‘Couldn’t you put some clothes on for your sister’s birthday?’ Her mum tutted in his direction.
He glanced down at his hairy legs and pigeon chest. ‘I’d say not, judging by the look of things.’ He sat down and flicked his fringe from his eyes.
‘Why do I bother?’ Her mum gave her umpteenth hefty sigh of the morning.
Philip looked at the open egg box next to the cooker and folded his arms across his chest with a look of disgust. ‘I can’t believe I’m being forced to sit at a table where you’re giving people animal products to eat, Mum!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Their mum whipped around to face her son, whisk in hand.
‘Philip’s a vegan now.’ Bessie nodded to show she had been paying attention.
‘Is that right?’ Her dad looked more than a little perplexed. ‘What’s a vegan, exactly?’
‘It’s like a vegetarian.’ Her mum sounded proud of her knowledge on the matter.
‘Yes, like a vegetarian, but we don’t eat any animal products at all,’ Philip informed his father condescendingly.
‘So, no bacon, no sausage, no roast lamb?’ her dad queried.
‘No, none of them – pig, pig, sheep, obviously.’ Philip stood his ground.
‘What about cheese?’
‘No, no cheese – that’s a by-product of milk, cow juice, dairy, and therefore no.’
‘Humph.’ Her dad scratched his chin. ‘What about proper gravy with juice from the roast?’
‘No, Dad.’ Philip sounded exasperated.
‘Eggs?’
‘No.’
‘A Cornish pasty?’
Philip chose not to answer but breathed heavily.
‘I can’t think what you’ll survive on, boy! Lettuce?’
‘It’s really not that difficult, Dad. Carmen and I refuse to eat the flesh or by-products of innocent animals. If it has a face, I will replace!’ He lifted his hands as if spewing wisdom.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a pancake?’ Her mum shook her head, cracking more eggs into the Pyrex bowl.
Philip looked a little frustrated.
‘So what is it you eat, son? Lentils and potatoes and stuff?’ Her dad inadvertently wrinkled his nose.
‘Yes, when I can get lentils.’
Bessie recognised her brother’s veiled dig at their mother’s store cupboard, which was largely full of alphabet spaghetti, boxes of Frosties, tins of corned beef and Cup-a-Soup.
‘I saw you outside Wimpy two days ago, scoffing a burger,’ she said, blowing his cover.
‘Shut up, Bessie!’ he yelled, and she instantly felt bad for the revelation, but not enough to ignore the tender bait that dangled. It was too good an opportunity to have her brother on the back foot.
‘Don’t get mad with me just because I saw you consuming the flesh of innocent animals! And anyway, you should be extra nice to me today – it is my birthday.’
‘You think you’re so clever, Bessie, but I’ve heard it on the grapevine that there are far worse things to be doing after school than scoffing a Wimpy!’ he said, looking her right in the eye, his chest heaving.
She felt the cold wrap of fear around her head – did Philip know about her and Lawrence?
‘Anyway,’ she said, drawing breath and deciding to get the next jab in, ‘you’re only a vegan because Carmen is a vegan, and I honestly think if Carmen said run around the marketplace with your pants on your head eating a raw chicken, you’d do it!’
Her dad’s head drooped. ‘For the love of God, your mother is cooking pancakes, you’re supposed to be opening your gifts and this is not the atmosphere we want on a special day. Please, please, try and be nice to each other.’ He looked at his wife. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been saying that since they were babies! Why can’t they be friends?’
‘Just give her her bloody presents, Eddie.’ Her mum rubbed her forehead, where Bessie had no doubt the beginnings of a headache lurked.
‘Here we are, little love.’ Her dad pushed the gifts closer to her, along with a small bundle of envelopes in the colours of sugared almonds.
‘Thank you!’
‘Don’t get too excited.’ Her mum did this – put the lid on any potential joy, as if it were better to quash any shoots of happiness before they took root.
‘I won’t,’ Bessie reassured her. She picked up a square package and pulled the wrapping off to reveal the traditional Terry’s Chocolate Orange.
‘Your favourite!’
‘It is. Thanks, Mum.’
‘Can I have some?’ Her brother reached out his hand.
‘Sure.’ She pushed it towards him and he smiled.
‘I’m only kidding. I wouldn’t eat your birthday chocolate.’
‘Well, of course you wouldn’t – it’s made of milk . . .’ Bessie grinned at him and tore the paper from a tube of lip gloss, the one she had wanted. ‘Thanks!’ she said, unscrewing the top and inhaling the peach-scented goo that she intended to slather over her lips later before hopefully transferring it on to Lawrence Paulson’s face and neck. The thought sent a shiver of want right through her.
Next she opened a pair of fluffy ankle socks and then a box of Maltesers, and finally a book token from Nanny Pat and Grandad Norm, and an Our Price token from Auntie Nerys, enough for her to buy the new Spandau Ballet album she’d been hoping for.
‘So how do you get your exam results?’ her dad asked. ‘Are they coming in the post? Can’t remember how we got Philip’s!’
‘They put them up in the school hall today.’
She felt the first flicker of nerves at the thought, which had overshadowed all others in the last few weeks. The exams had gone okayish and she knew that with a clutch of decent grades she could complete the sixth form and then head to college to become anything she wanted!
‘You’ll have done fine, sweetie – you take after your dad. Brains.’ He tapped his forehead.
‘It’s quite a day for you, missy. We’ll have your cake with tea later, half of it to celebrate your birthday and the other half to toast your success.’ Her mum had made a Victoria sponge, of course.
Philip stood and loped over to the bread bin and reached behind it to retrieve his own gift to her, neatly wrapped in white tissue paper.
‘Ah, Pippin, you little sweetie!’ her mum announced, in the same tone with which she noted all of his achievements: Pippin is out of nappies, the little sweetie, joined Cubs, the little sweetie, got his yellow belt in judo, passed his cycling proficiency exam and now managed to buy his sister a birthday present all by himself . . . Her tone and nickname embarrassed her eighteen-year-old son, and in response he threw the gift on to the table in front of Bessie, who knew enough not to make the same level of fuss as her mother as she ripped at the tissue.
‘Leg warmers!’ she yelled. They were fabulous, hot pink with lime green stripes.
‘What in God’s name are leg warmers?’ her dad said, wrinkling his nose as his mouth fell open.
‘They’re like socks but without the feet in,’ her mum, the oracle, explained, as she grappled with the heavy frying pan and flipped a pancake high in the air, before watching it land on the floor in a sorry-looking wrinkled heap. ‘First one’s for the bin, anyway!’ she chuckled.