«The sum of the squares of the other two sides Tommy, *what*? Did you not do your homework? She didnt even check? Oh, I wont stand for thislook at the state of you! Come on, were going home.»
WaitGran was on *his* side? Maybe hed dodged a lecture. Was this some parallel universe? Robots? Was she even his gran?
«Gran, which sides my appendicitis scar?»
«*What* scar? You never had your appendix out.»
Okay, still Gran.
She dragged him home, grip like a vice.
Mum was there, cooking something that smelled amazing. She wore her nice dress, curls pinned up, new earringsand *heels* indoors? Since when?
«Tommy, love!» She hugged him. «Wash up, dinners ready. Mum, you staying?»
«Whys this child wandering the streets? Scared to come home, is he? *This* is what youve done! Where are his gloves? His thermals? Its freezing! Too busy with *him*, I suppose»
«Mum, *stop*. Are you eating with us or not?»
«No! I wont set foot here again, understand? And you know what?» She turned to Tommy. «Pack your things, love. Youre coming with me.»
«What? *No*.»
«Tommy stays here,» Mum said firmly.
«*Wheres* his home? You threw it all away for»
«Mum, if you dont stop, Ill»
«What? *What*? Kick your own mother out?»
«*Yes!*»
Gran screeched. Mum grabbed her, hauled her onto the landing, and *slammed* the door.
Gran wailed about calling the police, about Tommy being in danger, about some «prison guard.»
Mum pulled Tommy into the living roomwhere a bloke sat, tense, watching him.
«Tommy no lies. This is your dad.»
Gran pounded on the door. Mum stood frozen. The man stoodtall, thin, with Tommys eyes.
«Hello son.»
Tommy stumbled back. «*Dead*. You said he was *dead*.»
«Annie» The man*Dad*looked at Mum.
«*Not* me. *Her*.» Mum jabbed a finger at the door. «She told you that. Said it was better than you knowing he»
The doorbell rang. Persistent.
«Police! Open up!»
«Annie, maybe I should»
«No. No more hiding. Tommy, well explain*wait*»
But Tommy was already boltingjacket, shoes, *gone*.
He ran, crying. Who to believe? If his own family lied
«Tommy!» Mum shouted after him. He didnt stop.
«Oi, kid» Jake grabbed his arm. «Whos after you?»
«*No one*.»
«Bloody freezing. Youll catch your death.» Jake snorted. «Come mine. Mums on shifttrain attendant. Just me.»
Tommy blinked. «*Alone*?»
Jakes flat was odd. Clean, but bare. PostersThe Clash, Queen, Oasis. A *guitar*.
«Yours?»
«Yep. Tea?»
Tommy nodded. His stomach growled.
«Fancy some beans on toast?»
They ate, drank tea from chipped mugs, and Jake played guitar*well*.
«Youre proper good,» Tommy said.
Jake grinned. «Oi. You gotta go home. Theyll have the coppers out.»
Tommy scowled.
«Listen. A dads *massive*. Mines dunno. Mum says hes an astronaut.»
«*What*?»
«Bollocks, innit? Shes an orphan. Had me solo. But she *kept* me. Dont be daft, Tommysort it. Grown-up stuff, not yours.»
Tommy hugged him.
At home, it all spilled outhow Gran wrote Dad off, how Mum thought hed moved on, how he hadnt.
«Why?» Tommy asked Gran.
«I wanted happiness.»
«For *you*. Not him. Not *me*.»
She cried. He forgave her.
On his birthday, Jake gave him a Queen poster. Mum let him hang it.
Theyre still mates. Still sing *We Will Rock You* at family BBQs, still eat beans on toast like its gourmet.
And Dad? Turns out, hes alright.
More than alright.
Its their thing.
Something special.
