Page 19

‘You’re not staying in bed. That’s the worst thing you can do. I saw it on that Jeremy Kyle Show once. You’ll end up with that depression, and I’m not having that Rupert give you that as well. You’ll get up, get dressed and come to the soup kitchen with me today.’

I laughed despite myself. ‘The soup kitchen?’ I said, picturing a cute café with mismatched vintage chairs and maybe a chalkboard sign outside.

‘Aye. I help out every day. Your dad takes his turn, too. It’s different up here now, hen. People can’t afford to feed their weans. So we make soup, pasta, sandwiches, whatever we have. And teas and coffees. We help out. And we don’t ask questions or judge.’

She stood up and clapped her hands as if the matter was settled.

‘Mum, I’m keeping a low profile. I can’t get noticed,’ I said, crossing my arms. ‘I think you forget how many people know me now.’

She looked at me like I was about to lick the plug socket.

‘Do you honestly think people who can’t afford a loaf of bread are watching you in your fancy house, preaching about how to take care of their man?’ she said. ‘Half their men are in jail or hooked on drugs, Harri. We need to help people. That’s what life’s really about.’

I closed my eyes. She wasn’t taking no for an answer.

‘Mum,’ I began, my voice whiny as the teenager this room once belonged to.

‘Harri, get your fucking arse up out of this bed this instant!’

I straightened my spine, instantly flashing back to those days when I’d want to lie in till the afternoon, and she wouldn’t allow me to ‘waste the day’.

‘Fine! I’ll make the stupid soup,’ I said. ‘But I’m not leaving the kitchen. And I’m not mixing with any homeless.’ I felt my bottom lip quiver. I wanted under the duvet and feel sorry for myself, for the life I had lost, not get dragged to a community centre that would smell of wet dogs and the soup I’d be cooking to feed the less fortunate.

‘Aye, whatever,’ she said, already halfway out the door. ‘I’ve laid out a good pair of my F&F leggings and a jumper. Have a cry if ye must, but wash yer wee face and get on with it. Your dad’ll drop us off in half an hour.’

She left and I breathed a sigh of relief before squirming back under the thin duvet.

‘And no one gives a shite who you are in the scheme, so don’t you worry,’ she added cheerfully, poking her head back in with a wink towards me, which felt very personal.

Apparently, rock bottom wasn’t listening to your dad’s late-night toilet habits.

No, rock bottom was floral leggings from Tesco and compulsory charity work.

Chapter Eight

Dad pulled up outside a grungy community centre five minutes down the road. I sat in the back of his Honda Civic, glaring at the steamed-up windows in dread. I remember taking my karate classes in here as a child, and even then, the dim-lit building was a baw hair away from being condemned.

‘You’re awfie quiet back there!’ He turned to look at me, and I noticed Mum’s eyes were fixed on me too.

‘I’m tired. I haven’t had my coffee yet.’ I shrugged.

‘Well, once you get moving, you’ll wake up. There’s coffee in the urn. Come on, the soup won’t make itself.’ Mum pecked Dad’s cheek and opened the car door.

‘Oh my God! I’m not drinking the coffee out of an urn!’ I pulled a disgusted face.

Dad turned to me, then back to Mum. ‘Look, why don’t I nip back to the house and bring you a nice coffee to get you settled?’

Mum tutted, then shook her head and made her way into the building as cold wind blew through the car.

‘Do you think you could grab me a matcha?’ I said. After all, it was the least he could do after the years of trauma he’d put me through.

‘A matcha?’ He looked at me like I was inventing words. ‘What the fuck’s a matcha?’

‘You can get one from Starbucks or Costa,’ I said.

‘Costa! Cost a fuckin’ fortune, more like. My arse, I’m going in there.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘I’ll bring you a Lidl’s own, make it in the house in a wee flask and bring it back for you? How’s that?’

I felt my face squirm. I wasn’t used to instant coffee – I’d recently invested in a bean-to-cup machine. ‘It’s fine, Dad. Leave it.’ I sighed, opening the door and swinging my legs out. A freezing gust flooded up my back and pushed me towards the entrance of the centre, even as every ounce of my being was telling me to turn around and run.