‘The tax office—’
‘Oh myGod!’ he wails, interrupting me again. ‘You think I want to spend my life doing that? Going round taking money off people?’
I blink down at him, sprawled there at 6.27 on a Monday evening. He’s been lying there all day, I can sense it – festering in that terrible brown hooded robe. Marketed as a dressing gown (foolishly, I bought it for him) it now looks as if it was peeled off a dead shepherd and seems to permanently swathe his body these days. I fear that my son and his robe will eventually merge with our sofa, in the way that a stain disappears into the carpet if you leave it long enough.
‘You wouldn’t be personally taking money off them,’ I explain. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘It’s the government taking money, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but they don’tgo round, Eddie. They don’t turn up at people’s houses and wrench it out of their hands. And this is just an office role.’
‘Urrrr!’ He shudders.
‘Y’know, general admin-type stuff.’
‘Oh no. No thanks.’ As if I’d said,You’d be extracting worms out of cods’ intestines, with your teeth.
‘It wouldn’t have to be forever,’ I add. ‘It’d just be something to have on your CV.’
‘My CV’s fine, thanks.’
‘Is it, though, Eddie? Really?’
He shrugs, exhales forcefully and dunks a hand into the tin. He grabs a sweet at random, as if making an active choice would be way too much effort.
Does Eddie’s CV even exist? Or is it a mythical thing, like dragons and mermaids and home-made hummus that doesn’t turn out looking and tasting like clay? If there is such a document it would read something like this:
Eddie Silva, aged 22
Left school at first opportunity despite being extremely bright.
Tried college, hated it, left.
Sat at home for a year, arse scratching.
Eats too many takeaway pakoras in bedroom.
Leaves pakora cartons, with pointless salad garnish untouched, under bed.
Doesn’t seem to register his sister Bella (a year younger) upping sticks for London, or his other sister Ana (three years younger!) heading off to art school in Dundee.
Resists parental cajoling/nagging to get a job.
Drives parents to drink.
Tried college again. Hated it again. Left again.
Currently engaged in further arse scratching and advanced studies in using all the mugs in the house but never putting them in the dishwasher.
Is it us? Is it him? I drive myself crazy going over it because this boy – thisman– could do anything he wanted, if he’d put his mind to it.
Eddie lets out a soft burp and unwraps the chocolate.
‘I thought you didn’t like those ones,’ I remark.
‘Now you’re deciding which Quality Street I like?’
‘For God’s sake, Eddie! Why are you being like this?’Orange Cremes are the devil’s work,he used to announce, when he was funny and sweet and beavered away at his homework without even having to be asked. As a little boy, he was often right there at my side, clutching my hand. A mummy’s boy, I suppose; my funny little buddy.I’d have to coax him to walk into a birthday party. ‘Mummy, I want to go home with you!’ he’d announce tearfully. Turned out he was scared of balloons. So, maybe I’ve mollycoddled him, and this is why he lies around in a fug, while Frank and I are out all day, earning money to keep him.
